Fall of Equestria: FoE Falls

by Sealcake


The Perverse Personal Fantasies of a Pretty Princess

When it happened, nobody but Dainn noticed it.

Sure, some of his runemasters felt something slightly different, but most, if not all, shrugged it off.

It might have been the stress of commanding an entire army, but the King couldn't shake off the sensation that something was wrong. When he had checked on his men's mares—specially the former unicorns—he had noticed that they seemed nervous; one second, they would be fine, helping the cows or pleasing the stags, but the next, they would be either shivering or staring off into space.
One case in particular unnerved him; a female unicorn whose talent was in the area of magic. The mare, who had been one of the first purples of Lindisbarne, had refused to act as the lap dog she used to be, instead murmuring things about how the place didn't like her.
Then, as his army moved closer to Canterlot and the plans were to come into action, the mare suddenly came back to normal.

He had been relieved, of course, but then something happened to blacks and grays alike; they didn't fight with much force as before, they spent less time being reluctant if someone threatened them, and when in act, they seemed to be enjoying it. Even Ivangir's slaves were affected.
The King knew that he ought to be pleased. After all, the mares were behaving as dictated by his kind. But he simply couldn't, something in the air, in the dirt, even in the sky, seemed different.
The ground under his hooves felt dirtier, dry yet wet. The air, which had previously smelled like fresh flowers, expensive perfumes and recently baked sweets, now gave him the sensation of being in a bar. He could almost taste the strong cider, or see a mare performing in the tube.

King Dainn inhaled, the scent of heat and lust coming to his nostrils, wrapping itself around his mind, tempting him with its mockery air.

For some reason, it all seemed like a warning; that something was wrong, that they should retreat and go back to their barren lands.
The King didn't listen, puffing out his chest in preparation for the invasion, coming with new ideas for his soon-to-be reign. He was no coward, and he wouldn't cry wolf because of pesky hallucinations.

The moment he put hooves on the city, a small part of him instantly regretted his decision.


King Dainn had to accept that he was a little disappointed. As his hammer was stopped, again, by the flaming sword of the Princess, his eyes took her appearance in.
Instead of the ethereal, bright hair with the colors of dawn, there was a cascade of curly, pink hair. While it had a certain elegance to it, the combination of different shades of pink wasn't as interesting as the descriptions the red-collared mares used to tell of their Princess.

In fact, almost everything that the Princess was supposed to be by his collected data was wrong.
She had a white coat, groomed and taken care of, every little hair clean. But somehow, it seemed dirty, like the excessive cleaning had been done to hide something.
Her body, specially her legs up to the firm, big rear, were toned to the point that Dainn thought that, were the Princess to kick him, she would easily win the battle. It was nothing like the soft, baby fat he had been expecting of someone on the Royal family, know for doing nothing but sit and command.

Adding her earth pony strenght, the King was having a tough battle. Every one of his attacks was either evaded, stopped, or deflected with minimum effort. Her wings, purposefully opened to their full span, distracted him. She could fly away at any moment, gain distance and then attack, and yet she remained on the platform.
At a certain part, the Princess had the nerve to hid her arm behind her back, fighting with one hand.
She wasn't even trying.

However, when another of his attacks got him face-to-face with the Princess, King Dainn's nose was hit with the very familiar scent of arousal. The Princess smelled, no, oozed it.
It was stupid, he knew, but the smell told him otherwise. Feeling an increasing warmth in his insides, he spared a confused glance to the Princess' face.
She was grinding her pearl white teeth, brows scrunched up in focus. The Princess noticed the King's gaze, then, and let out a low moan.

As if she had suddenly been drained from all energy, her arms gave out and her sword was struck to the side by his hammer, the metal clattering on the platform loud enough for all to hear.
Following the sword, Princess Celestia fell to her knees, panting heavily.

With a quick snap of his fingers, a black collar and a nullyfying ring appeared around Celestia's neck and horn.
King Dainn had won.


Everything was unsettling; the way the ponies reacted, the way the Princess reacted.

The whole invasion, but more importantly, his own victory over the Princess had put a weight, an uncomfortable pressure on his shoulders. The stress was eating him inside out, like a thousand tiny bugs were crawling under his flesh, nibbing at every juicy piece of meat.
His instincts didn't help.

King Dainn knew that he was right. Something basic, something fundamental was missing. Or worse, twisted.
He had won, that was clear. He had done his speech, yanked the dog's chain, whatever. Celestia had shown pain when her horn had been cut, when every feather had been removed from her wings. But the moment none were looking at her except for him, he caught them—expressions of utmost pleasure, as if the Princess was enjoying this more than anyone, more than him.
It puzzled him. He had watched her intensely, had taken in consideration every reaction when they had put her through the humiliation process. Her nipples had hardened, but that could be easily related to her nakedness. She had wantonly moaned throughout the parade, but again, the toy in her rear could be the reason.

Maybe Celestia was broken all along, and the invasion, along with the subtle corruption magic, had simply brought that monster to the surface. But that didn't explain the attitude of her subjects—who the King knew should be faithful until their very deaths—who had merely shrugged or accepted the new order without as much as struggle. Some even accepted them with open arms, without any prodding from his part.
He would be ashamed to admit that, when Twilight Sparkle had surrendered, his mind had commanded to pinch himself to wake up.

Because King Dainn knew the Crystal Cock hadn't worked. There was no corruption, no perverse thoughts he could forcefully pour into a mind if they were already there.
Yes, the Crystal Cock had sent its magical waves all over the public, but when he looked at them, mare or stallion, they seemed more like they were playing along, like this was a fun, healthy game they adored and did every morning.

King Dainn wouldn't—couldn't tell anyone. His warriors would laugh at best, or dispose of him at worst.
He could still feel Discord's magic protecting him, but everything felt so wrong and twisted and dark and arousing and—

Celestia moaned, a long, enticing groan of pleasure that brought him back to reality. One of the guards hissing in tandem as he finished having his way with her.

It was at that moment that King Dainn noticed; every one of the guards upon the platform was tired, their members twitching like sad sponges of the sea near death.
That could only meant one thing. It was the King's turn to have... fun.


Every glance with half-lidden eyes, every sound that tore free from Celestia's throat was of pure ectasy and want, of a mare who fully submitted to her Master and was ready to fulfill every one of his whims.
Yet Dainn didn't hear the pleasure, he heard the ugly, hidden truth; the predatory tone underneath every whimper, the hungry wolf trying to pass as the innocent sheep.

When he thrusted inside her, he didn't feel powerful. He felt used, like Celestia was the one in charge, like she was the one coming onto him. The King's mind mocked him, suggesting that, were he to stop, Celestia would take advantage of the situation.
But that was ridiculous, the idea was stupid in itself. He had checked, double-checked and even triple-checked, just to be sure, that Discord's boon was still in place, protecting him from any spells, specially Celestia's.

King Dainn grunted, he felt tired, weak. The act of having sex was draining him, and he hadn't even finished.
Every time he pushed, he felt like someone else was taking charge. Like his mind wasn't there, in his body; like he was outside, watching the scene as part of a public consisting of only one person—him, and him alone.

Celestia spoke words of submission, her grunts and moan emphasizing her statements as she was fucked. The way she moved, though, indicated the contrary.
She was always one step ahead. Already begging for mercy before receiving a smack, already begging for more just before a guard finished. And she was doing it to him, following his orders before he could utter them, changing position before he got an idea of what he wanted.
It was maddening. All of it; how quickly she went from black to red, how the city reacted, how used he felt.

Celestia was mocking him, he knew it. Fully submitting and yet fully rebelling against him and his ideals. He was nothing but a plaything now, a toy for her to use and then throw away.
She screamed sweet nothings, but he knew the truth. She was toying with him, giving him reassuring words that held no value, calling him empty titles. Every word that came from her mouth was nothing but a stab to his views, and the following grunt just another twist to the knife.

King Dainn might have been the one in control for any outside viewer, but deep down, he was the one being used. His movements controlled by his supposed slave, his actions used to fulfill one perverted mare's personal fantasy, all indicated one conclusion that he didn't want to acknowledge.

He was the pet.

One simple, dirty pet whose task was to please until its owner grew bored of it.

When the Princess was done with him, and he stepped—or rather, stumbled—back to give way to another guard, he felt old. Really old and really tired. All energy within him had been drained, all of it spent on riding the white beast.
Discord's gift was still there, protecting him. Yet he felt weak. As if some lecherous bug had sucked him dry; magically, mentally and physically. Emotionally, even.

He felt ice in his stomach, but his heart was beating so fast it might as well burst through his ribcage. His member felt hot, as if it were going to boil at any moment.
For some reason, he felt ashamed, judged, like he shouldn't have done this, like he could have protected himself from this silly idea, like he could have stopped. But all of those lead to the idea that he was the one that should have protected himself.
He felt used.
He felt raped.

King Dainn found it hard to breathe, his muscles and joints aching as he made his way to the improvised throne on the platform. When he sat, black spots danced on the corners of his eyes and he could feel an evergrowing headache in the back of his mind.

When he gazed upon his new reign, he had to force himself to swallow his regret.