> It is to her credit that the guardspony manages to keep herself unheard until she is nearly on top of you.
> Later you would conclude that she must have had some enchantment placed on her armor, that you did not hear her hoofsteps or the clinking of her plate as she approached.
> But at the moment, the doorknob's turn is the only warning you get; it's opening squeal a moment later is a sign that it is already far too late.
> You're already stiff as a board, adrenaline flooding your system where you crouch - your open bag at your side.
> Even so you freeze into utter stillness as the streetlamps' flickering glow floods in through the opening door.
> It's a mare, judging by the voice.
> "Hey, you there - don't you move!"
> Subtly shifting, you try and turn your head just enough to catch a glimpse of who is yelling at you.
> As you'd been afraid, it was a Royal Guard - her armor gleaming in the flames' light.
> She stands legs spread in a wary stance, one clutching a spear half-pointed at you.
> Thankfully your cloak rendered you down to - you hoped - an indistinct grey lump, even with the room's slight illumination.
> "You're - you're under arrest, by the law of our Princesses Celestia and Luna. For breaking and trespassing, and-"
> Her eyes flick down to the open sack at your side.
> "-attempted theft. Do you understand?"
> Deliberately you keep your voice low, folding your legs beneath yourself.
> "Then - then get up. You're going to come with me down to the guard station for - hey!"
> She takes one step forward, her first real one int the room.
> "Did you hear me? Get up, thief!"
> Spear dropping to aim in your direction, she takes another few careful steps forward.
> The wood flooring creaks with every movement she makes.
> "I - I'm armed. And I-I'm an Earth Pony too; if you're thinking of trying to get past me, I can assure you that you won't."
> If not for the barely-detectable tremble in her voice, the claim would have a lot more weight behind it.
> Creak, creak - each step bringing her closer to you.
> Just a little further...
> "You're going to face justice, so there's no point to-oooo..."
> Abruptly you rise, twisting in place, to your full height.
> Up, up, and up her head rises - eyes going wide as she comes to realize just how tall you are.
"Hey there, little guard."
> She catches herself, again dropping the spear to center it on your chest.
> "-eeewooooah. Stop right there."
> You do.
> "G-Good. Now, put your hands out in front of you, slowly."
> This, too, you do - holding them out loosely in front of you.
> The guardsmare twists her head around, reaching for something in her saddlebags and giving you a good glimpse of her in the light streaming in through the door.
> Shining bronze plate had masked her true coat colors, a nicely-complementing orange that faded to darker brown around her hooves, muzzle, and ears.
> Not entirely hidden by the plate, a patch of creamy coat run stomach to throat; one light-green eye was kept firmly locked on you as she nosed through her bag.
> A fan of coppery mane bursts from the top of the helmet, which you might have thought to be fake except for that her tail bears the same hues.
"Lost something, little guard?"
> The amusement in your voice produces a dark scowl from her.
> "Shut up. You're not allowed to talk; you're under arrest."
> "Yes, and as soon as I get these-"
> For just the briefest fraction of a second both eyes shift down to focus on her saddlebags.
> And in that moment, you strike.
> Hands snap out to wrap around the spear shaft; gripping fiercely, you twist and wrest it from her grasp.
> The armored mare, you admit, has good reflexes even under the bulk of her plate and helmet.
> She leaps aside, refusing to let you sweep her hooves from beneath her with the spear's shaft.
> Unfortunately for her, that was not your real goal.
> Leaping for the door, your drive it shut - having just enough time to throw a latch into its catch before something pointedly nudges at the small of your back.
> "That's just enough of that, criminal! No more moves from you, do you understand me?"
"Hmm. Good recovery there, little guard."
> Turning around, you eye the blade now centered on your chest.
> She had actually gotten back to her hooves and recovered the weapon far faster than you expected.
> "I - I'm not little. You're just..."
> Taking one step forward, you reach up to grasp the spear's shaft and push it back, preventing it's point from pressing into your clothes.
> She gets the message, taking a rapid step back.
> "T-That's enough. I'm going to get these cuffs out, and you're going to put them on. Got it!"
> Though the closed door had cut off the streetlamps' light, reducing the house to the barest glow filtering in through the covered windows that only just showed her outline, it didn't hide her nervous tone.
> Another step forward, and another step back.
> "I-I'm not- I mean - don't-"
> You continue driving her back, right up until hits the foot of a chair, concealed in the dark.
> With a squeak and a tumble she is down on her haunches, armor creaking as plates rub against each other, leaving you alone holding the weapon.
> A final few steps, and you're right in front of the guard - squatting down in front of her indistinct form, hulking over her even so.
> "D-Don't touch m-me-"
> But you do, reaching out to grab at where you expect her helm would be.
> She lets out a little gasp as you seize a fistfull of mane; a hoof is pressed against you, but only lightly as she has suddenly discovered the pointed tip of her own spear digging into her unprotected throat.
"Why not, little guard?"
> The tremble was not just limited to her voice now; the sound of her armor jostling makes it painfully apparent that her legs are shaking fiercely.
> "B-Because assaulting a R-Royal Guard is a crime p-punishable-"
> Dropping the spear, you reach down and slip your arms around her.
> That proves to be a poor idea; as she had told you, she was an earth pony and by planting all four hooves on your chest and pushing she is able to quickly break out of your grasp.
> Unfortunately, she landed square on her haunches - sprawling as her armor dragged her down.
> The second time you grab her, you're quite certain to make sure it is so that she is facing away from you - legs wiggling futilely in mid-air as she struggles from your grasp.
"You shouldn't struggle so much. You're a very pretty mare."
> "What - what does that mean?!"
> Fumbling beneath her belly, you're able to find the straps that hold the armor to her barrel.
> Releasing them proves to be relatively simple - probably meant so that a pony could do it with just her mouth - the mare goes rigid as you're able to loosen the plates from her flanks.
> Perhaps the peril of her situation has finally hit home.
"-it means, you shouldn't go bursting into houses alone when you think there might be some evil, nasty criminals in there..."
> You're practically whispering in her ear, and you can feel her shiver as your breath rushes off her brown-coated ears.
> One such ear flicks, a silky brush against your cheek.
> "I a-am a Royal Guard-"
"I know what you are, little guard. Or maybe you're trying to remind yourself?"
> "Don't call me that!"
> Despite her small size the mare's bulk is considerable.
> Finding a chair large enough it was probably meant for two ponies, you seat yourself with a grin.
> She lets out a little whine, hind hooves scrape against your thighs as she frustratedly struggles for some kind of leverage against you.
"Well then what's your name, little guard?"
> Leaning back, you pull the helmet off her head.
> It takes a bit to pull her mane through the gap at the top, especially in the nearly-darkened room, but you manage.
> The reward is a burst of hair that you can bury your nose in, taking a long draw of air through your nostrils.
> Her scent is, unsurprisingly, the spicy whiff of her namesake seasoning - but also a slight hint of sweat and oiled metal, no bronze, no doubt from the armor you had just set aside.
"Okay then, Cinnamon. Tell me this: If there's a punishment for touching a Royal Guard... then what is the punishment for this?"
> "For whaaaaaeeeee!"
> She squeals as your fingers dip below her tail, seeking out the gap produced when you loosened the armor covering her body.
> "No - nononono!"
> With renewed vigor Cinnamon begins to mightily struggle, writing in your arms with legs kicking and head thrashing.
> Laughing softly, you take a grip on the edge of the armor and pull it entirely free of her - slipping it from between the two of you to fall to the floor.
> Now you could feel her haunches pressing into your lap, the slight swell of her dock on your groin and her back to your belly and chest.
> "I - I can't..."
"Get away? Fight back?"
> Shifting up your other hand, you put it just beneath her chin - feeling the velvety coat of that creamy patch on her throat.
"I told you that you were a pretty mare. That it was a bad idea to struggle."
> "I don't want-"
> No chance is given to finish that sentence.
> Again your fingers dive down beneath her tail.
> There, however, they are treated to another unexpected surprise.
"Wow, Cinnamon... are you wearing panties?"
> Though you cannot see her, the warmth that floods her cheeks is plenty easy to feel as you hold her pressed back against you.
"I thought that was a part of your armor, but you really are!"
> Chuckling softly, you stroke the sleek fabric where it covers her.
"Such a naughty little guard, on patrol all day long with such dirty things on underneath her armor."
> "It's n-not a choice! The armor chafes; it's the o-only way to-"
"Are you sure about that? Are you sure it's not how you feel, knowing no pony has any idea what you're wearing? The proud, armored guard in all her gleaming armor... none of them knowing how dirty she really is."
> Now unburdened by having to slip beneath the armor plate covering her rump, your fingers are free to dip beneath the sheer fabric explore the mare fullly.
> And that they do, tracing the swollen edge of her sex up to the crinkled but that sits just atop it.
> Cinnamon's cry is more one of desperation than protest or anger now, and you can hear the tears building in her voice.
> Teasingly, delicately, your fingertip slip between her lips - running up and down, up and down, ever deeper into her with each pass.
> "S-Stop... please..."
"Why ask me?"
> Pausing a moment, you answer your own question:
"Is it, maybe, because you're all out alone? A single guardsmare, starting her patrol for the night?"
> Her words say one thing, despairing tone another.
> Foolish of them to patrol alone - but then, this wasn't exactly a crime-ridden part of town; far from it, in fact.
> Withdrawing from Cinnamon a moment, you run your hands down the mare's body - feeling her contours, her swells and dips, gaining a mental picture of her form.
> She must have been a relatively pure-blooded Earth mare.
> None of the lithe, compact build of a pegasus or the slender, almost willowlike unicorn body there.
> You could feel the cords of muscle beneath her smooth coat, strong Earth strength hidden by a silken-haired exterior.
> Well-built hips support strong, forceful legs.
"See, I have a bit of a problem. You saw my face, so I can't exactly let you just run back out. And, I figure, as long as I have to take you down... well, I might as well get my fun out of it as well."
> "Oh, Celestia please no..."
> Her breathless gasp is exacerbated by your return to her marehood, fingers again finding their way into her warm passage as the other arm wraps around her barrel to hold her in place.
> She lets out a pained mewl as you tease her, an unwanted and unwelcome slickness beginning to coat your fingers.
> "No, no... please, no..."
> Between the pressure of her dock on your groin and the desperation in her voice, you are quite sure you are hard as the metal she wore - and equally sure she can feel it.
> Standing, you fumble with your own belt - managing to undo it, your pants dropping to the floor.
> Ears perking at the sound of them hitting the floor, Cinnamon finally screams out.
> Your sleeve was quickly jammed into her jaws, stifling the noise.
> For a second you hold her like that, the empty house silent except for her muffled cries.
> And silent it remains; it was far too late at night for many others to be out.
"That was very, very stupid. I told you not to struggle."
> "Phleash, nooo..."
> Removing your own underwear is a relatively easy task by comparison, and when you sit back down your exposed shaft comes in full contact with Cinnamon's plush, wide rear.
> Nesting it in between her haunches, you begin to rock your hips back and forth - sliding your shaft up and down along her swollen sex.
> Annointing it with the juices that quickly begin to flow from the unwanted stimulation.
> Cinnamon is openly crying now - you can feel the tears drip-dropping onto your arm circling her barrel - her muffled screams having turned to rhythmic, heaving sobs.
> Gently lifting her to allow your swollen shaft to rise, angling it for the slick purse of her marehood, quickly reawakens those cries, though.
> And when you drop her back down, impaling her on your member down to the hilt, she howls - a ragged, angry sound that makes you doubly thankful you still had an arm holding her mouth full of your sleeve.
> With measured movements you begin to shift her, riding her atop you.
> Each drop produces another squeaking, broken cry from Cinnamon as the depths of her passage are raked by your shaft.
> No doubt she can feel the wetness running down from her sex to stain her tail, hear the lewd slap-slap of your coupling, feel her own body's unwanted reaction to your violation.
> But lifting her in preparation of each thrust, is an effort, and soon you find yourself tiring.
> Not nearly finished yet, you stand.
> Cinnamon heaves another sob as she is lifted not only by your arms, but by the shaft she is mounted on like some lecherous trophy.
> Finding a sofa, you lean her over it from behind - allowing her to scrabble against the soft fabric fruitlessly with her forelegs as you take hold of her haunches.
> From here, closer to a window, there's just enough of a glow from the streetlamps' flames to let you really see her.
> Cheeks are matted with tears, brown ears dropped flat to the sides of her head, and coppered coat gleaming lightly with the sweat brought on by the emotions and stress of what she is experiencing.
> Her tail fans against your belly, twitching with each thrust you drive into her.
> And you are driving hard, brought on by a fierce and heavy need now clouding your mind.
> Your climax is close; slowing to pace yourself, you hiss into Cinnamon's ear.
"You know, I've heard something about Earth mares."
"They're supposed to be very, very fertile. Good, strong hips for bearing good, strong foals."
"This won't really be an experiment... but let's call it an anecdotal test."
> "Mnoooorgh! Noooophh!"
> Realization of what you intend gives Cinnamon one final burst of frantic energy to fight you.
> It's to little use; in fact, with your fierce grip on her hind legs, it only serves to grind her on the shaft that still impales her.
> Restarting your rhythm, it's not long before that need has begun to fill you again - that unique sensation that is your only warning of-
> With a shivering euphoria that ripples through you and a ragged, cracked mewl from Cinnamon you erupt within her - jet after jet of seed filling her passage.
> Recovering your senses, you find she has gone limp:
> Slumped over the back of the sofa, seed dripping from her sex as your shaft softens, her sides rising with her panting the only sign of life.
> That was... remarkable.
> And, right there, you make a decision:
> You're going to need a bigger sack for the loot tonight.
> And maybe a cart.
> Stirring in bed, you shift beneath the covers - wishing for the briefest moment that when you wake that the darkest nightmare in which you have been trapped will be done.
> But, as you swim up towards consciousness, you become aware of your captor's arm wrapped around you, the chains on your forelegs.
> And, to your disgust, the hard stiffness of his shaft pinned between your back and his stomach.
> Unconsciously you flick your tail against his thight, and your captor chuckles.
> "Good morning."
> You wonder sometimes if the greeting is sarcastic.
"M-My name is C-Cinnamon. I am a s-soldier in the Equestrian Royal Guard. My r-rank is-"
> You break off as you shushes you.
> It was a daily regimen, something you started each day with.
> A way to keep yourself sane, reminding yourself that you were a prisoner but also part of something larger.
> The others would look for - and find - you... wouldn't they?
> Interrupting your thoughts is his hand, snaking around beneath the come to rest on your swollen belly.
> You shiver at the personal touch, at the way he strokes the creamy stripe running down your underside.
> The way he dives his nose into your mane, to take a strong whiff of your spicy scent - magnified, you suspected, by the hormones of your pregnancy.
"Good morning, my little broodmare."
> Thoughts and words both send a shiver through your body.
> Chains clink softly at the small movement.
> The cuffs with which you were shackled bore, to your unending shame, the sigil of the Equestrian Royal Guard - the very cuffs that searching for had doomed you that first night.
> "Do you know what day it is today, my little broodmare?"
> One hand rises to play with a browned ear, rubbing the velveteen fuzz between finger and thumb.
> As if that could comfort you.
> "This is eighteen weeks now, Copper."
> Copper - another pet name he'd invented for you, a play on 'cop' and the color of your coat.
> You found it a more palatable alternative to some other epithets he had.
> At least it didn't remind you of the foal swelling your belly.
"S-Should I go start making breakfast for you, sir...?"
> "Oh, eventually you will."
> His tone of voice drives another shudder through you.
> That way of talking always promises one thing...
> "But first - first, I feel like some morning relief. What about you, Cinnamon?"
> Hot, fresh tears streaking your cheeks but knowing better than to challenge him, you twist around - rolling onto your back, chains clinking as your legs spread as best you can, exposing your teats and heavy belly.
> Laughing, he rolls on top of you - pinning you to the bed, trapping you beneath his hot, stifling, choking presence.
> He liked to take you this way, knowing you were too much of a coward to kick up with any of the four hooves pressing against him.
> Stupid rookie, going in alone.
> Stupid bravery, convincing you to try to stop him.
> Stupid Cinnamon, trying to be a Royal Guard.
> Because you weren't a Royal Guard - not anymore, anyhow.
> Now, you were just his broodmare.
> And as he enters you yet again, a small gasp of mixed indignity and unwanted pleasure escaping your throat, you can only cry silent tears for what you have become.