[I have copied this fic over to be at my new, general-non-specific Pastebin account over at MacStableman. This will still remain here at this address, too, but I probably won't be updating it at either account any time soon. Work is like that. But I hope you still enjoy what is here, as well as all the other high-quality fiction available from the Pony TF General.]
Good day, reader! Chances are, you're here because you followed the link on the Pony TF hub page behind the funny name with 'Lyra' in it. You probably did this due to the word 'clop' next to it. Good on you.
If, on the off-chance, you arrived here by another means, and are not interested in an ongoing erotic tale of bodily transformation into a stuffed animal, followed by the degradation and mental subjugation of said animal, abuse of a most sexual nature, with a constant creeping overtone of an existential crisis of identity, then I advise you to close this tab and go find some other website. Possibly something to do with cats wearing socks.
If you would rather read on, then I would still like to make a few things clear. The original format of this continuous chronicle of carnal conquest was that of a series of 4chan posts, and as such, a good portion of it is written in the manner of 'greentext' (up to the point where I decided to begin holding myself to a higher standard of internet debauchery). While I may go back one day and adapt these chapters (a 'chapter' in this case refers to any continuous period of writing between the barely detectible periods where I fuck off for a week or more, before returning to a new Pony Transformation Thread to continue writing. Uncannily often, this occurs just after someone in the threads posts my name. This is disconcerting for all involved) to the medium of continuous prose, which is far easier on the eyes for a civilised clopfiction connoisseur such as yourself, this would take perhaps an entire hour or more of effort on my part, so I am far more likely to leave it until long after the inevitable heat death of the universe.
On a storytelling note, one should keep in mind that the sinister figure commonly referred to as 'Hoppip' was a personality now seldom seen in the Pony Transformation General. If memory serves, he used to start the threads quite often. This is enough for me to cast him in a flattering portrayal of Hoppip as a sadistic magical evil mastermind, and general asshole. If I do end up swapping out Hoppip's character for one that a more general audience can better understand, it will be around the same time I completely reformat the first few chapters. Please refer yourself to the previous paragraph for an idea of how long it will take me to get around to that.
And with that, I bid you good reading. If you wish to give feedback or suggestions, I can usually be located in the Pony Transformation General. Usually shortly after someone in the thread recites my name three times while looking into a mirror in a darkened room, and cutting their navel with a knife blade shaped like a flame. Offers of praise, advice, money, marital commitments or sexual favours are always welcome, and seldom followed up on.
>You wake up, slumped over your keyboard, your head pounding like a motherfucker.
>Jiggling the mouse, your monitor flickers back to life, and you see you're still logged in with your browser open, several threads on /mlp/ currently tabbed.
>You must have fallen asleep while posting. What time even is it?
>Checking the taskbar, your computer clock tells you it's three in the morning.
>Christ. You must have had more to drink than you thought. You can't even remember what you did last night.
>You close the browser without looking at any of the threads you had open and shut down the computer, deciding that your bed would be a better place for you to sleep off your stupor.
>Passing your front door on your way to the stairs, you notice something lying on your 'wipe your hooves' doormat.
>It's a brown envelope, slightly thick, closed with a sticker that almost looks like a... Harp?
>You didn't order anything, did you? Well, then again, you have no idea what you did last night.
>But of course, even if you did order something last night, it wouldn't be here THAT soon...
>Curiosity rising, you pick the envelope up off the mat and open it as you climb the stairs, your fingers clumsily tearing off the sticker and reaching inside...
>You withdraw your fingers with a start, almost losing your footing, but you grab the banister to steady yourself.
>You could have sworn your fingers started to tingle strongly as they touched the inside of the envelope, but as suddenly as it happened it was over.
>Whatever, you're probably just still feeling the effects of the alcohol.
>You swiften your pace and saunter into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you and jumping backwards onto your Rainbow Dash bedsheets.
>You turn the envelope upside-down and shake the bottom vigorously, letting whatever's inside slip out and land beside you.
>It's a pair of lime-green gloves. From the look of it, they're made of some kind of felt.
>Passing a finger over one of them, you're taken aback by their, inviting texture.
>You feel tiredness creeping up on you, and shrugging off the peculiarity of your actions, you slip the gloves onto your hand.
>They're so snug! And surprisingly warm.
>You caress your face with one hand and delight at the gentle sensation.
>You feel a yawn sneaking it's way past your lips, and let yourself nod off, lying on one side with the gloves still on.
>Before you can so much as turn over, you're gone.
>That night, you dream of ponies frolicking in a sunny glade, talking about nothing in particular, before calling you over to play.
>You've never dreamt of ponies as far as you can remember, so it's a shame that you'll already have forgotten this bizarrely vivid dream by the time you wake up...
>The next morning seeps in through the partially drawn curtains, casting dim orange rays across the carpet, which gradually snake their way across the floor to the bed.
>When the beams settle on your closed eyes, the disturbance makes you grumble quietly in irritation, before you roll over to face the other direction.
>Were you not so sleepy, you might have wondered why your voice was somewhat higher than usual, but instead you were content to drift off back to sleep and leave the thinking about things for later.
>A few more dreamless hours passed before the unwelcome serenade of birdsong roused you like a cacaphony of unholy trumpets.
>You finally yield in the battle between you and the waking world, and roll yourself into a sitting position on the edge of your bed, your legs dangling over the side.
>That's funny... Don't your legs normally touch the floor?
>You fruitlessly try to peer down at your feet through the sticky sensation in your eyes, before bringing a hand to your face to wipe away the sleep.
>You lurch backward at the alien sensation as the felt gloves softly rub at your tired eyes.
>Wait, you really slept the whole night wearing those?
>The thought is chased away by the alarming realisation that you could have SWORN you just felt your face through the gloves.
>Not that you felt the soft, reassuring touch of the lime gloves with your fingers
>But that you ACTUALLY felt the slightly saggy skin of your eyelids THOUGH the gloves
>You slowly raise your hands in front of your face and turn them over simultaneously, examining them intently.
>With one hand, you stroke the skin on your other arm.
>There can be no doubt about it- you can FEEL your skin below the glove, just as surely as you can feel the smooth softness of the glove passing over your skin.
>Although... Isn't your skin a bit smoother than usual?
>Maybe it's just a trick of the mind, you tell yourself. You're still pretty tired.
>You know you're lying to yourself- you've never felt more well rested.
>You're not even hung over, you realise with confusion.
>You slip off the end of the bed, in order to go downstairs and make breakfast while you figure out this puzzle.
>You immediately stagger forward and collapse onto your belly.
>Slowly you rise to your feet, trying to find your center of gravity, starting to panic as you feel that you have DEFINATELY grown shorter in the night.
>Not willing to deal with this development yet, you stagger toward the en suite bathroom door, looking to find the mirror.
>After fumbling clumsily with the door knob (are your fingers shorter too? They were fine just a minute ago!), the door swings open and you make your way to the sink.
>After pathetically jumping a few times to try and see yourself, you overturn a wastebin and climb atop it to peer into the mirror.
>Peering back at you is an imposter with almost cyan hair, with streaks of white highlights.
>You've never highlighted your hair in your life! The most daring style you ever attempted was to tie it up in a ponytail, and that looked plain stupid!
>As that thought crosses your mind, something clicks into place, and your orange eyes grow wide in terror (orange? Nobody has orange eyes).
>The lyre sticker, the lime green gloves, the hair, the decrease in height? You're turning into a pony! You're turning into Lyra!
>As the realisation passes over you like a tidal wave, you grow dizzy, and try to grip the rim of the sink harder.
>But as you try, you realise your fingers have at some point entirely receded into your hands, which now more resemble...
>You've never realised up to now how great fingers were...
>You hop down from the bin and sprint out of the bathroom and down the stairs as fast as your smooth, stumpy legs will carry you.
>About half-way down, your suddenly all-too flat and rounded legs lose their grip on the step beneath you, sliding back and carrying you forward through the air.
>You desperately reach out to grab the banister, finding it far out of your reach, and you brace for impact.
>You collide face-first with the step a few feet below you, scrunching your eyes closed as you feel your nose... Smoosh painlessly into your face as you bounce off the step and continue your descent?
>You twirl gracelessly in the air, trying to comprehend what just happened as you land on the corner of another step on your back, which flexes painlessly around the intrusion, before bouncing back and sending you spiralling back on your journal downstairs.
>Next are your forearms, the back of your head, and finally your tushie, all compressing harmlessly and elliciting an (adorable?) uncharacteristically high-pitched grunt of surprise before they regain their shape and propel you gently ahead.
>You finally come to a stop on the wooden floor of your living room, legs spead eagle as you land softly with a *pomf* on your belly.
>Quivering, you try to rise to your feet, but find the only comfortable position to now be all-fours.
>You dart your eyes around cautiously to check nobody was around to see that, before reminding yourself with a little embarassment that you are safe and secure in your own home.
>Looking around at the once-familiar landscape of your living room, you are struck by how... Big everything is, all of a sudden.
>You try to take a few steps forward in your peculiar new posture, and almost slip on the now-oversized leg of your pajama bottoms (the only thing you had worn to bed last night, in your drunkenness).
>You wriggle your posterior to try and shed yourself of the load, and a bright cyan tail pops free of the garment.
>Admiring it silently, you experience a shock as you find yourself aware that it's not the only change down there...
>You collapse back onto your soft, furry behind, and take in an eye-full of your lime-green, stubby legs poking ahead of you.
>Your eyes slowly trace the seams that form a ring around the bottom of your feet, and climb up either side of your legs, across your... Pelvis, and further, beyond where your eyes can follow.
>Unable to put it off any longer, you gaze stupidly at the spot where your wedding tackle used to be, and breath a sigh of (Interest?) disappointment at their absence.
>Passing a single stumpy foreleg (the place the gloves used to end, you notice, have long since grown indistinct- their soft, huggable texture now the entirety of your body) over your nethers, you feel down, past the soft bare patch where your junk used to be...
>... And withdraw it quickly as it passes over the carefully-sewn folds where your marehood now reside!
>You shudder in surprise and pleasure at the sudden sensation, quivering at the gentle touch of your felt limbs over your plush gap.
>You shake away the feeling with a mixture of horror and shame (and excitement), and endeavour to gather your thoughts.
>So you're a lyra plushie now. You have a... Hole in your groin, and no obvious way to change back.
>(It could be worse?) NO. NO, this COULDN'T be worse.
>(But you're so cuddly...) HOW are you going to use a keyboard NOW?
>(And squeezable...) NOBODY will recognise you at Games Workshop anymore!
>(SMASH) And WHAT if some SICK brony gets his flabby, grabby, flexible, nimble...
>Wait... Was that someone breaking a window?
>You sit completely still, at the foot of the staircase, and listen into the silence.
>You hear the tinkle of broken glass shifting underfoot coming from the kitchen!
>You jump onto your hindlegs and stagger about, almost forgetting your situation, before adjusting onto all-fours.
>You spin around in a circle, frantically trying to think what to do!
>Someone's broken into your house! Could you phone the police?
>The nearest phone is in the kitchen, and besides, how would you dial 911?
>Is there some way you could scare him off?
>Oh yeah. You're a soft and cuddly (sexy?) pony plushie who can't reach the door knob on his (HER) own. Real intimidating.
>Maybe you can hide and hope he goes away?
>BUT WHAT IF HE TAKES YOUR VIDEO GAMES?!
>You have more important things to worry about! Hide first, lament stolen goods later.
>Right! Let's hide upstairs!
>No, wait, that's stupid- you'll never make it up there in time!
>Oh god oh god you can hear him heading this way
>THE SOFA! UNDER THE SOFA! GO GO GO!
>You waddle toward the sofa as fast as your stuffed pony-legs will carry you, skidding ineffectually across the waxed wood floor.
>After what seems like an eternity, you're pushing your prone (helpless) body into the crack between the sofa and the floor.
>For a horrible moment, it feels like you're not going to fit.
>With some desperate squirming, your squeezable (loveable) plushie butt squashes into the crack, and you pull yourself further into the dusty darkness, pulling your legs in too.
>Oh god when was the last time you hoovered under here? EW EW A USED TISSUE IT SMELLS LIKE-
>You hear the turn of the door handle, and the sound of footsteps.
>Something is wrong
>You can feel your springy stuffed tail still poking our from under the sofa
>Quickly, you wriggle your little pony butt further in, and pull your tail in after it
>The footsteps stop
>... Did he see you?
>His fingers suddenly clench around your tail, before yanking you clear out from under the sofa and into the morning sunlight, up into the air, leaving you hanging upside-down looking straight up at him.
>... Yeah, he definately saw you.
>Your eyes widen with terror as you stare up (down?) at the towering figure holding you aloft, dressed in black with his face obscured by a balaclava, looking up and down your soft (defenseless) body.
>You whimper quietly, eyes tearing up in fear as his eyes glide across your body, almost as if he were grading you (like a piece of meat) like a product.
>He slowly holds out a human (erect, flexible) finger, which he gently brings down on your slit, elliciting another whimper as you brush it away with your legs as you try to cross them over your privates.
>In a tiny, effeminate whisper, you squeek out the words
"W-What are you going to do to me?"
>The figure chuckles deeply to himself (oh goodness he's going to ravish me), before carrying you through the door into the kitchen, swinging gently in his grasp, and dropping you into a black duffel bag.
>You make a soft squeeking noise and try to right yourself, but he's already drawing the zipper closed, blocking out the light and sealing you in the dark, cluttered confines of his bag.
"Silly little pony."
>And then everything is dark.
>Lying on your front in the warm, dark confines of the stranger's duffel bag, you try to regain your composure, and fail miserably.
>You take as huge a breath as you can manage (do you even breath now?) and let out a long, high-pitched scream which trails off into a squeek.
>You feel the bag stop swinging from side to side in transit, and hang still.
>Then everything starts shaking violently up and down, various bits and bobs in the bag rattling around and brushing up against you, and you feel queezy and all the more claustrophobic from not being able to resist.
>Then you're back on the move, and you've got the message. No screaming. Screaming is bad.
>After another moment, you feel the bag shifting slightly as it comes to a complete halt. Then the sputtering of an engine somewhere, and the unmistakable feeling of a vehicle picking up momentum.
>You begin to sink into a deep despair, wondering if you'll ever get back to your normal life (why would you want to), and if you'll ever see your friends and family again (they're jerks anyway). Maybe you'll be a pony plushie... Forever (oh god this is the kind of thing I've dreamed about).
>As you try to shift into a more comfortable position, one of you hands (hoofs) passes over a familiarly smooth surface.
>Could it be...?
>You carry out the motions, carefully and with great precision on account of your... Condition, and sure enough, a dim light illuminates your lime green face, beaming gently out from the screen of one of the new iPones.
>At last! Some progress! You can at least know who has kidnapped (ponyjacked) you, and that's the first step toward-
>Wait... Who the hell is Hoppip?
>Hoppip? You're certain you've heard that name before...
>Suddenly, everything shifts around you, and the phone slips out of your weak grip.
>It takes you a moment to realise the car has stopped, and then you hear the sound of car doors opening and slamming.
>Then there's the familiar sensation of flying upwards as... Hoppip lifts the bag and carries it somewhere.
>There's the sound of a door opening... Slamming... Locking (oh my no escape)...
>The bag is dropped roughly on a table, and then the zipper starts to open.
>Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the natural light.
>Barely thinking, you launch yourself from the bag to assault Hoppip and earn your freedom!
>Or you would, if you weren't huggably soft and filled with stuffing.
>Rather, your hooves bounce ineffectively off his chest, and you fall back onto the tabletop, kicking his stomach with all your might (which was never that impressive, even before you became a toy).
>Hoppip, now without his balaclava, lets you tire yourself out before bringing a hand down over your belly (oh god yes) and squeezing (with his deft, firm fingers), pinning you to the tabletop (COMPLETELY at his mercy).
>Your head swims with conflicting thoughts which shatter as a bolt of electric pleasure travels up your body from your groin, which Hoppip is pressuring with his thumb.
>He brings his face down alongside your skillfully sewn ears and whispers
"You're going to be a good little pony and play nice, Lyra, or I'll tear your limbs off at the seams"
>(he can tear your seams open anyday) OH GOD WHAT ARE YOU THINKING YOU'RE SO SCARED
"M-my name's n-not... Lyra.... My n-name's..."
>What is your name?
>Oh god, what's your name?
"Did you... D-do this to me?"
>A horrible grin spreads across his cruel face, answering your question for him.
"Are... Are you a wizard?"
>Oh man why the fuck did you say that, that's so stupid
>Hoppip's grin fades into a frown
>Is that your name? Was that why he chose you in the first place? You don't remember Lyra being your name...
- I... Am an ARTIST"
>With dramatic flare, Hoppip hits a switch, bathing you in a powerful light which blots out the rest of the room, except for his fearful silhouette, and makes you squint up feebly.
"And you... Are my finest work!"
>His words send chills through you, and you shift uncomfortably under his iron grip.
>As if in response, he hoists you up and turns you over on the table, using his other hand to pose your legs until you're in a standing position.
"Now... You're going to stay still and be a good little mare, and I won't have to punish you..."
>(Oh god is this it he's going to to coldly defile you with his full erect)
>You quiver in both fear and anticipation, but hold the pose, fearing the alternative.
>You hold completely still, bracing yourself...
>Forgetting the command, you turn your head to look behind you.
>Hoppip is on one knee, head level with your flank, with an expensive looking camera up to his face, taking pictures of your squeezable behind
>Despite yourself, you feel a blush rising on your cheeks and muzzle.
>Hoppip stands and makes his way to the other side of the table, bending down for another shot of your front.
>You reflexively snap back into the pose, as Hoppip continues taking pictures at a few more different angles.
>You feel like a model posing for a magazine! The thought excites you more than it should, and you can't help but let a little 'SQUEEE~' out as you fidgit your hooves excitedly.
>All thoughts of being mercilessly and thoroughly abused have slipped your mind.
>Despite your perilous situation, you can't help but feel... Beautiful?
>Nobody has taken pictures of you like this before. It's really flattering.
>Hoppip stops taking pictures to plug his camera into a laptop on a counter nearby, and starts tapping away.
>You take the opportunity to relax and let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding.
>Hoppip casually exits the room, muttering something about a picture to indicate your 'capacity', whatever that means.
>You realise that Hoppip has left you in the room unsupervised, and escape hasn't even crossed your mind.
>You can see a catflap in the front door (although you haven't seen a cat). You could do it. You could make a run for it.
>But... Where do you live? Like your real name, the fact eludes you.
>You COULD still run, but Hoppip might get mad, and you don't know where you would go, and... It's not like it's that bad here, is it?
>You gaze at the catflap for a minute, and feel a tinge of melancholy you don't quite understand.
>You instead turn toward the door Hoppip left through, and sit obediently in the middle of the table like a good little pony.
>The thought of more photos makes you giggle to yourself a little bit, and you entertain the thought that maybe if you stay right here and wait for him, Hoppip will let you-
>Your thoughts are interrupted as Hoppip makes and entrance.
>You look up at him with wild-eyed excitement, which quickly turns to confusion and then nervous fear when you see what he is holding.
>In one hand, his expensive-looking camera.
>In the other, a fresh banana.
>You try to disguise your anxiousness, but don't do very well.
"W-what are you going to do with... That?"
>Hoppip gives that same silent grin that answers every question, and thoughts of escape rush through your mind anew.
>This isn't you! What were you thinking?! Maybe if you're really quick you can still-
>As if reading your mind, Hoppip grasps your neck in one hand and pokes your muzzle with the other.
>Immediately, you feel your stuffed joints go rigid, and any movement becomes impossible.
>You try desperately to move your legs, but nothing works (oh god).
>Hoppip gently picks you up with one hand and moves you into position with the other (no way out this is it).
>Hoppip removes his hand and uses it to grasp the base of your tail firmly, before lifting it away to expose your soft marehood.
>You feel a shiver of sensitivity pass over you, though you still make no movement.
>With another hand, Hoppip takes the banana and holds it in position behind you (don't).
>In a single fluid movement, the smooth, rounded surface of the banana penetrates your waiting opening, spreading your flanks apart to accomadate the intrusion.
>You feel a fiery sensation washing over you, drowning your mind in pleasure and washing away all intelligent thought.
>You desperately feel the need to collapse, but your hindlegs stand firmly upright, despite the maddening feeling of weakness passing through them.
>Hoppip slides it's length further in, roughly caressing the sensitive inner lining of your passage, forbidding any thought other than feeling of that firm, thick fruit sliding it's way into you.
>It stops about half-way in, and Hoppip backs off to take some photos, grinning like the devil. He starts to mutter things to you under his breath as he takes photo after photo.
"Yeah... Yeah, that's it... You love it don't you, you slutty little pony..."
"You know you love it, you little whore... You want some more, don't you..."
>His cruel words pierce your bliss-filled mind like needles, and you feel a rising sense of shame underneath the torrents of carnal pleasure.
>He's absolutely right... You're just his slutty little pony... Just a toy to be used for his pleasure and then discarded...
>And oh Celestia you would give absolutely anything right now for some more attention for your aching little whore-hole...
>As if in answer to your prayers, Hoppip puts down the camera, seemingly finished with his pictures, and with one hand firmly squeezes your plot, massaging it's contours with his wonderful fingers.
>With the other, he grabs hold of the banana, sending a spasm of pleasure through your sensitive body.
>He roughly slides the banana further down your plush love canal, sending another tidal wave of ecstasy through your frozen body.
>It bottoms out deep inside of you, and you revel in the heavenly feeling of fullness, of being callously used, rising to a helpless and silent climax.
>So distracted by the feeling, you didn't even notice Hoppip walking to your front end.
>The feeling in your body immediately floods back and you collapse, panting, as the entirety of your orgasm wracks your body and leaves you exhausted on the surface of the table, your ass still held up behind you with the tip of the banana poking out shamelessly.
>You lie there, head lolling from side to side mindlessly, awash in the afterglow.
>Hoppip casually walks back behind you.
>A final electric bolt of pleasure courses through your body as he slides the banana out, provoking a muffled scream of ecstasy from you, before you collapse fully, numbly moaning in contentment.
>Hoppip unpeels the banana
>Brings it to his lips
>And slowly starts to eat it, his tongue dancing over his lips.
>You look feebly over your shoulder at the chewing noise, starting to regain your cognitive function.
>You raise your hindquarters back up in the air and wiggle them weakly in what you hope is an inviting presentation.
>Hoppip only glances down at you and chuckling cruelly, fragments of banana spattering the table around you.
>You pull your tail in between your legs, and ball up in embarrassment and shame, looking up at him sorrowfully.
>Hoppip finishes the banana and discards the peel, before picking up his laptop and crashing down on the sofa, camera in hand, to upload the photos.
>You're still lying on the table awkwardly, ignored.
>You slowly rise to your feet, the feeling of rejection and shame now full-on, and gently slide off the edge of the table, bouncing harmlessly onto the carpet.
>Hoppip doesn't even look up from his laptop, apparently unconcerned.
>You cast another look toward that catflap (go for it), but look away, remembering that the world is scary, and that Hoppip would make you regret trying to run away from him (do it! Just run!)
>You look around meekly for something else to distract yourself with while Hoppip is busy.
>This room is pretty bare apart from some pretty pictures on the walls, the sofa, the table, and the television.
>You doubt you could get away with switching on the television, so you instead try to get Hoppip's attention.
>You slink your way around the table and to the edge of the sofa, thinking that maybe if you're really good, he'll play with you...?
>With a jump, you hook your forelegs over the arm of the sofa, and with a little bit of scrabbling and a few failed attempts, you pull yourself up and fall prone onto the sofa on the opposite end to Hoppip.
>With a new burst of energy, you lithely hop over beside him, tail wagging eagerly.
>He doesn't look down from the screen.
>You turn and raise your soft plushie butt in the air, lifting your tail away to expose your needy marehood, and looking over your shoulder at him hopefully.
>You feel his hand close around your midriff, hoisting you up.
>For a terrifying moment, you fear he's going to throw you across the room!
>Instead, he plops you down on his lap, lying on your back- between him and the laptop.
>This doesn't seem like a comfortable position to have- wait, what's he doi-
>While he taps away at the keyboard with one hand, the other one comes down above your belly, his delicious, precise looking fingers poised above as if to-
>OH CELESTIA WHAT IS HE OH MAN OH GODDESS THAT FEELS SO GOOD
>With the fingers of one hand, he vigorously rubs your squishy pony belly up and down, side to side, sending tingles of spasmic pleasure shooting all over your body.
>One hindleg starts to vibrate like crazy, and you find your head growing heavy and drooping backward as your tongue hangs out of your mouth stupidly.
>The belly rubbing eventually subsides, and Hoppip's enormous, wonderful fingers instead begin to scratch gently behind your ears.
>You arc your back and sigh in contentment, all past transgressions forgotten, and crane your head to one side to allow Hoppip easier access to your ears.
>In this position you can finally see what Hoppip's been so preoccupied with on the laptop- it's an auction site.
>Peering back at you are the photos Hoppip took earlier, including the more... Racy ones. You look over them absently, still smiling dumbly to yourself in satisfaction.
>Another blush crosses your face at the thought of those pictures being on the internet for everyone to see, but you're soon reassured by all the nice comments people are making about you and your delicious flank.
>They're all so sweet.
>It looks like plenty of people are interested. The highest bid is already-
>You stare wide-eyed at the figure, the enormous fingers scratching behind your ears almost completely forgotten, and try to think of what you could buy with that much money.
>Suddenly, memories come flooding back again. You're not a pony plushie- you were a human! You had a job you did to earn money, a house somewhere that was your own, and your very own name!
>Hoppip took that away from you, made you a joke, and now he's going to sell you like a slave!
>No, not a slave... Some kind of novelty huggable cum-sleeve.
>And yet... Some part of you wonders if you wouldn't be happier that way... With someone to look after you, and cuddle you, and... Touch you, and tell you you're a good little pony whore.
>You jerk back to reality- at some point while you were having your crisis of identity, Hoppip picked you up and carried you in his arms into the kitchen.
>You cast your eyes around, looking for some way out...
>... As Hoppip strides toward an unsealed Lyra-sized parcel filled with styrofoam packaging nuggets.
>In a last ditch effort for freedom, you start squirming in his grip, taking him by surprise and slipping through his fingers.
>You land on the linoleum with a gentle 'pomf =3', and start galloping back into the living room, moving faster than you thought your stubby soft pony legs would ever be able to carry you.
>You don't have time to think about what comes next- all that matters now is reaching that cat flap and getting outside. You may be able to hide, squeeze through a sewer grating, something, ANYTHING...
>Your smooth, gripless stubs almost give way underneath you as you turn a corner on the waxed wood floor, but with a little bit of skidding you find your footing and continue your charge toward the flap.
>You hear Hoppip's footsteps behind you, but far too far away to beat you to the door.
>You can't believe it! You're almost there!
>You're going to do it! You're free!
>The last three things you notice before contact with the cat flap came in this order:
>The smell of flowers in bloom.
>The sound of birdsong just beyond the threshold.
>The metal bolt drawn securely across the right-hand edge of the flap.
>You bounce off the unyielding flap, your momentum tossing you backwards, until you skid to a halt on your back, tail and legs waggling uselessly in the air.
>Hoppip towers over you, like a god, a devastating look of completely indifferent contempt on his face.
>Hoppip wastes little time in bending down to grab you carelessly by a hindleg, and carry you back into the kitchen.
>You continue to thrash and squeal. Tears come unbidden.
>He drops you into the box, a few pieces of styrofoam splashing out, and roughly shoves you deeper in when you weakly try to climb back out.
>Your vision mostly obscured by packaging material, you nevertheless have a moment to gaze up at him pleadingly before he closes the lid, and everything becomes dark.
>The sound of duct tape being applied is dimly audible, as you continue to sob quietly to yourself and try to roll into a vaguely comfortable position.
>A long and confusing journey indicated only by the sensation of movement and the rustling of styrofoam commences from that point, but not before Hoppip whispers a few words to you through the box, for the very last time.
"I'm very disappointed in you, Lyra. After everything I did for you, this is how you try to repay me?"
>Despite your utter fear and loathing of the man who has taken your life away, you feel an almost preternaturally triggered current of guilt and shame start to rise in you. How could you have behaved so ungratefully?
"I made you, Lyra. I gave you life and purpose, and found you a loving home".
>He did, didn't he? Someone was paying a lot of money for you- they must care so very much...
"If you want to make Daddy proud, Lyra, you'll make your new master very happy. That's all I ever wanted of you."
>And that was the last you heard of Hoppip. You were in the shifting cold and dark for at least a week, maybe more- there was no way to tell.
>Most of that time you spent asleep- dreaming odd dreams of a house you don't recognise and people you don't remember.
>Usually you woke up crying. Eventually you forgot why. You think it's because you miss Daddy so much.
>You're sorry, Daddy. You're sorry you were bad.
>After an unknowable length of time in transit with only your thoughts for company, rumbling along conveyor belts, changing hands, and being driven from place to place, you wake up to hear the chime of a doorbell.
>You stir a little in your bed of packaging material, disturbing it only slightly as you roll into a better position.
>Two people exchange words, and then a door shuts, and your box is carried a short distance and dropped on a surface before being hurriedly unwrapped.
>At long last, light meets your eyes, filtered through a few layers of polystyrene pellets.
>You lie still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust, until you feel a probing hand disturb the bed of white, scrunchy material and brush your flank.
>You let out a little yelp of surprise, and the hand briskly withdraws.
"What the... Fuck?"
>You squirm around, free from your cramped confines, and a few pellets spill out of the box onto the kitchen counter (again?).
>Your soft, squidgy forearms find their way over the brim of the box, and you hoist your head out, eyes blinking sleepily, and look up in hope at your new master.
>He's... Attractive! Surprisingly so!
>An above average frame, unremarkable hair, but it's clear from the size and shiny, modern style of the apartment that he has a big income.
>Well, of course. That's why you're here.
>A little untidy though...
>You put the ungrateful thought out of your mind and open your mouth to give your new master a wide smile and introduce yourself.
"Hi! I'm Lyra!"
"Are... Are you my stallion?"
>Your new master looks down at you dumbstruck, before grinning like he's just won the lottery.
"Y-yeah. That's me. I can be your stallion."
>You giggle with glee and throw yourself into his arms, nuzzling his neck with your cheek.
>He stands there for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do now, before pulling you into a tight embrace.
>He cradles you and caresses your cheek, your tummy, your flank...
>You feel his eyes dwelling on your slit, and you giggle again, licking one his fingers affectionately (and you hope, seductively).
>Your hopes seem to have been justified, as he carries you gently over to a luxurious leather sofa, and seats himself in the middle of it, depositing you in his lap, still looking up at him with utter adoration.
>Even through his jeans, you can feel the contour of his burgeoning manhood running up between your legs and along your body.
"So, Lyra... What sort of stuff can you do for me?"
>You stare up at him mesmerisingly, and he stares back, frozen in a mixture of awe and anticipation.
>Out of the corner of your eye you notice something that sends a twinge of remembrance through you, though you can't remember why.
>Not quite aware of what you're doing, you hear yourself say
"I can kick your flank at Call of Cutie: Modern Marefare."
>There's a moment of awkward silence before he blinks a couple of times and responds.
"Or Team Coltress 2. Canter Strike. You pick, I'm not fussy."
>He follows your gaze to his game collection, and then back to you.
>His pent up needs seemingly forgotten, he points out a title.
"But... You don't really have... Fingers?"
>You eye his hands for a moment and a small burning sensation in your loins rises and subsides, but then you hop down onto the floor and start to trot toward the shelf.
"I don't need fingers. I have talent."
>You look over your shoulder teasingly.
"If it bothers you that much, you can let me borrow yours."
>You hear him chuckle, but you've already reached the disorganised mountain of games. You spend a moment perusing the selection, all of which you remember but you're not quite sure from where.
>You close your soft plushie maw around one title and pry it away from the stack, galloping happily back to your master with it in your mouth.
>You drop it in his lap and look up at him, tail wagging eagerly like a puppy looking to play fetch.
>He looks at it and shrugs.
"Call of Cutie: World at Horse? Well, at least you know a good game when you see one."
>His words fill you with a happy warmth, and you snatch it out of his hands again to carry over to the console.
>After a minute of difficult fumbling, which your master watches from the sofa with a kind of bemused fascination, the disc is out of the box and in the disk drive, which rumbles to life after you gently push it closed with your muzzle.
>You stroll back to the sofa, a look of accomplishment radiating from your features, and try to scrabble back to your seat.
>After a few failed attempts, your new master gently lifts you up and seats you right next to him, handing you a controller.
"It's alright to back down when you're ahead."
The minutes of embarassment as you ineffectively manipulate the controller with your pliable forelegs and get your arse handed to you gradually stretch into hours of fast-paced gaming as you find your footing, slamming buttons and blasting casuals with your almost impossibly dextrous hooves. What was at first light-hearted teasing from your new master develops into the stunned silence of consentration, and then a consistent stream of muttered curses as you make him your bitch again and again.
You don't even notice the sun setting below the glittering cityscape of the penthouse window, but before long long, squeeky yawns begin to escape you, and whatever profound force which allows you to control your stuffed limbs begins to fail you as your forelegs begin to droop, dragging the controller closer into your reclined form to compensate. When your muzzle is practically rubbing the thumbsticks and your weak, jerky applications of hoof to button are clearly betraying your exhaustion, your new master finally looks over to with just a glimmer of a smirk.
Leaving his own controller on his lap, he leans back into the sofa cushions. "Think it's time for bed?"
Eyes already drifting shut, you absently mumble back "Mmm not tired..."
The flashing light of the television and the sounds of combat seem to fade away as you slump into a heap, buried deep in a throw cushion, and you barely notice the dead weight of the controller lifting away and a pair of arms wrapping around you and hoisting you into an unseen but imagined sky. You unconsciously nuzzle his chest and murmer something nonsensical about packages and bananas as your stallion carries you away in his warm, safe embrace.
The sound of birdsong rouses you from a dreamless slumber, and you slowly process your surroundings, shifting only slightly to better envelope yourself between a mattress only slightly firmer than yourself, and a warm duvet that seems so large that you feel buried in it's warm security.
Something off-putting about the size of the bed in proportion with your own squishy form prompts you to stir and, unable to shake the duvet's embrace, attempt to roll yourself out from under it and onto the floor.
As a result, you slump unceremoniously to the ground, still wrapped in the duvet you dragged down with you. Disoriented by the sudden shift, it takes some wriggling of your stumpy limbs to pry yourself free of the tangle of sheets, eventually righting yourself and looking around, still bleary eyed, at the bedroom you (presumably) slept in. A quick glance confirms that the bed was far too big for you to have had all to yourself, leading to the conclusion that your master must have shared it with you last night. You feel warm and tingly at the thought, though the last thing you remember was dealing some severe ass-hurt to your new friend in whichever generic shooter it was you spent hours on last night, so if anything... Special happened between you, it must have been a pretty one-sided affair. Or perhaps just too underwhelming to bother remembering. But you doubt it.
As you turn your attentions to admiring the artistically arranged MLP fanart canvasses on the far wall, a heavenly smell wafts past you subtly, prompting your nose to twitch reflexively. A gentle sizzling becomes audible in the next room.
Far from questioning how a being of animated felt and stuffing such as you can have olfactory functions, the first thing that pops into your head is the question of where you remember that smell from... But within a moment, the more pertinent question becomes 'how can I get as close to the source of that heavenly aroma as fast as ponily possible?'. Your legs answer the question for you, skidding uselessly across the waxy faux-wood floor for a moment (in a manner not entirely unfamiliar), before finding your footing and shooting off at an astonishing pace toward the door. The barrier proves a hindrance only for a moment, as you firmly force your pliable head against it with enough pressure to coax the door open with only a few second delay. Finding yourself in a modernly furnished kitchen suite with a checkered tile floor, oak counters with black marble surfaces and sleek black appliances, and a nearby oval wooden table with four chairs for dining. Standing dutifully over the breakfast-crafting apparatus and components is your master, still dressed in loose-fitting but plain blue pajamas. Your heart(?) leaps a little when he meets your eye with a smile when you enter.
"'Morning, Lyra. Breakfast will be just a few minutes."
As the wave of intangible adoration over you subsides, you consider your options. While you could wait for food like a good little pony, you could probably earn a treat faster if you lended a helping hoof (is that right?) with the preperation. You'd have to figure out a way up to the countertops to do that, though...
While your master's attention is still on breakfast, you quietly trot to a counter a certain distance away from him. Lowering your head and upper body to near-ground level and grasping the handle of the lowest drawer in your mouth, you pull back. The drawer slides open smoothly, coming to a halt with only the dimmest clatter of cutlery. You carefully clamber atop it, and shakily repeat the process with the next drawer, and the next. You occasionally catch your master watching, bemused and intrigued, from the corner of his eyes. Soon, you're looking down from the lofty height of the countertops upon the distant, lowly plane you've left behind. You permit yourself a feeling of accomplishment before turning back to the matter at hand. That divine scent is close at hand- on one of the pans your master is studiously attending to cooks a few strips of delicious foodstuff. Something clicks in your head. Bacon.
Quite close to you is a vaguely rectangular metal contraption with sliced bread poking from it. With a moment of internal searching, you recognise (with a little embarassment for the delay) that it is a toaster. The toast hasn't popped yet, but you realise with a pang of delight that it's distance from your master would be quite an inconvenience for him when the time comes to collect the well-deserved fruits (toasts) of his labours. Seeing the perfect opportunity to earn his gratitude, you carefully begin to slide the toaster along the row of counters, toward your master. You hear a hearty chuckle come from ahead of you, which you interpret as affirmation of your selfless plan. Elated, you continue with the delivery.
About half-way along the toaster's maiden voyage, after navigating your cargo around obstacles you recognise as blenders, coffee-makers and other machines beyond your understanding, you encounter resistance. Not about to let anything come between you and your no-doubt bacony reward, you meet the resistance with greater force. A few seconds of tiring exertion are met with success, as the toaster skids a foot or so ahead, free of burden. Pride suddenly turns to horror as you realise that the little blinky red light indicating that toasting is underway has been extinguished. Looking around desperately for an explanation, your gaze falls upon a black lead... Leading close to where you first ascended to the countertop, where a white rectangle with funny holes protrudes unobtrusively from the wall. The black lead concludes in a black shape with metal parts protruding from the far side. Your keen pony senses indicate to you that they match the holes in the white... out...let... thingy on the wall. Putting two and two together, you efficiently trot back the way you came, a look of determination crossing your adorable features, ready to fix the problem.
You hesitate for a moment before putting the plug into your mouth, feeling for a moment as though you were doing something awfully stupid, but you shake the thought and take the end of the lead into your soft, felt muzzle with no remarkable result. closing one eye and tilting your head, you line the plug (is that what it's called?) with the outlet and gently push it in. It doesn't initially reach without some force, and you're dimly aware of a soft scraping noise in the background, but you're far more interested in the sizzling, which drives you on toward your goal. You walk dutifully back to the toaster, but think for a moment that it seems further from your Master than when you last left it. This won't do at all.
You begin pushing it again, and almost immediately you meet the resistance you felt last time. Again, however, a little more force gets it moving uninhibited, and soon enough you and the toaster have almost reached it's destination, beside your master where it (and you, of course) belong. Then you notice the distinct absence of a light on the toaster. Shocked and alarmed, you gasp and turn to look back at the lead. Once again, the plug has managed to become loose, and is lamentably far from the socket. Something is amiss here, but you can't figure it out.
Your keen pony intellect, however, picks up on the fact that something about this approach isn't working. You determine the next best thing to bringing the toaster to Master is to bring the toast itself to Master.
Once again plugging in the toaster, you plop yourself down on your squishy pony butt just in front of it, and make the first move in the waiting game. While all this has been going on, your master has been occasionally looking over at your progress, a kind gleam in his eye, before returning to the eggs and bacon.
At one point, you hear him mutter something along the lines of "Silly little pony". You're not sure if that's all that good, but the warmth with which he says it still sets your little heart a-flutter, and the small area on the counter and toaster lead stretching behind you get brushed gently as your tail begins wagging involuntarily.
You're jerked out of your trance by an audible 'CLUNK' as the fresh toast pops up, heralding with it a comforting aroma of deliciousness. Over-eager to at last prove your usefulness, you bend over the appliance and take the ends of both slices into your mouth. You drop them back into the toaster at first, startled slightly by their heat, but with a second of delay, they cool to a temperature you are comfortable to take into your mouth (you dispell the dirty thoughts that accompany this. Breakfast first... Mating later?).
But no sooner do you hoist yourself to your feet, before an unexpected weight tugs on your tail and your behind, betraying your legs which slip out from beneath you, and send you tumbling off the counter! You let out a squeeky yell of surprise, and the toast goes flying from your mouth to the floor below. You don't have much time to despair over this, as the toaster lead tangled around your over-active tail follows you in your descent... Closely succeeded by the toaster itself.
You land relatively gently upon the tile floor on your side, dazed but uninjured, but with a cacophonous crash that makes sends a jolt of surprise through your body, the toaster impacts the floor beside you.
Frozen in shock, shame and more than a little bit of fear, you lie prone on the floor beside the toast and the damaged toaster, still tangled slightly in the wire, and look up at your master who is suddenly casting a shadow over him. You feel your ears slowly droop and your tail withdraw between your legs, still dragging the dented toaster which screeches softly as it is brought a few inches closer.
Hands on his hips, still in his pajamas, your master sighs audibly and looks at you with what you believe to be concern and disappointment. You think that you would have preferred it if he were just angry- the flood of sickening guilt and shame spreading through you is making you nauseous.
"Are you alright, Lyra?"
You don't think you can meet his eyes. You simply nod slowly instead. "Well that's what's important." He kneels down beside you and begins to untangle you from the mess of wire. His fingers dance across your tail, but his touch has little gentleness to it. You lie still and let him continue. In a few moments he withdraws, and you slowly right yourself, still silent and ashamed. He picks up the toaster- you notice one of the metal panels has come off, exposing some dislodged circuitry inside- and puts it back on the counter. He then opens a cabinet and takes out two plates... No- one plate. The other thing looks more like a metal dish. He picks up the floor-toast and deposits it in the dish, along with a fried egg. He then leaves it on the floor, beside the table, and begins to dish up his own breakfast.
You slink over to the dish and gaze at your slightly meager meal. For some reason, you'd half expected to be eating at the table. A silly idea, of course- the table is for people, not ponies. Especially not bad little ponies who ruin toast and kill kitchen appliances.
You notice, with another pang of shame, that your master had even gone to the trouble of engraving the metal dish with
(THAT'S NOT MY NAME)
your name- Lyra. Two slices of toast (you notice that your master is going without) and an egg. Very generous. No bacon though.
For a moment you wonder if ponies made of felt and stuffing even need to eat. You were in a
(SHIFTING COLD AND DARK)
box for... A very long time before you got here. You didn't need to eat anything then. A gurgle from your imaginary stomach solves this mystery for you, and you start to munch down mouthfuls of toast and egg with surprising ease, considering your lack of any solid teeth to speak of. Your master, too, has sat down and started eating. You dine in silence. You finish your food before him, and sit quietly for a minute, not sure what to do. You'd still love some bacon, but asking for some from your master's plate is out of the question by this point.
You look around while you wait, and you find your eyes falling in your master's chair, across the underside of the table. His seat is only a little way above eye-level for you. A dirty little idea crosses your mind- there's more than one way to get what you want... And to apologise.
You silently dunk under the table, and in the relatively dim area, you begin your approach. Your master, completely unawares, continues eating above you. Just in front of his legs, which are casually spread open, you have a clear view of the crotch of his pajamas. Thinking about the best way to go about this, you hop up and place a foreleg on each thigh.
You feel a jump of surprise. "L-Lyra?", he gasps. Wasting no time, you bury your face in his crotch, provoking another, smaller shudder and gasp. "Lyra, s-stop it. This isn't-"
You cut him off, firmly but slowly nuzzling the front of his pajamas (illiciting an unmistakable moan from above), and inhale one long, deep sniff. Even through these clothes, you can definately smell something... And you want more of it.
You withdraw your muzzle long enough to bite down on the waist of his pajama bottoms, tugging downward. Getting the hint, your master lowers a hand to assist, and redistributes his weight long enough to let them drop as far as his knees, revealing the white underpants beneath, which are already tightening with the visible bulge within. A breeze of carnal scent washes over you, and you breath deeply again- dizzily taking in the intoxicating fumes which cause your legs to quiver in delight.
You bask in it for only a moment, before bringing your face back down to gently nudge at your master's underpants. With some gentle prodding in the right direction, his thick rod of flesh springs out, pushing your head back and leaving a liberal dribble of precum on your nose. The smell is overpowering now, and you almost have to fight to keep from collapsing with your eyes rolling back in your head in pleasure. You had no idea how badly you've wanted this. You try to say something arousing for your master but all that comes out is a wobbly "I-Its... So big..."
You hear your master laugh nervously above you, leaning back slightly. "Uh... Thanks?"
You hesitate for a second, still reeling from your master's musk overpowering your systems, but open your mouth a small distance and, your plump, gently furred tongue curiously slick with moisture, proceed with one long, protracted lick up his length, from it's base, up the firmness of his shaft, and over the tip, which is already slick with pre. You hear some muffled cursing above you and smile slyly. You kiss the head, lapping up the layer of slick, primal juice and swallowing it greedily, the overwhelming taste again dancing across your tongue and down your throat, warming you to your core and sending another shiver of pleasure through you and your master.
You suckle on the smooth, meaty head of your master's rod, listening to his moans and finding yourself moaning in turn- which seems to only prolong his pleasure. Finally, you can hold off no more.
Fuck bacon. You're starving for sausage.
You jam your head down on your master's cock as far as you can go, which proves to be pretty fucking far without the hindrance of a gag reflex- your master is moaning loud enough that the apartment below can probably hear, but you hardly notice. The end of your muzzle is pressed back as you try desperately to slide the member as deep inside you as you can, and every inch of your master's wonderful tool is exploding with heat and lustful flavour as you aggressively rub and caress it with your silky, moist tongue, the walls of your felt mouth, and even the back of your throat which seems to squeeze as hard and as sensually as it can, as if to milk your master of as much pre as can be harvested. Your mind has long since departed for distant shores- no longer present beneath the kitchen table of a penthouse apartment, held to your master's waist by your clinging forearms, as your rear legs have long since ceased to respond- dangling uselessly as moisture dribbles down them from your pathetically quivering pussy. You're in heaven. Nothing exists but you, and your master's incredible package, that you can only have been placed on this Earth solely to service.
You're brought part-ways back to the material world by a hand grasping a handful of your mane. You open your eyes, again aware of where you actually are. A constant dribble of saliva has been pouring from the border of your mouth, pooling on the floor. You... also think you may have came one or more times.
The hand on the back of your head pulls back, dragging you back along your master's length, drawing another long moan from one or both of you (it's since become impossible to tell), until his head leaves your mouth, leaving you panting for air you probably don't need. Pre continues to dribble from his length (he must be real pent up- Celestia knows how he hasn't got a girlfriend), and you swallow the remaining drops in your mouth feverishly, trying to reach the tip of his rod with stands torturously close to your face with your tongue, and letting out pathetic little whines of need. As if in response, your master's hand brings you slamming back down on his length, and you almost faze out again from the wave of satisfaction that fills you up. No sooner are you comfortable before he brings you most of the way back up- and down again. This continues for some time- it's impossible for you to tell for sure how long, with him shoving you up and down on his dick, aggressively fucking your face in the throes of lust, leaving you helpless to resist your soft, delicate pony mouth being used mercilessly. Not that you would ever choose to have it any other way.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of pleasure, the jabs become shorter and faster as you feel your master's cock twitching as he lets out animalistic pants of sexual pleasure. You're suddenly shoved far further down than you have been yet, your head practically buried in his crotch as you feel hot, creamy jizz plaster the back of your throat. You Push insistently on his legs with the forearms you had practically forgotten you had, and your master obliges, pulling you back up along his legs as he continues to empty himself deep inside your throat, and then filling your mouth. You sluggishly try to swallow as many mouthfuls of the gooey, salty nectar as you are able, a small amount forcing it's way out of your nose and the corners of your mouth in short spurts. In the last moment, your master yanks you off his length completely, and you gasp, mouth wide open in hope, as he shoots the last few jets of his trailing orgasm across your muzzle, cheeks, and mane. A little even gets in your eye. He scooches his chair back a little, dragging you into the open, your dead-weight hind legs trailing behind. He finally lets go, letting you rest your chin in his lap, gasping imaginary lungfuls of fresh air as you come down off your euphoric high. You weakly lap up the cum on your face that you can reach with your tongue, savouring the flavour of your salty treat, and even crane forward a bit to start licking remaining strands from your master's already softening member. He doesn't stop you, sighing satisfactorily and lying back with his eyes closed as you slowly and dutifully clean him. You swallow each tantalising sample you find, and provoke a breath of pleasure from your master with each long or short wipe with the tip of your tongue. Eventually you have carefully licked him clean, and the out-of-reach semen on your face and mane has started to dry into your fabric, becoming a little crusty, but you don't mind. At a loss of words, your master noticed his partly-unfinished meal and chuckles warmly to himself.
"Want some bacon?"
You nuzzle his legs affectionately and shut your eyes.
"No thanks. I'm full."
You lie there awkwardly for a couple of minutes, basking in the afterglow. Eventually, your Master stops stroking your mane, and scooches his chair back, zipping up his pajamas and standing up and walking off. You lie on the tile floor on your belly, still under the table, and dazedly gaze off ahead of you. You're like that for some time, vaguely aware of your Master getting dressed in a shirt and tie, gathering some things in a suitcase, and cheerily shouting something at you before leaving the apartment with the click of a locked door. Eventually, your tummy grows too cold from the tile, and you sluggishly force yourself to your feet. At first you relocate yourself to the sofa, climbing atop it with some effort and wriggling of the legs, but you find yourself fully awake now, and not content to doze the day away. Come to think of it, if Master said when you could expect him back, you were far too zoned out to hear.
You look around thoughtfully and rub your muzzle with your stump-like hoof. In doing so, you realise just how much cum has dried into your face and mane. You could probably find a way to get clean, if you wanted. Or you could just look for something fun to do in the apartment. Come to think of it, the thought of exploring beyond the boundaries of the apartment excites you, for reasons you're not immediately aware of.
Eventually deciding that it is important to prioritise, you decide to endeavour to find a means of cleaning these cum stains out of your fabric. After all, you want to be soft, clean and fresh for the next time Master comes... Home. Dropping down from the sofa with the swiftness of a cat and only a fraction of the grace, you start trotting merrily in the search for somewhere you can wash yourself. You're vaguely aware that humans like your Master wash their bodies in large, relaxing containers called baths- but that hardly seems appropriate, seeing as you're just a little pony toy, and nowhere near as big as a human like Master. You consider the merits of employing the kitchen sink for this purpose, but decide it would be far too cumbersome, and you might make a mess.
You prowl around the apartment looking for an alternative, passing many interesting rooms full of things you don't understand (most of them very big), and almost give up... But then you notice a wooden door you had overlooked up to now. Thankfully, like most of the doors in the apartment, this one opens when you push against it with all your strength for a few moments with one side of your body.
This room is hardly as well-lit and decorated as the rest of the apartment (that you have seen). In fact, you're taken aback by it's chilly concrete floor, poor lighting, and decaying wall panels. Barely the same size of the bathroom, this room is dominated by a large empty plastic basket, some apparently unwanted cardboard boxes, and a large, sleek white machine of similar proportions to a single unit of the kitchen counters, you notice. Approaching with wariness, treading lightly both in caution and due to the cold floor, you stand in front of the contraption and tilt your head inquisitively. Trying to climb atop it, you pounce and try to hook your forehoofs over the top, but find no grip on the plastic surface, and fall back to the floor on your back, bouncing into a pile of boxes that (mercifully) don't topple, but do rain a thin coating of dust and cobwebs down upon you. You rise to your hoofs, groaning plaintively, and try to shake the grime loose- but only succeed in generating a cloud of dust which makes you wrinkle your muzzle in discomfort, and let loose a loud, involuntary snorting noise which startles you.
You sniff a few times, trying to get the particles out of your system (apparently you have a system?), and in the meantime your feeble pony mind tries to grapple with the issue. In a few moments, a flash of brilliance strikes you, and you approach the plastic basket. Grasping the rim in your mouth, you drag it to one side of the machine, and flip it over. After a couple of minutes where you're shocked and dismayed by suddenly finding yourself trapped beneath it, like a tiny cage (SO DARK), you calm yourself long enough to lift up one side and crawl to freedom (rubbing more dirt into your belly, much to your disdain).
Soon enough, however, you've climbed first onto the overturned basket, and then onto the mysterious machine. Here, you can see some odd buttons with symbols on them (including one big button, which you imagine is responsible for activating the contraption). Of more interest to you, however, is the large, circular groove which seems to you to denote some kind of lid that should come away and reveal what it beneath. With some experimental button-pushing, you succeed in eliciting some intriguing beeping noises, and eventually the lid flips open, revealing the concealed compartment beneath.
As you look down into what appears to be a glittering metallic bowl with little holes arranged in orderly patterns, with one screw-shaped protrusion rising up from the centre, you have a crystal-clear moment of understanding.
"This is where the soft things like me go when we need to be cleaned!"
You hold in your giddy enthusiasm and carefully lower yourself, flank first, into the opening. Still hanging on with a foreleg, you hit the big button with the green symbol on it, and let go, falling a short way into the machine's bowels, nestled between the metallic surface of the bowl and the twisty plastic thing in the centre.
You're aware of an ominous rumbling, coming from all around, and a gentle wirring as the lid slowly slides back into place. You look up, eyes wide with sudden fear, as the dim light of the small room outside is cut off, leaving you with only the choking blackness of the even smaller room inside. But, on some level, you knew this was going to happen, right?
So why are you so goddamned scared?
And as you feel yourself being tossed onto one side by a sudden spurt of movement by the machine's guts, and you are suddenly shot by countless unseen streams of water, pounding into you from all directions and soaking you with the tormentatively chilled moisture which even now is creeping up past your flank, your neck, your face, pulling you away in an unseen torrent of rapids leading fucking nowhere. The noise is almost deafening now, and in the sensory overload of pandemonium, your panicked consciousness is overwhelmed with thoughts that chill you far more than the water ever could.
It's cold, shifting and dark. You want out. You need to get out. You need to get back.
This isn't you.
But as suddenly as the alien clarity arrived, it is gone, leaving only the blind terror and utter confusion. Twisted and contorted, pulled and dragged by the unseen but omnipresent currents, you feel as though your very soul might be jerked away from you if you dare loosen your grip on it. So you shut your eyes with all your strength, try to shut everything out, and try to concentrate on your happiest memories.
But all you find is confusion, lust and fear. There is nothing else.
You don't know how long this goes on for. As far as you are concerned, it lasts forever. At some indistinguishable point between eternities, the chilling water was substituted with howling winds, and a sickening rocking motion which fills you with nausea, and leaves you trying vainly to wretch from the stomach your body somehow thinks should be there, if only to distract you from the dizzying lack of direction.
And then, it's over. You cling to the silence and stability, as though it may depart again in some new hell, but it never leaves. You lie in the dark for some time, reassembling yourself and amassing the will to move your own body, rather than leave it to the whims of forces unseen. With time, you find it, and try to crawl upward. Finding 'up' proves more difficult than you anticipated, and there's a sick moment where you realise you're desperately trying to push loose the bottom of the bowel. But eventually you find a new, smooth plastic surface which you swipe desperately at until finally, light breaks through. Beautiful, beautiful light.
You don't remember exactly what came next, but the next time you are aware of yourself, you are lying on one side, facing a towering glass screen door through which a balcony, and beyond it, the midday sun hanging in the sky just beyond a layer of glass. Your soft, stumpy hooves are lying on the floor in front of your face, still shaking subtly but clean, and lightly fragranced.
You don't remember exactly what happened to you in the contraption, but you do know two things now.
First, the next time you see your Master, you're going to hug him. You want to grab on, and never let go again.
Second, you never want to go into the washing machine again. There is something far worse than darkness and cold water that will find you there.
You watch the sun for some time. Something nags in the back of your mind saying you shouldn't be looking straight at it the way you are, but nothing seems to be wrong with doing it. Eventually, in the warm caress of the filtered sunlight and amidst the twittering of distant birds just beyond your reach, you sink into the embrace of a dreamless sleep. Some time after that, you stop shaking.
You wake up some time later, by degrees. From your position on the ground, you can't see the sun, but the brilliant blend of orange and purple dancing across the sky tells you the sun's setting. You can't really remember seeing a sunset before, but you think it must be pretty beautiful. If only you were high enough to watch.
Your past trauma almost forgotten after your blissful rest, you shakily rise to all-fours, and blink drearily as you cast your eyes around the bedroom, and it's furniture and steep walls towering around you. The thought of exploring again gives you a little twinge of fear, but an inquisitive voice in your mind insists it can't hurt to poke around your Master's things a little. Really, you know so little about him except...
A shiver travels down your flanks and hind legs, and you permit yourself to giggle slightly.
... His taste.
You rub the sleep from your eyes with a hoof (hey, you do smell fresh!) and, feeling once again cheery and energetic, trot toward the bedroom door. After a moment of wiggling your little nose into the crack, you've pushed the door open enough to squeeze through, pausing only for a moment to tug your squeezable pony bum through behind you.
You cross the kitchen area as quick as you can to spend as little time on the chilly tile as you can and, making your way through a doorway you explored earlier, enter a room your meagre pony brain identifies as a 'study', or maybe an 'office'. It's smaller than most of the rooms, but has a soft blue carpet which feels nice against your felt hooves, and a modest-sized window to let the light in (although the blinds are drawn most of the way, casting beams of orange across the walls). Looking in greater detail than before, you acknowledge a shelf that dominates one of the walls, made of a dark, rich looking wood, inhabited by books of various shapes and colours (books are where smart humans like your master put stories and facts and things), as well as various trinkets and knick-knacks...
You blink a few times and squint, standing on the tips of your hooves- on one of the higher shelves, you can see some colourful little things which almost look like little ponies... I mean, littler ponies. That is, little ponies which are more little than you. You're curious, but for some reason you find you're not too surprised.
Slowly venturing further toward the centre of the room, savouring the tingly feeling of the carpet tickling your green stumps, you take in some more of the surroundings. The other obvious object is a looming desk of the same fancy wood as the bookshelf, with a simple swivel chair nearby. From down here, you can't see what's on the desk- aside from a grand flat screen monitor. You find your eyes almost reflexively wandering below the desk and peering into the gloom- as expected, a shiny PC is there. A curious feeling of excitement passes, and then melancholy. You shrug it off, and turn to leave- after all, computers aren't for silly little ponies like you. How would you even work the keyboard with your fi... No, wait, your hooves.
Hooves. You have hooves. You hop from one foreleg to another, as if reminding yourself of this. It's your master who has the long, flexible, firm digits that can wrap around and between things, worming their ways into all the right places-
You realise that while lost in thought, you had sat down, and a hoof was snaking it's way toward your slit. Only now do you realise how achy you were... Down there. The service you did over breakfast to show your appreciation for Master was certainly satisfying and meaty and felt so so right-
You stop your hoof again.
Anyway, you want more, like the greedy, slutty pony you are. HIS slutty pony. But you guess you'll just have to wait until your Master gets home to prove to him again how much you adore him. He can't be that much longer, can he?
You glance up at the surface of the desk. Then again, he could still be a while. There's no harm in exploring a bit further...
You plop your plump plushie butt down on the carpet, thinking the best way to go about this. It can't be much harder than getting up on the kitchen counter was, at least. You canter to the opposite side of the swivel chair and press the side of your body against it. It's readiness to move takes you by surprise, and you flop down on your side as the chair rolls away, into place just in front of the desk.
You pick yourself up and move back around to the other side of the chair. You crouch into a squatting position, wiggle your rump a little and leap into the air- or rather, bounce up a few inches before falling back to Earth and tripping onto your muzzle, which squishes back into your face. A few more tries, and you hook your front hooves over the edge of the seat, your rear legs waggling around in the air trying to find some footing. With a little jostling, you shift your upper torso onto the seat to join your forelegs, and allow the rest of your body to clamber up after it. You try to stand, and hesitate as the seat of the swivel chair wobbles and turns slightly. You carefully stand up the rest of the way and turn to face the desk, one hoof at a time. Then it's a simple matter of bridging the relatively minor gap between the seat and the desktop with your forelegs, and climbing up.
Emboldened by your triumphant ascent, you shut your eyes and smile to yourself, permitting a celebratory wiggle from your behind. You open your eyes with a sigh, and glance around the desk. Aside from a pair of speakers, a set of huge headphones and a keyboard, you can see an empty mug (you think the words on the side say "I want to come and sign Rainbow Dash", but you can't spell too good, so you could be wrong), a closed plastic container of something clear, and a box of tissues- in fact, scrunched up tissues are littered across the desktop. You wonder if your poor Master had a cold.
You frown and bite your lip in contemplation. Can a little pony like you catch people diseases? You're not a person (ANY MORE), so you don't think so. Child-like curiosity (or perhaps an animal instinct to stick your nose into interesting things) gets the better of you, and you bend your head down to have a tentative sniff. You're not sure if you expected to smell snot or just tissue or something, but one thing's for sure- that's not what you smell right now. At all.
Your eyes widen and you draw your head back a bit. You sniff again a couple of times at the air, processing it.
That hypnotic, heady musk... That sweet, sweet, salty aroma...
Faster than you can think, you bury your nose back in the tissue, and take in a long, deep sniff, letting it fill up your insides(?) and breath back out of your mouth in a prolonged, shuddering sigh. It's his spunk, alright. Oh Celestia, how could you have forgotten how GOOD it tastes? How can you have been THINKING of ANYTHING else since you sucked him off? You want more- you NEED it!
You wrap your forelegs around great armfuls of tissues and drag them in closer, crushing them together, strengthening the trace fragrance. You shut your eyes and take in shorter, quicker breaths, drooling on the bundle a little in ecstasy. You're slightly aware of your needy mare vagina moistening as you become dizzy with the scent filling you up.
You continue like this for maybe half a minute, inhaling one cavernous breath of your glorious Master's dried and discarded fluid after another. A rosy blush comes to your cheek as you wonder what these tissues are doing here. Maybe your Master left them out for you? You'll have to think of some way to 'thank' him later...
Dirty thoughts of how you might do this disappear from your head as you suddenly pick up on the damp warmth soaking into the newly washed and dried felt coat between your legs. Forgetting the ball of slightly damp used tissues for the moment, you look between your legs- at the gentle drip from your twitching marehood to a clear, viscous puddle forming on the tabletop between your legs.
Your amorous mood is cut short by sickening feelings in your gut of guilt and a little shame. What will your Master think when he finds out you've been spilling your love liquids onto the desk he uses the computer on?
It's such a lovely wood. What if you leave a mark? You cringe slightly at the thought, and glance toward the tissues. No, you can't use those, they're your Master's! He's marked them with his scent. He'd be so hurt if he found you'd ruined them just to mop up your little accident.
You look this time at the tissue box. You take a step, but remind yourself that those are your MASTER'S tissues. Clearly, he has a great need for them- using one on your mess (another of your messes, you remind yourself) would be as bad as stealing from him. Your bottom lip quivers at the thought of wronging your dear, sweet, generous Master like that.
You look around for another way of clearing the puddle, but no ideas come to mind. It's only a small puddle, you think to yourself- maybe he won't mind. You scold yourself for the thought- it's not the size which matters, it's the violation of trust. Your master let you roam the apartment freely because he trusted you not to harm his furniture- he could have just put a collar around your neck and tied a leash to the bedpost, but he didn't (the thought of a collar tightening around your neck and your Master tugging on your leash like a bad little doggy gives you a few excited tingles, but you control yourself for the moment).
You frown at the puddle, thinking of another way you can clear up the mess before your Master gets home. You lick your lips involuntarily, in preparation.
You turn to face the direction of the clear, sticky pool and lie down on your tummy. Another blush crosses your cheeks as you slowly take a tentative lick, not quite sure what to expect.
You're surprised, to be honest. It's not really that bad- sweet, and with a runny consistency like watery honey. It rests on your tongue for a moment, seeping into the fabric, before you swallow it. You then set to work, destroying the rest of the evidence. With only eight or nine broad strokes with your tongue, the majority of the pool is gone, leaving a barely noticeable damp patch which you finish off by tilting your head this way and that and wiping away trace remains with short licks.
You rise to your feet again, still feeling a little warm between your haunches. It's nowhere near as heavenly as the taste of your Master, of course, though you wouldn't necessarily be opposed to doing it again, if the situation warranted it. You wonder what another mare would taste like?
You shrug off the thought, and crouch for another jump. You tumble gracelessly through the air and land in a crumpled heap with your legs splayed out in opposite directions, bounce slightly, and come to a halt on your back. You wiggle your legs in the air helplessly for a moment before you build up some momentum and fall onto your side, quickly regaining your composure and climbing to your feet. As you do so, you hear a clicking noise and the sound of a door closing in the living room- your metaphorical heart leaps into your chest and you feel a little giddy! Master's home!
You barely register your own stumpy limbs dancing across the floor as you try to rush through to the living room, stopping only to right yourself when you misjudge the crack in the door and land in a heap. Eventually, you control yourself long enough to skip carefully, if enthusiastically, into the living room. It looks like you delayed too long in your arrival, as the room is empty, and you can see your Master dumping his briefcase on the kitchen table and already starting to take off his tie.
As if on cue, the most horrible hours of the past day start to scratch at the back of your mind (SO DARK), trying to get back in (LET ME OUT). You're not even sure how you closed the distance, but the next thing you know, all four of your soft, green pony legs are wrapped around one of his two, longer legs, and you're pulling yourself in as close as you can (DADDY PLEASE NO)
(I WANT TO GO HOME)
(THIS ISN'T ME)
MASTER'S HERE NOW, EVERYTHING IS ALRIGHT NOW!
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP-
You open your eyes. You're still wrapped around one of Master's legs, but a single bead of moisture is rolling down one cheek. You sniff and try to wipe it away quickly on the leg of Master's trousers, hoping he didn't notice. You feel Master's palm stroking the back of your soft, felt head- his fingers scratching around inside your mane, and look up to meet his gaze.
His warm smile washes over you, and you feel like you're sinking into a soft bed or a hot bath as you stare straight into his kind, but tired eyes. Concern creeps into your beloved Master's voice. "Lyra, is something wrong?"
A moment passes, before you nestle your face back into his shin, nuzzling his inside leg with one cheek.
"No, Master... Everything is alright now..."
"Then do you think you could let go of my leg? I'm tired, and need to go lie down for a bit. We can play later, I promise."
Reluctantly at first, you unfasten yourself from Master's leg. He smiles at you, and turns away to walk into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The last thing you see of him, he was starting to unbutton his shirt.
You start to walk toward the sofa, but start to slow as the gears in your head start turning.
We can play later, he said... Maybe you should go play with him now...
The dirty thoughts start rising again, and you giggle to yourself. Then out of the corner of your eye, you notice something odd about the front door. A longer glance confirms your impression- Master left it ajar. It's not obvious, and probably wasn't intentional- anyone could just come and go as they please.
You hesitate for a second. Just a second.
Then you trot happily over to the front door, lower your head... And push it closed.
That's better. It was letting a draft in. And you wouldn't want any wild animals or strange humans wondering through.
You can remind Master to lock it later. Right now, you have... Other business to attend to. You canter back over to the bedroom door, swishing your tail one way and then the other in a manner you hope appears quite sultry, and lean your weight gently against the door, easing it open slowly.
As you hoped, you can see Master's work clothes in a poorly folded pile in the corner, and you can hear him breathing gently on the bed, too high for you to see from down here. You wonder what he's wearing.
Maybe he's not wearing anything at all.
As quietly as you can manage, you sneak to the foot of the bed and hook your forelegs over, quickly but gracelessly climbing over until you're fully on the bed. It looks like the duvet is covering Master from the neck down. You'll have to do something about that.
Still as quietly as possible, you sneak toward Master's face, avoiding the lumps in the duvet that must be his body. Taking just a second to make sure he's still asleep, you take the end of the duvet in your mouth, slowly, slowly peeling it back to expose his shoulders... his chest... His well-toned abdomen (oh my! Maybe he ISN'T wearing anything!)... His tight white underpants (drat)... You pull it down to his knees, but stop, deciding that that's far enough. Far enough for your needs, anyway...
You gently tap Master's thigh with a hoof. He stirs, but doesn't wake. Just breathing in, and out. In, and out. In, and out.
You lower yourself so that you're between his legs