Sweetie Belle's Lesson

Context:
https://ponerpics.com/images/91117

"Anooooon, do I have to go?"
>You look back at Sweetie Belle in irritation
>She's walking several paces behind you, dragging her hooves
"Yes, you do," you tell her for the umpteenth time
>she kicks at a pebble and stares sulkily at the ground
"Why, though?" she mutters, half to herself
"I don't know, your sister says you need culture and refinement and stuff," you tell her
>she kicks at the ground again and doesn't answer
>to be honest, you do feel a little bad about making her do this
>a three hour harpsichord lesson every Thursday, that's pretty brutal
>you probably wouldn't have wanted to do it either, when you were a kid
>and to be fair, you did kind of sign her up without telling her sister
>but you couldn't help it, the foal has been driving you up the wall
>and Rarity, that bitch
>just dumping her little sister on you for the entire summer, while she goes off to Manehattan to do some kind of fashion shit
>didn't even ask, just assumed you'd be cool with it
>you used to make fun of Spike for being such a beta cuck, but damned if it's not impossible to say no to that mare when she gives you those bedroom eyes
>you look over your shoulder
>Sweetie Belle's fallen even further behind
>you whistle at her, she reluctantly picks up the pace
>will Rarity be mad when she finds out about this?
>there's really no reason she should be
>I mean, come on
>harpsichord lessons with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?
>that's like the opportunity of a lifetime, right?
>and to be fair, she does always say that her sister needs refinement or whatever
>naw, she won't be mad
>Rarity loves that kind of fancy shit
>when she gets home and finds out her little sister can play Concerto #12 or whatever the fuck at all her dinner parties now, she'll go ape shit for it
>you'll probably be washing dried mare cum out of your pubes for a month
>and anyway, if you don't get that filly out of the house for a couple hours a week there's a good chance you might actually kill her before the summer ends
>she had her damn friends over the other day, they were running around your apartment doing their wacky crusader shit
>a herd of elephants would have done less damage
>ever seen what tiny horse hooves do to hardwood?
>there's a security deposit you won't be getting back
"Come on, damn it!" you shout
>you immediately feel bad about raising your voice, but her dawdling is getting on your nerves
"It's just a harpsichord lesson," you tell her, a little more gently. "Just do it and get it over with. How bad could it be?"
>Sweetie Belle stares at the ground again
>she's got that weird nervous look on her face she always gets whenever you bring up harpsichords or Mozart
>something about it feels weird, but you push that feeling aside
>you're already thinking about three whole hours of time to yourself
>no tiny hooves scuffing up your floor, no noise, just hot pockets and vidya games
>anyway, fuck it; you're already here
>you stop outside the door
>"Wolfgang A. Mozart" is printed on the glass in those fancy old-timey letters
>you still can't believe you actually found this guy
>you were under the impression that he had died in 1791 but nope, he's still around it looks like
>famous long-dead Austrian composers and pastel cartoon horses walking around all over the place, what a fun century this is
>anyway, whatever, you open the door
"Ah, Sweetie Belle!" cries Mozart.  "Aren't we looking just scrumptious today!  Come on inside, have a seat at the harpsichord."
>Sweetie Belle gives you one last pleading look, but you've already got hot pockets on the brain
>reluctantly, she trots over to the harpsichord and jumps up
"Mmm, that's it my little filly, have a seat right up here on Wolfy's lap..."
>that Mozart really is kind of a weird guy
>whatever though
>you turn to leave
>on your way out, you pause
>some nagging, dim little alarm bell is still going off somewhere in the back of your mind
>you turn around
>Sweetie Belle is sitting with Mozart at the harpsichord
>she's staring off at nothing, looking dejected and terrified
>Mozart turns and gives you the creepiest look you've ever seen
"Close the door," he says.


(In a weird and creepy bit of serendipity, when I originally posted this green the text box had exactly 1791 characters remaining.  Mozart died in 1791.)