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Gala & Midas [WIP]

May 28th, 2013
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  1. Dark clouds hid the moon, the silent figure running through the orchards was nearly invisible, bright cherry red thighs underneath tan vest all seemed jet black in the darkness. Running wide around the homestead's porch light he skirted to the rear of the house. Powerful legs made a tall vertical leap easy, hands found easy purchase on the windowsill, well cut upper body from a decade of farm labor pulled his heavy, muscular body up and into the home without effort. Hooves hit the wooden boards with a muffled tap, bushy fetlock sprinkling dust from his evening run.
  2.  
  3. Into his bedroom he crept, slinking past the creaky floorboards in the hallway, carefully rolling his hooves from side to side with each step, taught muscles rippling like iron cords in his powerful thighs, looking goofy as all get out but staying silent as a prowling cat. Secretly well oiled hinges made no noise as he pushed his door open. With all the grace of a ballerina despite his incredible masculinity he made it to his bedside, carefully pulled the sheet back without so much as a whisper, and eased himself into his bed slowly enough as to hardly creak a single rusty bed spring.
  4.  
  5. Feeling confident, slick, and satisfied, he rolled over and slipped an arm underneath his pillow to cozy up.
  6.  
  7. Looking directly at his father.
  8.  
  9. “What!” The satyr nearly fell out of bed, having cried loud enough to wake nearly the entire homestead.
  10.  
  11. “Red Gala, what in the hay did I tell you about creepin' out late?” Big Mac, still as large and strong as ever, casually reclined in his son's bed, speaking cool and confident as though he weren't even angry. Composure came back to his son, who cried out again with indigence.
  12.  
  13. “Pa, I'm sixteen, I'm old enough to go out on my own if I want to!”
  14.  
  15. “That ain't what I told you, or what I asked you neither. What did I tell you?”
  16.  
  17. “Not to, Pa.”
  18.  
  19. “And what else?”
  20.  
  21. “That momma'd tan my hide if you caught me doing it again.”
  22.  
  23. “Yup.” Mac nodded his head out the doorway, toward his own bedroom. Rusty bedsprings cried out in relief as he picked himself up, casually trotting out of the room and trusting his son to follow. Knowing far better than to try anything foolish like running, Gala followed his well build father into his parent's bedroom, skulking with the usual astronomical amount of teenage frustration.
  24.  
  25. You were resting the bed the whole while, reading a book by lanternlight as you waited for your husband to catch your son sneaking out again. At best he was off drinking stolen cider with his friends and shooting arrows at things, at worst he was visiting a young lady by moonlight. Either way, it simply wouldn't do. Admittedly, he was pretty good at it, you hadn't head anything until his cry of surprise had nearly shocked you out of your own skin.
  26.  
  27. Hooves clopped as the executioner led the condemned into your chamber, you turn the dial and raise the wick on your bedside oil lantern, flooding the room with bright light. Neither your men even so much as blink or squint, tough boys roughing it out until their pupils adjust.
  28.  
  29. “Did your father tell you I was going to tan your hide if I caught you running around at evil hours like that again?”
  30.  
  31. “Yes'm.”
  32.  
  33. “Well, get on over here then, night ain't getting any younger.”
  34.  
  35. You threw the sheet down, the rough cotton far from luxurious. Exactly how you liked it too, it led to an honest sleep and didn't keep you in bed long enough to grow lazy. Your extra long sleeping shirt was another baggy cotton scrap that you'd stitched together on a lark, as though any of the ponies you'd met cared about seeing your breasts after the initial 'Well why in the hay are her teats all the way up there' wore off. You tossed your powerful legs over the side of the bed, your homemade nightgown coming down only about mid thigh.
  36.  
  37. You could hardly blame it for coming short, you did have an awful lot of thigh. You'd certainly packed on plenty of weight when you were pregnant with Gala, that was back when Granny was around and she though it was a sin for a pregnant woman to ever get a chance to feel hungry. Fifteen for the baby, and another fifteen on your butt and thigh that decided to stick around. Mac appreciated it though, so you welcomed the new figure as well as you welcomed the little son of a gun that had stuck in on you. And goodness, what a little son of a gun he was. As soon as you taught the fellow how to walk he started raisin' hell, couldn't have made you prouder most days but on the occasions that called for it, it had to be done.
  38.  
  39. “I ain't no baby, Ma.”
  40.  
  41. “Then don't cry like one, honey.”
  42.  
  43. You pat your thighs, all the command he needs. He lays down on your lap, the silliest sight of a nigh fully grown young man balancing on his mothers lap, abs flexing against his mother's firm thighs from a couple decades of hard farmwork herself. These thighs weren't just babyfat, a good portion on them was earned. Probably why you came to love them so much, they;d exploded the first time you spent just a few months tossing bushels where they belonged. They were perfect, pleasing to your amazing man and a good strong platform for the most difficult part of child rearing: the discipline.
  44.  
  45. You gathered his blond tail up in your left hand, wrapping it around twice and resting your hand on the small of his back, tugging firmly on his dock and keeping him from clenching his cheeks too hard to make it hurt less. He had his arm reaching out for the bedpost to steady himself, rugged, calloused hand crushing the wood, an indulged you'd allow this time. Your book, 'A Secret Orchard', was a fitting instrument at hand.
  46.  
  47. “Honey, I'll admit curiosity has always gotten the better of me, so if you tell your father and I what you've been up to I'll take a few licks off.” You feel your son's strong chest heave, he groans out a weak word.
  48.  
  49. “Nothin'.”
  50.  
  51. “Honeybun, how about this? You tell me, I'll just use my bare hand. You don't, I'll use my little book here. You don't, and I find out it's a mare you've been seeing for the only thing teens do at this hour, I'll have to cut a switch and leave some marks in your rear, y'hear?” His chest heaves again, an identical sigh escapes.
  52.  
  53. “Nothing but a nice walk, Momma.”
  54.  
  55. “Holdin' yer tongue may be noble at times, son, but fibbin' ain't never. Don't do it again.”
  56.  
  57. He heaves again, but before another lie can cross his lips you surprise him with the first whack of your hardcover book. He grunts out an 'ung', only from being caught off guard with the first stroke. As you raise your arm high for the second long arc you feel his entire strong body flex, he takes the following strokes silently, the dull 'whack' of the novel hitting his firm backside clapping in the night. His breathing is cool and steady, your son taking his licking like a champ. You're proud of him for being so stoic, you really are, the punishment breaks your heart. Your husband breaks you out of your trance, speaking to his son.
  58.  
  59. “Don't look at me like that now, son. You fancy yourself a grown stallion, do you? Well then you'll have to take your licks like one too. Life don't ever hold back, you hear? Neither can your parents if you want any hope of turning out straight.”
  60.  
  61. Your son clenches his butt, powerful core muscles from a childhood of farmer's walks dragging your own strong arm down his back, despite the pain of tugging on his sensitive tail. You finish tanning his backside with a few more whips of your book, turning him lose from your lap with a smarting bum and an equally hurt pride. You try to console the fellow, never having given him the old 'this hurts me worse' line, always explaining to him exactly why you felt he needed a few strokes of discipline.
  62.  
  63. “Son, this ain't just about our word being the law, you hear? Pay attention, look at me now, yer hooves ain't talking to you. Do you understand why this upset me and yer Pa so dearly? It don't do to have to running about at a dishonest hour, whether you be shootin' bows and nearly hurting someponies or drinking what has no business crossing your lips or, heaven forbid, sowing wild oats, you hear? You have a mare out there, you make an honest girl out of her first, that's the key here, listen? Can't have any foals while you're still a baby yourself, and believe me just because you an' yer daddy wear the same size horseshoe don't make you the same size stallion, all right?”
  64.  
  65. Gala, his backside as red underneath as the coat hiding it, whispered his final protest through grit teeth.
  66.  
  67. “Y'ain't gotta worry 'bout no foals, momma.”
  68.  
  69. He brushed past his father and shut their door louder than strictly necessary, sore backside screamin' even louder in his head than a slamming door. He crossed the hall, stepping heavy on the creaking board and threw himself into bed, loud springs calling out to his parents exactly where he was. Moon hung low in the sky, clearly visible from his window at this hour now that the clouds have parted. Falling asleep came hard, the rising sun peeking up on the other side of the house before he fell asleep for a scant couple hours before the day's labor began.
  70.  
  71. Sore rear end was the least of it, aching heart was what kept him wide awake.
  72.  
  73. --------------
  74.  
  75. Moonlight filled the room, spilling over the well made, empty bed and casting shadow over the young creature crouched on the other side. Forgoing clothing, a usually unthinkable concept, he was tying on only his hastily made soft slippers.
  76.  
  77. Inching carefully through his barely open doorway, threatening to creak if pushed even an inch further than his thin midriff was wide, he escaped his bedroom silently. Padded hooves made no noise but the slightest, imperceptible whisper as he carefully stole past his parent's doorway.
  78.  
  79. Ajar, he dared a peek. Mother lay, hair done up in curlers, sleeping mask tight upon her eyes. Bound, blind, and a heavy sleeper, Mom never posed a threat. Dad, however, tended toward restlessness, sometimes. To the young sneak's horror, he realized with his adjusting eyes that Dad wasn't in bed at all, lump of overturned blanket in his place.
  80.  
  81. A loud noise of gushing of water came inside the restroom, frightening the young man out of his skin. In too far he committed, exaggeratedly slinking as far as his legspan could reach with each step. Water hits the basin as dad washes his hands, covering the louder 'whump' the satyr makes with each heavy hoofstep as he tries to clear the hallway in time.
  82.  
  83. The restroom door opens, father stumbling directly back to bed as his miscreant son suffers heart attacks beyond the corner to the kitchen. Exhaling his baited breath in a long, controlled sigh he continues slinking toward the side door.
  84.  
  85. It opens, much quieter than the main doorway, to an unlit side of the home. His stealth booties are pulled off, carefully hidden where they won't get dirty, and with free and relieving heavy hoof he takes off running through dirt and grass, undone ponytail blowing freely in the wind as he went. Waning moon gives little light to betray him, the dishonest hour leaves few to see. He mostly skirts past town, making a path through field and orchard to his secret rendezvous.
  86.  
  87. A barn, full of cider, apples, hay, and secrets. The doorway was already unlocked, large iron padlock open and dangling, massive door ajar, dimly flickering candlelight playing off the inside rim.
  88.  
  89. Taking a moment to catch his breath, heart duly pounding from cardio and excitement, he rests an arm on the doorway before sliding in. Lit by flickering candlelight from atop a barrel waited another satyr with a bright red coat and arms folded, sitting tight upon a couple bales of straw pushed together with an old tablecloth thrown over them. The white one sees his friend, changing his demeanor completely. He walks into the barn now with an attitude, no longer the afraid sneak but as tall and proud as if he were the owner of the entire farm, each hoofstep in careful line, thin hips swaying to and fro as his tail likewise swirled behind him. The red one sat still, giving no acknowledgment or greeting to the intruder, staring at the ground before his glinting, polished hooves with a troubled look on his pursed lips.
  90.  
  91. The slim white satyr's crosses the dim barn quickly with his sultry stride, swiftly crossing his tail across his lap as he crouches at his friend's hooves, looking up at his face to force eye contact. The first words of the evening escape the white one's lips, his voice bright and proud even through the hushed tones.
  92.  
  93. “Gala, what's wrong? Have you lost your taste for me?”
  94.  
  95. Gala couldn't keep the smile off his face, hearing his friends voice brought infectious joy to his heart, ruining his composure. He looked instead to the rafters above, breaking eye contact and continuing the upset act.
  96.  
  97. “Ain't like you, Midas, I don't change my mind about what I like every month like a mare.”
  98.  
  99. The white satyr feigned hurt, still on bent knee and clutching his heart with both hands.
  100.  
  101. “I come all this way for you, and only poison crosses your lips? Has your heart truly gone cold?”
  102.  
  103. Gala was smiling widely enough that teeth were beginning to show, he could no longer continue the upset charade. He reached down and clapped Midas' shoulders, picking up the other satyr and pulling him up and across onto his lap. One strong arm came and swept underneath his legs, Gala holding the other man as though a prince would while rescuing a distressed damsel.
  104.  
  105. “Ah, more like the Gala I remember. I was beginning to fear that you'd been replaced by a changeling. Were you my true lover, I suppose you'd remember the test?”
  106.  
  107. Gala was about to kiss him just to shut his mouth, but hearing the word 'lover' from his lips sent the heart into a flutter like no other. Almost every day they say each other, but it killed Gala more often than not. All day he would see other couples, openly embracing and kissing in public, it always turned his heart with longing for the boy in the tailor's shop. When by chance they did cross, it had to be under the guise of friendship, or simple comradely behavior due to their matching bodies. It was always an act, and Gala was always a poor liar, such was the stress of interacting with Midas in the company of others that it was best avoided, yet that only left the heart aching.
  108.  
  109. Midas' feminine hand caressed Gala's cheek, brushing against the bristling stubble along the way. Gala obliged, dipping his head to his Prince's and kissing him lovingly, proving that he was the man that he'd shared everything with. Delicate fingers tangled in blond hair as the kisses grew passionate, Gala dropping the other's legs in favor of using his arm to hold Midas tightly. He then grew impatient, changing his mind and scooping the other boy back up. He stood easily, the waspish white satyr almost weightless in his strong arms. Turning around he laid his lover upon the strawbales he'd been sitting on, the makeshift bed that most of their passions had come to fruition on top of.
  110.  
  111. Gala climbed atop his lover, running raspy kisses from the hair below his navel up his slim chest, his smooth pale skin tickled by the aggressor's stubble. Once the peppered kisses reached Midas' neck and the farmer boy began grinding did the delicate one place his hands on the other's firm chest and push slightly, calling for a break.
  112.  
  113. “You still haven't told me what's been bothering you.”
  114.  
  115. But Gala wordlessly renewed his assault on the satyr beneath him, before being pushed up again by the Midas, his delicate arms quivering under the heavy weight of the well built farmhand's muscle atop of him.
  116.  
  117. “I'm serious, tell me.”
  118.  
  119. Gala growled out an upset sigh, kicking his legs out and propping his elbow to the side of Midas' chest, assuming a relaxed and mostly self supported position laying on his friend. Mood slaughtered, he rest his roughly calloused hand on Midas' smooth chest, unsure of where to begin.
  120.  
  121. “Pa caught me again the other night.”
  122.  
  123. Midas gave a genuine 'aww' as he hugged the other satyr, running one of his hands up and down the other's back.
  124.  
  125. “I can't keep doing this, Midas. I can't keep getting in trouble, I can't risk getting caught anymore, and I can't keep meeting you here.”
  126.  
  127. As calm and confident as though it were someone else's story Midas headed Gala off.
  128.  
  129. “So, you're breaking up with me?”
  130.  
  131. That couldn't have been further from what the other was thinking, Gala whispered 'No' in shocked disbelief before racing on in more harsh whispers.
  132.  
  133. “No, not that. I just, I just don't know what to do. I can't-”
  134.  
  135. “Tell them?”
  136.  
  137. “Yeah, I can't tell-”
  138.  
  139. “No, I meant, tell them.”
  140.  
  141. Silence reigned for a brief moment while Gala agonized over the right thing to say, before failing himself and resorting “I can't.” as his response to that as well. Midas continued questioning him.
  142.  
  143. “Aren't you my special somepony?”
  144.  
  145. Gala nodded, scratching the other's fine chest with coarse stubble.
  146.  
  147. “Don't you love me?” His hand started playing idly with the other's short blond hair. Gala started to answer but his tone changed as he believe he'd stumbled on a good point.
  148.  
  149. “Hold on now, you ain't about to tell your folks either.” Midas smiled, holding his farm boy dear and close while carefully replying to him.
  150.  
  151. “Doesn't work if just one of us tell our parents. Besides, I kind of like the whole 'forbidden romance by night' sort of thing. Very nice, very romantic. Anyway, it's not like I'm getting punished by my parents either, probably because I'm as graceful and silent as a cat.”
  152.  
  153. Gala had to force a smile at that one, his concerns were very real and he didn't like how Midas made light of them.
  154.  
  155. “Well then, new rule. From now on I'm leaving your rear end twice as sore as mine is when I get caught, how about that?”
  156.  
  157. Midas crossed his arms underneath his head, and put on a casual nonchalance.
  158.  
  159. “I think you'd start getting caught on purpose if I agreed to that.”
  160.  
  161. Red Gala's free hand ran it's rough palm down to the other boy's hip, crossing over the division to the pony side and idly caressing his thighs.
  162.  
  163. “Too bad, that's the new rule. Applied last week, in fact, so you've got something coming your way now.”
  164.  
  165. With that he flopped back on top of the other, drowning his objections in kisses and running hands over every inch of the white one's smooth' feminine body. He crept lower with his kisses, running his strong hands up and down Midas's legs and thighs, hitting every sensitive spot except the one that mattered most. As Gala kept up the teasing it was harder and harder to miss touching that sensitive spot as it grew, until Gala had kissed so low that it was directly underneath his nose. Midas withdrew his arms and dropped his head back, both hands on the other's shoulders to push him just a few inches lower.
  166.  
  167. Gala was face to face with just the thing that drove him mad just thinking about on all those summer nights alone when they couldn't meet, when the conspiring urges of his heart and body kept sleep at bay. He kissed it gently, careful not to let his stubble touch the sensitive thing, and decide to give it some pity attention since it wouldn't be used this evening whether or not Midas knew it. Gala peeked up at his lover, who himself was staring down with lust in his eyes, waiting to watch Gala please him. One long, slow lick grew into two and three, slow teasing strokes that fanned the flames more than they satisfied. Feeling it's heartbeat, pulsing underneath his tongue brought about a similar reaction in Gala's own. Midas writhed underneath the warmth the tongue against him, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow and holding his own base with his other hand, trying to entice the other into committing to a more thoroughly pleasing action.
  168.  
  169. “What's wrong? What do you want me to do?
  170.  
  171. “Come on, get on with it country boy.”
  172.  
  173. Gala left it alone without further attention, sitting up tall at his knees and showing off his own, bobbing in the air at full mast and desperate for attention as well. He commanded his lover, “Show me what you want.”
  174.  
  175. With an uncharacteristic, frustrated and lustful growl Midas slapped his hands down on the tablecloth, pulling himself up, seated eye level with Gala's frustration, grabbing it by the base and with his other hand on Gala's tender backside, pulled him forward and wrapped his mouth around the thick cock in his face. No soft laps, no gentle teasing, no refined elegance, Midas skipped straight to a wild fervor on his boyfriend, stroking half of it and desperately polishing the other half with his tongue, loud wet suction 'pop's occasionally breaking the silence when Gala's instinctual hip bucking ruined Midas' cadence.
  176.  
  177. Weak kneed from the assault Gala had his hands on Midas' shoulders, pushing him away from his body as the other boy weakly feigned a struggle, even holding out his tongue in a begging manner for more cock to suck. Gala panted, leg trembling, the tough decisions always tore at him every time they did meet. He could make the pretty boy drink every drop of his cum, he could spray it all over his pretty hair and face and watch him try and lick it off his cheeks, or he could lose it deep inside the other boy and know he would carry it with him all day. The choices were always tough, but this time he had an inclination to the latter most option.
  178.  
  179. “Face down.”
  180.  
  181. Midas flipped over, quickly and silently, resting his chest on the straw bed and waving his rear in the air, tail flicking to and fro, alternately showing and hiding his goods. Gala was done with teasing, he grabbed the tail and tossed it up on the boy's back, holding it there as he gave a good, wet lick to where the sun never shone, eliciting a powerful jump from Midas as the warm wet tongue touched his star. Gala almost never did that, even though it was his absolute favorite.
  182.  
  183. But the kindness was temporary, Gala's firm, spit slippery cock was at the rear end of the white satyr, head tracing up and down his crack, threatening to push in but relenting and teasing again, keeping his pucker guessing which stroke would be the punishing one. Gala started to come in slow, pressing firmly as it slowly started to penetrate, Midas slick within and without but always with that one moment of discomfort to overcome.
  184.  
  185. Slowly Gala was within his forbidden lover, kissing the back of his neck and between his shoulders. Tender, gentle motions grew rougher as Midas was broken back in and warmed up, the well tread ground between the two was beat once more. Both boys bucked their hips and writhed against eachother, hooves fought for purchase and threatened to tear the old threadbare tablecloth, Midas' hands clenched in tight fists as his lover busied himself with a thoughtful reach around, having changed his mind about leaving him nothing.
  186.  
  187. Midas, as always, lost it first. Gala's stoking hand felt it pumping it's gift, wasted on the cloth beneath the two. Even finished he still gave it it all to please Gala, seeing him through to his end too. Gala's hands crushed Midas' hips, holding him tightly to his his own, as deep as it could possibly be. In silence for nearly a minute, each basking in the warm afterglow of affection and teenage release, until Gala pulled himself free nearly as slowly as on the way in, keeping every drop of the mess securely inside his lover.
  188.  
  189. Midas laid on his side, Gala flopped down on the other, they embraced on the narrow makeshift bed, heads touching, drinking in eachother's breath and wishing the moment would never end.
  190.  
  191. They nearly jumped out of their skins when they heard a voice gasp “Shit!” a half second before a stack of haybales crashed down from the loft above.
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