The Loving Spoonful
The pointed click of her tiny hooves over the marble tile cuts through your attention. You have been standing stone-stiff here for the better part of an hour, a sentinel in an apron watching over the breakfast table. Her hoof comes up from under her robe to adjust her thick-rimmed spectacles, balancing them over her swelling grey muzzle as she snubs the porcelain bowl.
"Oatmeal. Are you crazy?"
You know better than to respond; worse to look into her disapproving lavender eyes. Regardless, it's difficult not to let your gaze follow the young pony's pacing; the brushed steel and dark platinum of her coat and mane give her a natural sheen of light even in the unglamorous hours of the morning. She is like a walking light among the shadows of mediocrity, and it pains you to realize that this young filly who barely reaches your shoulder is weightlessly jabbing your chest in accusation.
"I demand comforting. Bring me comfort food." Whatever your lady wants, your lady gets; even if it is against her parents' wishes, you can only hope that any potential improvements in her mood will soften the blow on your paycheck. You are quick to break open the pantry and fetch a red box of her favorite Pony Charms cereal.
Months of practice let you intuit the setup without any further instruction: a rose-painted earthenware bowl inlaid with slivers of crystal; a jeweled silver spoon not unlike the cutie mark on her young flank; the pattern of layering sugar-frosted marshmallow with milk and mixing it so as not to let the bottom become unpleasantly soggy. Through these precious seconds of preparation, you steal glances at her, checking on her disposition. Small as she is, she is still possessed of a youthful roundness that comes out when she sits on her pillow, curling her silky tail around her bottom to hide the curve of indulgence.
It is an indulgence you gladly feed as you quickly clear off her table and replace the oatmeal with the cool milk and sweet cereal, a corner of the napkin tucked under the bowl within a smidgemeter of her preferences. You return to your post, letting her drink up the new setting. She says nothing, save for a telling smile and a tilt of her snout to indicate that she awaits your services.
Eating with a spoon is a fairly complex affair for anypony, given the manipulation of such objects escapes the poor grasp hooves provide. Your lady is an earth pony, possessed of no magical horn to channel telekinetic energy to guide the silver utensil herself; even if she did have such privilege, you would most likely still be here, as such a menial and manual task would be beneath a lady of her standing. You don't hold the spoon in your own mouth so much as gently angle it between your teeth, a slight cantilever requiring minimal contact with your lips as you scoop up the breakfast confection.
She opens her mouth as if to swallow you, wide and expectant. You can smell her breath, cleaned and rinsed with floral mints and powders, leaving pristine pearls that have rarely so much as smirked at you. Your own lungs lock up, taking in her scent as you approach with the spoonful, careful not to exhale your excited vulgarity so close to her face. The hair around your nose bristles, imagining the velvety touch of her skin.
Her lips suddenly lock down about your extended proffering, the sudden jilt in the utensil pulling you forward. You can see into the watery depths of her eyes, rich violet periwinkle gleaming under the skylight. Slight pressure tickles your insides as you feel her tongue work over every edge of it, her attention consumed by the sweet gift you pour into her mouth. One second lasts forever before she pulls away.
You watch helplessly as she struggles to swallow the sugary payload; she slowly tilts backward and downs it with a slight measure of difficulty. When she looks back to you with a wrinkle of displeasure, a bead of milk trails back from her scowling lips.
"Too deep."
You nod your head gently and set the spoon aside, exchanging it for the napkin. She cranes again as you press the terrycloth to her face, sweeping up stray bits of milk and sugar. As you explore the groove of her chin, down to her throat latch, you close your eyes as you imagine the proxy sin of the napkin's cherubim kisses.
The procedure repeats itself in a gentle rhythm: spoon, napkin, spoon, napkin. You enter her over and over, pausing to allow yourself to breath and wick away the mess of your engagement. It is a slow, exquisite torture, your neck and jaw burning with endurance as you are careful not to mar her perfection in the midst of this prandial ecstasy.
The hollow click of the spoon against the bottom of the bowl is a mournful toll, at which she will turn to leave after one last press of the napkin. You let it linger there, sure to soak up anything left of the ordeal. The butler calls for her, "Miss Silver Spoon, you'll be late for school!"
And then she is gone.
These are the contents of your mornings: the young lady invites you to this wordless dance, relying on you and you alone to press into a most private place of herself, leaving sugary droplets and marshmallow ministrations across her teeth and neck. Your relationship is a simple one: she comes, she eats, she leaves, and you are forever separated by that silver mile across which you can feel the coolness of her breath, smell the clean texture of her coat, and taste the virgin contours of her body. When it is all over you are left with soggy white lumps at the bottom of a bowl, and one spin cycle later all evidence of your encounter has been washed clean away, waiting to renew the memory the next sunrise.
You wonder if she will have soup tonight.