Spending the Night at Fluttershy's
Admiral Biscuit
5-11-14
“Would . . . would you like to come home with me?”
Your whole body clenches up. For a moment, you think that you might be having a heart attack, or a stroke. Maybe both together, if that's even possible.
You look dumbly at the demure yellow pegasus seated across the table from you. Already, she's beginning to retreat behind her gorgeous pink bangs, no doubt kicking herself for going too far.
You try to reply, but you can't seem to form words. Your brain has bluescreened; you might even be drooling. But she's waiting for a response . . . you finally manage to force your head to bob up and down, then squeak out “Yes.”
Her whole face lights up, and you find yourself struggling to catch a breath as she flashes her cutest diabetes-inducing smile at you.
You hastily pay for dinner, briefly considering the benefits of simply leaving your entire bag of bits on the table so you don't have to fumble with counting it out. How ponies can manage to do this with hooves is beyond you. You're pretty sure even Winona is better at sorting Equestrian coinage.
“Lead the way, m'lady,” you say, holding the restaurant door open for her. She nods resolutely and steps out into the street with you walking just off to her side. Your right hand is swinging so close to her back, and before you can consider the appropriateness of your action, you rest it lightly at the nape of her neck, between her shoulder blades or whatever those are called on a pony. She tenses, but doesn't ask you to move your hand.
Getting to Equestria was a dream come true. Yes, there were some hard adjustments to be made. All the technology you'd come to depend on now was no longer part of your life. You still have your iPhone, but unless you can find a charging cord and an outlet, it is a useless brick. As much as it pains you to admit, you'd cried when it powered down for the last time. The only reason you're holding on to it at all is as a reminder of what once was.
None of that stuff matters, though. No use dwelling on the past.
You'd been pleased to find that the ponies were just as friendly and welcoming as they were on the show, and you were able to find gainful employment doing all sorts of things with your hands that ponies couldn't easily do. Turns out, that wasn't much, but it was enough to keep a roof over your head. Literally over—you live in Berry Punch's attic while you save up your bits for a place of your own.
Fluttershy brushes a wing against your thigh affectionately. You look up to see that you're crossing the little bridge that leads to her cottage.
Fluttershy won't be the first; that honor went to Berry Punch—a wild, alcohol-fueled night ended in some interesting experimentation. By mutual agreement, both of you vowed never to speak of it again, but it had resulted in you asking Twilight about interspecies relationships.
She said, quite simply, that nopony cared what two creatures did in the privacy of their own homes, and offered Spike and Rarity as an example.
“What about physical intimacy?” you'd hesitantly asked.
“Sex?” She grinned at your embarrassed blush. “Love will find a way—it always does.”
As far as you were concerned, that was an invitation to pursue Best Pony: Fluttershy. It had been slow going at first, but it turned out that her natural timidness was countered by her curiosity about you. You should have expected that; didn't she obsess over Spike when he first came to Ponyville?
Fluttershy pushes open the door of her cottage and shows you inside. Unsurprisingly, it looks exactly the same as it does in the show. What the show failed to convey about her cottage was the odor. It stands to reason; you see dozens of birdhouses, bolt-holes for mice, food dishes, litter boxes . . . in short, it looks and smells very much like the back room at PetSmart.
You can deal with a little smell, though. You're with the mare of your dreams, and if you have to breathe through your mouth, it's still worth it. You sink into her couch, and once she closes the door, she goes to a cupboard and takes out a large bottle of red wine.
The evening passes in a blur as the two of you sit side by side. It begins with drinking and talking, slowly segueing into drinking and petting, and then kissing and fondling. While it's not quite clear what pony second base is, you're fairly certain you've gotten there. Fluttershy is sitting on your lap, and it's pretty obvious what she wants. Good thing it's the same thing you want.
You hope the ritual here is the same as on Earth. You fake a yawn. “Boy, I sure am tired. I should—“
She looks up at you with her big teal eyes. “You're in no condition to go home, mister. But, um, you can stay here. If that's okay with you.”
Of course it's okay. It's better than okay. It's fantastic. “I don't want to be a bother,” you lie.
“Oh, um, it's no trouble.” She winks coyly. “Just up the stairs—you can't miss the bed. I have to bank the fire, and then I'll come up.”
You float up the stairs on a cloud. This is your every fantasy about to come true. You're sure that neither you nor Fluttershy are going to get any sleep.
Too many of the fans figured she'd be shy about sex, you think as you pull off your shirt. But she takes care of animals, and all that animals do is eat, sleep, poop, and fuck. She's got to know all about it. You kick off your shoes and socks, then gingerly slide your pants past your raging enthusiasm.
You hesitate by the bed for a moment, listening to her happily humming downstairs. Back on earth, you'd leave your boxers on, but here . . . even if you somehow totally misunderstand Fluttershy's intentions, she'll believe you normally sleep nude. Everypony here does.
The boxers join the pile of clothes on the floor, and you sit on the bed just as you hear her hooves on the stairs. You pull the covers back, debating how much of yourself you want to obscure, but decades of modesty intervene, and you scoot into bed and under the blankets just as Fluttershy enters the room, a blissful expression on her face.
You're so distracted by her that you don't notice as your feet hit an unexpected obstacle in the bed. She turns away from you to extinguish the lamp, and your eyes are drawn to the perfect curves of her rump and the light pink of her is there something crawling on your leg?
You try to get your mind back in the game, but there is undoubtedly, unmistakably something scaly slithering across your foot and up your leg. Your formerly proud tumescence shrivels and wilts as your brain processes that there are snakes, snakes, snakes in the bed and they're all over you, and you're bolting out of bed and frantically trying to brush them off all while shrieking like a little girl.
“They were cold,” Fluttershy says defensively. “And they hardly take up any space . . . I didn't think you'd mind. . . .”
And that's how you didn't have sex with Fluttershy.