Equestria Suicide Hotline

by SoHo

The Shed

Back then I had no job. I was told there was none available so I didn’t bother looking for one. When it came to diplômas I wasn’t much decorated either. And in case you’re wondering, it all began at school . The endless complaints. The constant whining. The never-ending laments. Like every other foals, I discovered my “special talent” in a schoolyard. One day, two set of headphones made themselves home on my flanks.

To me, they meant sensory deprivation, the only important sounds being in my head. And only I would ever hear them.
To others, they meant automatically-consented listening. A craving for their voices. The egocentric little bastards.
Still, I wish my flank stamp was more accurate. Maybe I’m the one being wrong after all.

But don’t get me wrong, Mr. Suicide Hotline Pony. It’s not just the stamps. Ponies didn’t mind complaining to me even before I had those. And hiding my flanks didn’t stop them either. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even think there’s a rational explanation, things are just that way.

Anyway, during the classes, everybody fought to be by my side. I was like the perfect friend. Some complained about their family being too big. About being spoiled by their parents and beaten by the other, poorer foals. One was missing the closet he was locked in until he was ten. Suffered from naphthalene withdrawal.

And of course the teachers didn’t spare me either. They immediately saw how much of a good hearing I was, so they kept me after classes and wailed. About the lack of teachers and the shoddy classrooms. The literature teacher wished he had written a book. The maths one wanted to fly kites on a desert beach where wind would always be blowing. Geography wished he was born two hundred years ago when Equestria wasn’t so boring and big wars were still being fought. The biology teacher wanted to dissect live ponies rather than dead squirrels. You had to see her, kissing the small cadaver before telling us how bad ponies were. What a psycho.

And then there was Cheerilee. She taught linguistics and I loved her. I wrote her classes in red in my timetable. Like her colleagues, she always kept me after class. I honestly don’t remember much of her woes (her stallion was cheating on her or something), but I remember very well the way she tasted on my lips.

It first happened on a Friday evening. Friday was the last day of the week and we had linguistics last. She asked me to stay with her for a while and we both sat on a chair in the back of the classroom. Then she started crying and telling me about her private life which was no surprise for me, but she also kept on saying how much of a nice foal I was and then French-kissed me for 20 seconds or so. Then she would start crying for 2 minutes before playing with my tongue again.

Repeat.

Obviously,I wasn’t listening to her anymore. At first I was a bit shocked by what just happened, but then I recovered and just prepared for the next one.
I had Cheerilee’s lips on mine for two years. I came to hate week-ends, and holidays were even worse. My own lips would dry out and split in the middle.

And one day she didn’t come to class. Nor she did the day after. And the day after and the day after and ten days later (I counted), a new linguistics teacher took her place. She still complained but that was all. You can imagine how I felt. But sometimes, life isn’t such a bitch and a few weeks later, I discovered masturbation.

Jump to me walking in the woods on the way back home, when I had my first orgasm. They had this thing called aerobics class and it was restricted to fillies so I basically had no idea of what was going on in here, until I saw it with my own eyes. They were all stretching and spreading their legs and laying on their back and I was both extremely embarrassed and aroused, and when I turned around my length slapped just once on my belly and I felt it throb and all my muscles contracted in a single spasm to expel a million of my potential children on the ground and I just stood there, panting, dazed, like, “Wow.”

And I was so surprised because I thought you could only piss with that thing, and at the same time so happy of my discovery, that I would eventually do it five or six times a day for the next three years. My father had a shed he decorated with pin-ups from Playcolt, and I always went there to honor each mare with my imagination. I had no interest in the various porn rags my friends were stealing. I liked to make up everything. I had to write the biography of my lovemaking. Create the whole situation. Imagine the moment I met the mare I chose mating. The courting and the long, silent staring. And then the actual penetration. Warmth filled my body and I was in bliss. I skipped the whole cuddling thing most of the time, because it was boring to me, and when actual sex came, I wasn’t more interested either.

While climaxing, I would clench my jaw so hard my teeth gritted like a heart giving himself away. After covering the evidence with dirt from the ground, I felt ashamed and anxious for a minute or so. And only when I left the shed, my private sanctuary, I felt cheerful again. I would see my beloved parents and dine with them, in silence. My parents weren’t the complaining type.

And I still feel a bit sad for this one Playcolt Mare, who killed herself over a broken heart, because she had been loved so much in my shed it was unfair she swallowed those pills. Not only she never knew my existence, but in the end, it was a bit creepy jerking off to a dead body.

***

Watching the phone, I had the weird intuition that maybe it would ring if I kept watching it. And it did ring. And I became a wizard. For a few seconds, I was a real wizard.

Two silent seconds later, I heard a click and the pony phoning hung up on me, without bothering to introduce himself. Probably a joker. Or a mistake. The pony on the other side of the line didn’t recognize my voice, uttering the obligatory “Hello!”, so he hung up, because he couldn’t afford wasting time in apologies, explanations, or didn’t want to sound stupid or awkward. So he hung up and left me doubting.

This rude or shy pony could have become a murderer if I was waiting for an important call. I would have guessed this important pony dialed my number, and then, as he was listening to the tone, changed his mind and decided I was not worth talking to. And that I won’t ever be.

And I would have probably jumped out of the window.

That’s how I felt about important calls.

But of course, I wasn’t waiting for any important call. And I was actually glad someone phoned me by mistake. If that pony phoning knew which rat hole he just called, he would have been more than happy to hang up.
Still, I waited an hour before showering, just in case I received another phone call. Maybe from the same pony, condemned by fate to repeat his mistakes. But it didn’t happen and in the end nobody was killed.

Comments

[Goggari]

First!
Sorry bout that...

Anyways! I'm loving this story (just putting that out there), keep it up and going!

[DJ Zergling]

I rather enjoy this story so far. Looking forward to more.