Chapter 15
Laying on the floor, Crop Duster was as pretty as a picture. She lay on her stomach with her hind legs kicked out behind her and covered by her tail. Her front legs were in front of her with one crossed over the other, and beside them was a teacup. Eyes closed, she sat very still and seemed to not even be breathing. Her wings were half-unfurled and protruded from her sides so that a cooling bit of air could flow over her ribs.
Furious found himself smitten with her and he drank his black coffee in silence. Whatever qualms he had about gazing too long or to hard were gone and he looked over everything. At the moment, the way her eyelashes overlapped was fascinating to the point of distraction and his one eye stared almost unblinking. A few minutes before he had stared at the curve of her back, the little dip that dropped down between her withers and her croup. With her legs kicked out behind her, her round, generous plot caused a magnificent curve to manifest from her croup, and her dock was buried, impossible to see beneath the mass of curls that was her tail. At some point, he was going to stick his nose into there and find it, come Tartarus or high water.
Olive drab green was a good colour on a mare, Furious decided, and he had never given much thought to this before. There was a certain greyness to it, almost like sagebrush, and for Furious, the colours of both the desert as well as the prairie were attractive indeed. He took a sip of coffee, swished it around his mouth, and decided that whatever effects the tequila had were now gone. He wasn’t even hungover and seemed to be suffering no ill effects whatsoever, save perhaps the guilt and shame of what he had done in the reflecting pool.
The tea and the coffee had been brought in on a small rolling cart that was also loaded down with food; no doubt it was tonight’s dinner. A collection of little sandwiches cut into triangles, tiny cakes, some custard, and other delectable delights. There was even some leftover wedding cake and Furious kept thinking about getting some so that he could satisfy his sweet tooth.
Furious’ wandering eye now watched every minute twitch of Crop Duster’s ears, and he had fancy, hifalutin thoughts about her colour. She would be at home in the sand, or scrub grass of the prairie, or the in the lush green grass of more temperate climes. Or even sprawled on a hardwood floor, she looked amazing. Her ears were difficult to see, buried as they were beneath a mountain of springy curls as green as a honeydew melon. She moved, and it made his heart go pounding in a weird way, a nice way, a pleasant way.
She lowered her head and her eyes opened into paper thin slits so she could see. A flash of orange appeared from between her fuzzy, olive green lips, an orange made all the more vibrant by the drab contrast of green, and she began lapping up some tea. Something about the motion that her tongue made and the sound… the sound, it inflamed Furious’ senses and made parts of him ache with need. The build up was dreadful, but he didn’t want this feeling to end.
The scent of tea now had a curious sexual element to it, and would have forevermore.
Sitting on a cushion, Furious had himself a sip of coffee, thought about eating a piece of cake, and focused his grizzled stare on the place were Crop Duster’s wings connected to her body. She had thick muscles there and something in the back of Furious mind told him that some stallions would be repulsed by those muscles, they might even feel threatened by them, but he himself found them worthy of staring at. She was a creature of marvellous musculature and he reckoned that flying with those spray tanks kept her in peak physical condition. Already, she had marehandled him once and her strength—even in her current hungover condition—was a bit scary, but it suited him fine.
The lapping came to an end and Furious felt a pang of sadness, wishing that the sweet, sexual sound would return. The sun’s final rays streamed through the windows, diffused and scattered by pale, pastel pink lace curtains that he had pulled shut to protect his bride’s eyes. His ears strained, quivering, pivoting, longing to hear that sound, needing to hear that sound, and he was saddened when silence filled the room.
She lifted her head, yawned, stuck her tongue out, and Furious found himself peering into her mouth. Then, her maw closed, she licked her lips, and her tongue slipped back inside. Furious was sad to see it go and he had high hopes for its return. The teacup beside Crop Duster was now empty, or almost empty, he couldn’t tell and couldn’t see that far down inside.
Without a word, Crop Duster folded up one of her wings tight against her side, rolled over away from her teacup, and then flopped over onto her back, which caused her legs to splay out in all directions. With a rustle of feathers, she spread her wings, both of them, and Furious could hear tendons creaking as she stretched. Kicking out one hind leg, she farted, a whooshing, flapping sound, and then she let out a petite grunt while she wiggled her hindquarters to shake the last bit of the gas out.
Furious now had more to look at, a whole lot more, and so look he did.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” Crop Duster whispered.
“There’s a lot to look at.” This earned him a husky chuckle that made his ears prick.
“When I get to feeling better and my head isn’t splitting, I think I might try to kiss you.”
“Well then,” Furious replied in a low, soft-spoken voice, “here’s to yer swift and speedy recovery.”
“I feel too warm to lie in the bed.” Her words were little more than a murmur and they were difficult to hear. “Lying on the floor is kind of uncomfortable, but at least it is cool. I think the nausea has passed me by. The tea helped.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Furious finished off his cup of coffee, set down his mug on the wheeled cart with his wing, and then wiped his muzzle with his foreleg. He heard a faint squeal that rose to a high pitch, then fell to a deep, dangerous rumble, and then ended with a fizzling hiss. This one made his eye water and his vision blurred as he strained to see through tears.
“When you finally have your dirty way with me”—Crop Duster almost began to giggle and her barrel hitched a bit—“it is going to be like ravishing a whoopie cushion. I can just imagine it now… you’ll go to push in and that will cause something else to go squishing out. Think you can handle it?”
“You like that word ‘ravishing,’ don’t ya?” His eye still watering, Furious let out a scratchy chuckle.
“I do, Mister Mustache, I do.” Her body shifted on the floor and she kicked her hind legs wide open, no doubt casting all thoughts of modesty aside. “I think it came into my life during my most formative years, so it will probably stay with me and continue to be a part of my fantasies.” A cavernous sigh escaped from the pegasus mare on the floor and her forelegs flopped around a bit because she didn’t know what to do with them.
“I’ve read it written in so many ways… after pinning her to the bed, he usually laughs about her feeble efforts to resist him and he whispers reassuringly that he knows what is best for her, that he knows what she really wants, what she really needs.” For a moment, Crop Duster’s teeth clenched together and she let out a hiss. Her voice was almost raspy when she began to speak once more: “Then, sometimes, he bites her on the neck, or sometimes not, and she resists him, but he’s stronger. He’s got her pinned and his weight is crushing her… but then he sort of gets up off of her and for a moment, she has hope, but it is false hope. He’s not getting off of her, no… he rolls her over onto her belly…”
Furious blinked and realised his mouth was dry.
“And then he’s crushing her again, pressing her tear-stained face down into the pillow, and then with a savage bite to her neck, or an ear, he takes her from behind and then there is some kind of meaningful description about all of the pain and the pleasure that she’s feeling, and she doesn’t want it to keep happening but she also doesn’t want it to stop. At first, she’s crying, and whimpering, and begging with him to stop, but he doesn’t. No, just doesn’t. He just keeps going, plowing her backside, and there is all kinds of writing fluff that happens to describe his efforts. When he’s huffing and puffing like a locomotive, that usually gets me to where I want to go. I like the steam train analogies, the huffing, the puffing, the chugging, and the going into the dark tunnel at full steam.”
Squirming, Furious shifted in his seat and tried to think of pleasant, not-sexual thoughts.
“About halfway through, she starts moaning and groaning and begging him not to stop and she’s pushed past the pain and she’s being rewarded and it is the most greatest, most wonderfulest feeling ever…” There was something almost foalish about the way Crop Duster said this, but she never finished her sentence and she lay on the floor panting and heaving.
After a moment of heavy breathing, she made a gurgling, drawn out ‘urp’ sound, swallowed, groaned, and then mumbled out the words, “Arousal and sudden nausea are not a good mix, Mister Mustache.”
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Furious wiped his brow and felt sweaty all over. He had competition, and this filled him with a powerful sense of worry. Yes, he had fierce competition in the form of lovers that never existed, pretend paramours that were powerful puffing sexual locomotives that knew how to do all of the right things. Aggressive, assertive inserters that destroyed a mare’s willpower with a few well-practiced thrusts. Fear, real fear shook him and he began to worry that with Crop Duster’s powerful imagination, her memories of fictional happenings in books would be better than anything he could muster. The more he thought about it, the more insecure he began to feel, and alas… the poor stallion had no way of knowing if he could compete with the perfect, powerful imaginary inamoratos that existed only within the realms of make-believe.
While Furious suffered in silence, (something dustpunchers were prone to do) Crop Duster waggled her forelegs about, perhaps stretching them to restore feeling after having one crossed over the other for a time. Without realising it, she lay in a most inviting position, with her hind legs spread, her forelegs waving, and her chest scruffle was so floofed out that it almost begged for a head to come to rest upon it.
And so happened their first imperfect moment: Furious was lost in his own thoughts, blinded by his own insecurities, and because of this, he failed to notice his wife’s innocent display of sexuality, which some might call the most sexual form of sexuality, where the creature being sexual has no idea just how sexy they are. It was like a cake lavishly slathered with too much sinfully delicious frosting, the rich, heavy, sumptuous, scrumptious buttercream frosting, and the pleasure one had eating it before the knowledge of calories, fat, and sugar content.
It was in that moment, while stretching, that Crop Duster suffered something so terrible that it could only be described with science: it wasn’t an action so much as it was an event. Mid-stretch, a bilabial fricative exploded into existence. Which is to say that turbulent airflow forced its way through a narrow opening and produced a string of consonant sounds only understood by molluscoids, abominations spawned by eldritch beings, and the Great Old Ones themselves.
Furious shot up off of the couch, smashed his head into the ceiling, and then crashed down onto the wheeled cart. Crop Duster shouted in alarm but her bilabial fricative would not be interrupted and it continued its blasphemous communication with the unspeakable, unseeable, unknowable eldritch entities that hid within the shadows of stars. Where Furious had struck the ceiling, the wood was cracked and had a vivid crimson smear, the white ceiling looking very much like a newly wedded couple’s sheets would the following morning after.
The cart, designed to hold food and beverages, was smashed beneath Furious’ impact. Things broke, shattered into sharp edges, and through it all, the eldritch droning of Crop Duster’s bilabial fricative continued to exist in spite of its unwelcomed, unwanted presence in this universe. Deep within its vibrating, reverberating bassline, something that was almost like a sentence could be heard, but not by mortal beings.
Koyaanisqatsi… Powaqqatsi...Naqoyqatsi…
Scrambling to her hooves, Crop Duster hurried to her husband’s side to see if he was okay.
This chapter almost didn't make it out today. 
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ooo First,
I do love this story and the about everyday uploads. Thank you for such a good read.
Ohhh hitting your head in the ceiling SUCKS! Even when you don't break skin. Poor stallions looking at some stitches in his honeymoon.
Poor Furious just can't catch a break, can he?
'Cept for his head, I mean.
Me thinks that a eldritch twister has just been summoned. And the only dustpuncher in the immediate vicinity just had his lights knocked out. Time to run, fillies!
What madness lies in those depths.
This is a plot point.
I am excited!
I honestly wasn't expecting this story to go more than four or five chapters based on early concept description. Pleasantly surprised it is now at chapter 15. I wouldn't mind another 15.....or 50 chapters.
8378680
Almost done, sadly.
He got back the other one? That must be some powerul fart.
Hmm How much diffused is that kind of literature? and how much is common or young mares to get in that kind of thinking?
Probably something Cadance should address... that are DEFINITELY not healthy way of starting relationship.
8378792
Trashy sex stories are one of the most basic forms of literature. There is no stopping such books from circulating short of an inquisition and that only slows their circulation. As long as there are people of sexual age (or ponies in this case) there will be an audience and writers.
8378882
Well yes... but it works inside a certain mentality. That is NOT strictly healthy. That said the same kind of romance/sex stories can be QUITE more positively written. The typical trashy romance, an example is the whole Twilight [the vampires, not the pony] series, keep perpetuating a real bad attitude on the female side. This then leads to lots of couple trouble down the line. As such it is somewhat in the purvey of Cadance to address that. How she may do that is a more complex question.
I was talking to someone and only half reading and I got confused at the end there and had to reread the last few paragraphs because I thought she queefed her hymen out.
Everytime I see a new chapter of this, I hold my breath, afraid that it's the last one.
8378979
i dont know why but this is the funniest thing i have heard all day
Well this is coming to a head
.......butt!
8378885
That's creative censorship, essentially. If people want to write and get off to domineering textual porn, even rape fantasies, that's up to them. Doctoring it so it's 'positive' is assuming that these adults can't moderate their own concept of reality and fiction, in which case they shouldn't be getting married at all, but if they are it's likely to someone who won't take any shit and will put their head on straight for them.
Essentially, 'to each their own'. There is no right or wrong with fiction. It is just fantasy. Knowing the difference is both sane and mature. Both in the consumption, and the attempts to censure.
8379261
Yes, but... alas, poor Crop Duster, whose head isn't screwed on quite right.
The chapter may almost have not, but I'm more worried about Furious making it past the honeymoon without lasting harm.
8379262
Crop is not a good example for what I was talking about, this is wholly true. Her lack of intimacy and basic equine affections has skewed her views on that line, because it... I assume... is the closest thing she's had.
If Furious is a minor celebrity, and Crop's family runs a distillery, they should bring out a new line in his name: Furious Funnel's 150 proof All-Purpose Whiskey. "If you need to de-grease a part, clean a wound, or just unwind after a long day, just grab a bottle of Furious."
8379439
That isn't what her parents do.
Sigh. Nobody ever pays attention to all of the little details I put in.
"Or even sprawled on a hardwood, floor, she looked amazing."
Extra comma after hardwood.
"Her ears were difficult too see,"
To*
8379441
I try to keep track of most of your small details! I remembered that her family KNEW ponies who ran a distillery, but who themselves were more about Crops. The Father was able to read how much crop yield the farmers could expect to make, while her mother was able to give HIGHLY accurate estimations upon how much profit there would be to make. Which creates a VERY powerful and valuable service to farmers, because they get multiple accurate readings to tell them how much they need to prepare to harvest ahead of time, along with how much profit they can expect to make. A very powerful combination of talents her parents.
i am drinking tea right now you jerk
anyway you’re probably my favorite author on this site so keep up the good work