A Sleeping Rose
Two
Admiral Biscuit
Almost of their own volition, my fingers moved on her coat. Even as the memories were coming back, it felt like primal instincts were taking over, and I scootched closer to her. Her fur was so unbelievably soft; she didn't feel anything like a real horse. Or maybe that's what a real horse felt like when it was thoroughly washed, shampooed, and conditioned. Maybe I'd never petted the right horse.
She shifted around, giving what I can only imagine was a pleasurable sigh. Still keeping up the gentle movement of my right hand on her barrel, I thought about my lot in life.
I hadn't asked to come to Equestria; it had just happened. I didn't know how, and in the grand scheme of things it didn't really matter, anyway. Might as well search for meaning in a car accident or cancer—sure, there were dozens of things that one might have done differently, but when it really came down to it, it was a totally random act, the culmination of a string of events that could stretch back days, weeks, or even years. And it could make a person insane just thinking about it. I am not ashamed to admit that my first few days in Equestria were spent in what was essentially a rubber room under the watchful eye of Nurse Tenderheart . . . and looking back on it, it's fortunate I rated such good treatment. The ponies would have had every right to assume I was a monster, and locked me in a cage. That they didn't was more a testament to them than to me.
I've always prided myself on being pretty resilient, though. So I eventually adjusted, more or less. We still meet every week, Tenderheart and I. Sometimes I just talk about how my week went, sometimes I complain about how unfair the universe is, and other times I ask her questions about Ponyville and Equestria. It helps.
I don't think I'm crazy, but I suppose I'd be the last one to know. If it's all in my head, my brain's got one heck of an imagination.
I moved my hand up her barrel and let it rest for a moment at a spot on her withers where I was nearly but not quite touching her raspberry mane. I wanted to touch it—but I hesitated. What if I woke her? What if she didn't like it—what if it scared her? I tried to put myself into her shoes, but the best I could come up with was imaging a dog licking my face, and that wasn't an apt comparison.
A dog doesn't know better. But a pony does—and I should, too. If I wanted them to treat me as an equal and not some strange bipedal pet, anyway.
In retrospect, that was obvious. At the moment in question, thought, I was hardly thinking clearly, and I slid my hand into her mane, moving cautiously lest I cause tangles. I followed her hair up to her head, maintaining a very gentle pressure. I paused beside an ear, curious if it was as velvety as it looked, but worried that I might get a similar reaction I had the time I'd rubbed Mimi's ears between my thumb and finger. If you looked just right—or if I'd just taken a bath—you could still see the scar on my hand from his hissing protest.
I instead kept my hand along the perimeter, my palm against her silky mane while my fingers were busy ever so gently touching the soft coat of her face.
Her tail began thumping against my leg—it was a weird feeling. There was a firmness to it, but at the same time unlike a cat or dog, a pony's tail was mostly long hair, and it brushed across the bare flesh of my thigh.
That also served as a reminder that I wasn't wearing anything. I pulled my hand free and rolled on my back—as far as I could go without freeing the arm Rose was covering—and groped around blindly on the floor for my underwear or even better my shorts, but they were not within reach.
I contemplated this new dilemma for a little bit, wondering if maybe I could pull my arm loose and find my clothes without waking her, or if it really mattered. It wasn't like she'd freak out at the sight of my body . . . probably.
Think rationally, I chided myself. Obviously, I took off my clothes last night. I don't remember doing it, but I must have. Probably as a routine part of going to bed. If she didn't flip out then—and the fact that she's asleep on my arm suggests that she didn't—she's hardly likely to be surprised at the lack of clothing now.
Just the same, I rolled back on my side, to where I was spooning Rose again. She let out a gentle sigh as my hand returned to her side, this time moving towards her tail. I rested my hand on the juncture of her barrel and hip. It felt so foreign—there was no human anatomy that was even close—yet it seemed right somehow. Comforting.
I could feel the strong muscles of her hindquarters under my hand, and there was a slight twitch each time her tail moved. She was still sleeping, and I didn't want to disturb her rest any more than I already had.
Instead, I listened to the sounds of the town slowly coming to life. The bedroom window was cracked open, and I could hear occasional voices on the street below, as well as the creaking and clanking of a wagon being pulled to market. Smells of cooking food occasionally wafted through the window, accompanied by the scent of rain-washed earth.
I moved my arm up and wrapped it around her barrel, just behind her forelegs, and pulled her into a tight embrace. I had to shift my head around—her mane was tickling my nose—but I eventually found a position that was comfortable for me, and closed my eyes again, shutting the rest of the world out, save her soft sleeping sounds and alluring scent.
• • •
I don't know if I drifted off to sleep again or not, because time had lost all its significance to me. We were two intertwined bodies frozen in a moment which could go on forever. But such moments don't last—they can't—and they're all the sweeter for it. The sunlight in the room got brighter, my left arm reminded me again that it was completely numb because there was a pony lying on it, and my bladder began to complain that it would want some attention soon.
On top of that, Rose was moving around more, and while I'm not particularly ticklish, her short coat gently brushed against my bare skin every time she moved. Just the same, I tried to stay still, to stretch the moment out just a little bit longer.
She snorted and yawned, arching her back and pressing harder against me. Mid-stretch, she suddenly stopped. I could feel taut muscles trembling under her coat as she angled her head downward, looking to see what was wrapped around her chest that wasn't a blanket or a pony leg. Just as quickly as it had come, it passed, and she relaxed again under my arm.
“Good morning, Sam,” she said softly.
I waited for a moment too long without replying. I'd expected her to add 'what time is it?' but of course she didn't. Their lives were not as ruled by the clock as human lives.
“Sam?”
She rolled onto her belly, so she could turn and look at me. Her green eyes locked on mine for a moment, and I gave her a sleepy smile. “Good morning, Rose.” I took the opportunity to pull my poor left arm free and folded it against my chest, wincing as the blood began its painful return to my extremities.
She didn't notice; her eyes had locked on to my bare hip. I resisted the urge to cover myself, but of course it was far too late. Judging by her small gasp of surprise, maybe she hadn't noticed my blank flanks last night.
“So it's true,” she said softly.
“Yeah.” I rolled onto my back, breaking her view of my cutie-markless hip. I'd never figured out why the ponies thought it was weird—Nurse Tenderheart had told me all about the other species of creatures in Equestria, and most of them didn't have cutie marks, so why should they have expected me to have one?
“That's kind of . . . sad,” she said sympathetically, resting her head on my chest. I reached up and brushed a strand of her mane back behind her ear.
“It's a human thing,” I told her. I'd never wished for a tattoo before I came to Equestria, but in retrospect, if I'd had one, it might have made me fit in a little bit better.
“No wonder you keep your flanks covered,” she whispered. I'm not sure she meant for me to hear that, so I didn't say anything.
“How come your coat—“
“Also a human thing.” I could feel the blush on my face as I rapidly re-considered my choice of positions, but then I hadn't expected her to lie down on my chest and examine my body, and there wasn't any way I could cover myself without first pushing her off.
On top of that, I was rapidly coming to the realization that I didn't care.
“Aren't you cold?” Her tail flicked across my thighs.
“A little,” I answered honestly. “But you were keeping me warm.” Without stopping to consider what I was doing, I put my hand in her mane and began gently scratching alongside her ear and down her neck.
Rose purred contentedly. “Your hands feel really nice. I bet you could get a job at the spa or at the mane and tail salon.” She shifted slightly, and rested a forehoof on my stomach, then began tracing it absently around my navel. “I don't know if a mare would trust a stylist without a coat, though.”
Her touch was incredibly soft, especially considering what her hoof was made of. Like so many earth ponies, she didn't wear shoes on her forehooves.
“You don't mind, though, do you?” I finally gave in to temptation and ran my finger gently across her ear. It felt just like a cat's.
She stopped tracing patterns on my stomach and lifted her head off my chest, briefly pushing her leg down to get leverage—something my too-full bladder protested vehemently. “It's weird,” she declared, studying my tanned chest intently. “But a mare could get used to it.”