He's So Screwed
The farmer swore he'd gone to bed alone last night.
He heard the soft snoring of a pony – no, several ponies – before he had the chance to open his bleary eyes. He carefully lifted his head to see how many had joined him in the night.
One was cuddled against him, her dark pink curls spread over his chest. He stroked her fore-leg, and felt her scratched hooves from digging in her quarry – that was Number Four. Another one was curled up next to his leg, snoring loudly – Number Seven. A third, Number Nine, was splayed out on her back next to him, pink milk already dribbling from her engorged teats.
He often found himself wishing the Pinkies had some sense of personal space. The closest Pinkie woke up suddenly enough to startle him, her big blue eyes opening in an instant, a broad smile on her face.
“Wakey-wakey! The sun may not be up, but that doesn’t mean it’s not morning, even if it looks like night!”
She nuzzled the farmer, rubbing her little pink nose against his, and bounced out of bed. The other two seemed to sense her activity, and quickly followed suit.
It was impossible to be angry at them. That was the part that was driving him crazy.
He made his way down to the kitchen. The girls were making him breakfast. One sneaked up behind him with a cup filled with strong black coffee. “Here ya go!” The morning sun glinted off her round wire-framed glasses.
He took the quadruple espresso and thanked Number One – where the Hell had she come from? – and then headed to the bathroom.
He brushed his teeth and fetched a small bottle from the medicine cabinet. A swig of coffee washed down a small blue diamond-shaped pill, his daily dose of Viagra.
It was getting to be that time. He needed all the help he could get.
They had arranged a buffet of pastries and pie and cakes, enough for a half-dozen grown men.
He looked around the room. Did they go back to the stalls? Were they watching him?
The farmer stretched and tried to relax for a brief moment while nibbling on a plum danish. The girls had made it themselves. They were amazing bakers.
Privacy was a foreign concept to them. It was impossible to make plans that would withstand contact with sixteen Pinkie Pies. And when their time came, they were insatiable...
It was no wonder that the last farmer had quit. However sweet the girls were, they had a real retention problem.
The farmer had sought out his predecessor after the first chaotic round of interviews had led to an invitation to a “Second Round Hope It's You Sweetie Party”, delivered with streamers and confetti and a helium balloon they had somehow packed into the ordinary-looking envelope.
He couldn't help but feel a twinge of male jealousy at the man who had cared for the Pinkies before. The former farmer was ripped, with broad shoulders and and a blond buzz-cut.
“Have they told you everything?”
They had, with an hour-long, rather dry multimedia presentation held by Number One. She had explained all the details of Pinkie milk production, the biological quirk that made them lactate, the unpredictable cycles of a Pinkie Pie and their need for constant stimulation and affection.
The written quiz afterwards reviewed the lecture material, and included a number of surprisingly tricky questions.
“Wow. I thought I bombed the test, but they invited me back anyway.”
The former farmer may well have been chosen more for his body than his mind, the future farmer thought to himself.
“They're nice, they're fun, but they are gonna drive ya nuts. Fair warning, man.”
The former farmer looked a little sad.
“Just one important thing – never, ever let their cycles sync up. They will fuckin' wreck you.”
He stayed for a couple of beers, and listened to the former farmer's stories.
After a good night's sleep, he still felt a little apprehensive about taking the job. The Pinkies were out bouncing over the pastures as he arrived, and cheered and waved and blew kisses as he parked in front of the farmhouse and walked inside.
Number One was waiting for him, and presented him a clipboard filled with papers with a beaming smile. "I'll need you to read and sign these release forms before we can continue with the pre-hire process."
He scanned the legal boilerplate as Number One rattled on, assuring him that the papers were a mere formality. "I, the undersigned, have been informed of and am fully aware that my duties as a caretaker may include services of a sexual nature. I explicitly consent to any and all activities described in Annex I that may be required to evaluate my suitability for this position, and indemnify the Farm against any claims including but not limited to sexual harassment..."
Number One stifled a giggle as he signed the release form, and whispered "Oh goody" under her breath. Her glasses, loquacious nature, and serious exterior may have obscured her similarity to the other Pinkies, but the farmer noticed the same spring to her step as she bounced over to a bookshelf and pressed a hidden switch.
A section of wall opened to reveal the sliding metal doors of an elevator. Number One hopped inside and beckoned the future farmer to join her. The doors closed automatically behind him and they began their descent.
Number One was practically vibrating with anticipation. She spoke animatedly. “The underground complex beneath the farmhouse was constructed as lab space and a control center for the surveillance systems, most of which were my own designs…”
She had to keep talking. Her cycle had hit its peak this morning, and she was having trouble concentrating.
The enclosed space of the elevator filled with a sweet and slightly spicy musk as they waited for the elevator to stop. Number One subtly shifted closer and closer to him, just barely rubbing against him as the doors opened to a large underground chamber that resembled the set of an old spy movie.
“Congratulations! We've come to the final stage of your evaluation!”
Confetti and streamers were dispensed from ducts in the ceiling. Number One noted the candidate was distracted. “Here, I will determine your level of endurance, determination...”
She sneaked up behind him, stood up on her rear legs, and readied her front hooves. “...and ticklishness!”
Number One tickled the future farmer mercilessly, and as he collapsed to the ground giggling. “Ooh! You pass!” Her head was a pink blur as she unbuckled his belt with her mouth, bounding away.
“Got your belt!”
He struggled to his feet, and then ran after the bouncing pink pony. She dodged and weaved and bounced erratically, forcing him to constantly change directions.
His pants slid off as he futilely chased after her, tripping him up as he vainly attempted to run after her. He picked himself back up with his pants around his ankles.
“Briefs! Excellent!”
He stepped out of his pants and lunged for Number One, who rolled up beneath him.
He laughed and blew a raspberry in Number One's belly, provoking squeals of laughter.
“Hey, no fair!” she cooed.
Her eyes were half-open and shining, and he could feel how soft and warm her pink belly was. As they smiled at each other, he realized that this cute little pony had managed to seduce him. There was a moment as the last of his resistance crumbled, and he kissed Number One, who slipped her tongue into his eager mouth. They rolled on the floor, kissing and holding each other, and he buried his face in her pink curls as she rolled over on her back.
She pushed his shoulders down, letting her rear legs spread wide. “Time for your oral examination!”
The pink of her haunches blended into the pink of her slightly swollen slit. She placed a fore-hoof on her pubis, and pulled back a little to reveal a stiff little clit the size of a pencil eraser.
He knelt before her, lowering his face to her eager pussy. She swallowed a soft squeal and closed her eyes as she felt his warm breath on her sensitive clit. "Yes... take it slow and tease me..."
He kissed her outer lips, again and again, finally sticking out his tongue and running it from the base of her slit to just short of her nub, taking a detour around it as he probed a little deeper on the down-stroke, gently parted her labia and ran his tongue over her inner lips.
"Oh... oh.... a little too fast... don't stop..." she panted. After a few more circuits, he teased her inner lips apart with the tip of his tongue and gently pressed it into her unyielding yet very wet hole, provoking a gasp from the writhing pink pony. "Oooh... not yet... loosen me up first..."
His tongue made its way up to her clit, and he gave it a firm lick that made Number One try to stifle a gasp. Increasing the pressure, he began to roughly and rhythmically lick her nub with broad strokes of his tongue. She writhed with desire, her head twisting on the floor, mussing her curly mane. Her glasses slipped off the end of her nose as her gasps became deeper and hoarser. “Wonderful… wonderful… oh please more… ohhh…”
He took a brief break from licking her clit to once again probe her sweet, juicy hole. She was much looser now, and eagerly accepted the tip of his tongue. He slipped into and out of her, just barely tongue-fucking her until her back arched and she released a long squeaky moan.
He sensed her tension as her climax mounted. Feeling Pinkie cum, he moaned as a gush of Pinkie juice dribbled down his chin and soaked into her tail.
His cock was throbbing at this point. He looked up from Number One’s crotch and saw her smile. Her mane and tail were straightened by sweat and heat and desire, and she gazed lustfully at him as he took off his underwear.
As his penis bounced erect before him, she sat up and gently tapped the head of his cock with a fore-hoof, licking her lips as she softly said, “Boop.”
She lay back down and stretched her hips towards the farmer. “A nice hard rutting please, I am just unbelievably horny right now…”
She was right. The loose, hot, sopping wet mess between her legs accepted his shaft with no resistance. Number One may have been a talker, but now the only coherent sounds she could make were throaty grunts and little squeaks. All she could do was lie there as he vigorously pumped her.
His thrusts became faster, and Number One closed her eyes and arched her back as she lost it again. She recovered long enough to fix him with a dazed and happy gaze, her blue eyes half-open, her mouth hanging open.
A final deep thrust and his seed spurted deep inside her. She ground against him for a moment, feeling him fill her up. There was so much she wanted to tell him, but she was a little out of breath.
“Mmmmm... you're hired.”
He soon discovered that Number One was a relatively restrained Pinkie.
The morning routine was less chaotic than it seemed. The girls had picked a stall to be used for milking, and they would line up to take turns. The farmer had a list to make sure he didn't forget any of his Pinkies.
The big problem with milking a Pinkie Pie was making her stay still long enough. Number One had a solution, a set of restraints that would hold them in position until the farmer could finish the job.
Number Five was first in line. As the apparatus snapped closed, she wiggled her pink haunches and giggled, “Slap my tushie!”
He washed his hands and wiped her teats clean as Number Five described the technical details of making really flaky pastry dough, keeping the butter cold with a chilled marble slab, wiggling in her fetters.
She beamed at her yield, and the farmer pressed the release button. Number Five bounced away, and Number Nine took her place.
The apparatus snapped closed again.
Number Nine needed to be milked badly, her pink mounds eager for his touch. She told him knock-knock jokes the entire time as the creamy pink milk gushed from her teats.
She kissed him on the cheek as Number Four took her place. Number Four was entering the end of her lactation period, and was a little sore. The farmer carefully inspected her for any sign of irritation or redness, but she seemed to be in good shape.
Number Four was a relatively quiet Pinkie who liked collecting rocks. She burbled about a fossil she had found in her dig site on the west pasture. The farmer suspected that she was there this morning more for the company than anything else. She didn't even bounce that much in her restraints.
She nuzzled the farmer, and he nuzzled her back.
It was hard not to like the girls. He had a few seconds to check off Five, Nine, and Four from his list.
The rest of his morning was filled with pink teats, pink milk, bouncing pink ponies, bouncing pink pony nuzzles, shameless pink pony flirting, and outrageous pink pony propositions. Even when Pinkies weren't in heat, they thought about sex.
He washed his sore hands and checked the list.
Numbers Thirteen and Sixteen hadn't showed up yet. He knew what was up with Thirteen, but Sixteen?
He took a pair of binoculars from a shelf and went outside.
He scanned the skies methodically. She had to be around here somewhere.
Dammit.
He lowered the binoculars, and a pair of white hooves covered his eyes. A giggling voice whispered, “Surprise!” in his ear.
Number Sixteen was a white pegasus with a poofy blond mane and tail. She wiggled her haunches as they entered the milking stall.
The restraints snapped closed, and the farmer checked Sixteen. As he cleaned and stroked her small white mounds, her wings spread and two little pinkish-white nubs stiffened. Sixteen tittered and bit her lower lip.
She was near the end of her lactation period, and gently nibbled on the farmer's ear as he milked her. When he released her, they shared a long, wet kiss, and Sixteen blushed before bouncing out the door to return to the clouds above the farm.
That left Number Thirteen.
Thirteen frightened him a little. She was a little darker than the rest, and her hair tended to stay straight. Sometimes she would look at him with a worryingly predatory glint in her eyes.
It was her time. She was in high heat.
Her pranks had started harmlessly enough, little practical jokes like putting salt in the sugar bowl – he drank his coffee black now – or tying his bootlaces together – he bought a pair of cowboy boots.
He had been with her a few times. She was worryingly rough, and usually left him with some bruises.
She tended to keep to herself. The other Pinkies would go visit her sometimes.
Between the lack of privacy and the constant attention of the girls, the farmer often felt mildly paranoid. His paranoia took a slightly sinister turn when he thought about the other girls' clandestine visits with Thirteen. It was entirely too easy to imagine her planning mischief with them.
It was a good thing the girls were so sweet. Most of the Pinkies excelled at turning exasperation into laughter. Sometimes he felt guilty about his fears. Sometimes...
A whistle came from overhead. The farmer realized how preoccupied he had been as he absentmindedly rounded the corner of the south stall.
At least eight bouncing pink blurs were waiting for him, and pounced, knocking him off his feet.
Impromptu orgies were a fact of life in a farm filled with bored, horny Pinkie Pies. He wished he felt more enthusiastic about this time.
His arms and legs were pinned down by giggling pink ponies. Number Two sat down on his chest and looked at him with shining, happy eyes, caressing him with a latex-covered hoof.
“She wants us to get you ready.” Two others had undone his pants, and were pulling them off as Two spun around and buried her muzzle in the front of his briefs, expertly extracting his stiffening cock with her lips and tongue.
“Ooh!” Two grinned at his erection, and gently tapped its head with her fore-hoof. She whispered “Boop” as seductively as she could as it bounced before her muzzle.
She licked the head of his shaft and wiggled her pink haunches. “Party time!”
Her enthusiasm was infectious. He couldn't resist that pretty pink rump.
His view of Two's hindquarters was blocked by a bouncing Number One, who mounted his face and rubbed her moist eager slit against his nose and lips. He could feel Number Two's head bobbing vigorously, her lips massaging his rod as her nimble tongue wrapped around his shaft.
His tongue sought out Number One's party button, and a delighted squeal let him know he had found it. She bucked gently against his face, driving his tongue into her wet little pussy, and struggled to keep her glasses on with a fore-hoof.
While Two sucked him off, he felt two more Pinkies gently massaging his balls with their nimble lips, gently kneading one testicle apiece. One of the Pinkies holding down his legs mounted his shin, and rubbed her slick slit against him.
Another Pinkie rolled over from his arm and guided his fingers to her clit. He rubbed her as Two deep-throated his cock with a breathy grunt. One's juices ran down his chin as her movements slowed and her loose walls gripped his tongue.
Two popped his throbbing member out of her mouth. “Get the record book, I'm gonna beat Seven's time.”
A sated Number One rolled off his face, sighed, and smiled sweetly at him with half-open blue eyes. Number Seven held a stopwatch and gave Number Two a nod.
Two mounted him reverse cowgirl, teasing the head of his cock with her wet little hole before lowering her haunches and using her weight to thrust his full length inside her, grunting as he filled her wet, tight walls.
She gripped him and began pumping her hindquarters, taking him inside her as deep as she could before bouncing upwards until only the tip of his dick was inside her.
Two wasn't in heat, but she didn't need to be. She loved to fuck, and she loved the girls' competition to see who could make the farmer cum fastest. She couldn't keep her grip so tight anymore – he was nice and hard, and it felt so good when she loosened up a bit – so she decided to compensate with speed.
Her hips bucked faster, and as her pussy loosened, the rhythm of the “boing-shlup” noises of their fucking quickened.
He was nearly ready.
She took him deep inside her and gripped, grinding against him. He couldn't hold back, and she felt his cock throb and shudder as he blew his load inside her.
“One minute, twenty-three seconds. Not even close!”
The farmer was exhausted and dazed.
“Hey, Thirteen. I just primed his pump for you!”
The other Pinkies pulled back as Thirteen approached.
“OK, girls. Go 'way, he's mine.”
Her pale blue eyes were half-open beneath the dark pink strands of her lank mane. She neither smiled nor frowned.
He tried to get up, but Thirteen growled, “You stay down, man-slut.”
She crawled on top of him, and he felt her warm, regular breaths on his skin. “You smell like Number One's cunt. You dirty little pony-fucker. Did you at least blow a load in her face? Did she let you?”
He was about to answer when Thirteen raised one of her fore-hooves. He flinched.
Thirteen frowned. “What? You want me to smack you around a bit?”
Her muzzle was almost touching his lips. Her fore-hoof roughly prodded his limp cock. “Don't you like your Pinkie Pie?”
There was just the faintest trace of sadness in her eyes, and her voice cracked a little as she asked her rhetorical question.
Her muzzle touched his lips, and her tongue wrapped around his. He felt her weight on his chest as she quite unexpectedly relaxed. The kiss lingered.
His arms wrapped around her as their tongues intertwined. He felt something like a sob heave in her chest.
She broke off the kiss and pulled back, looking into his eyes with a disoriented expression and a gaping mouth.
Something like a smile formed in the corners of her mouth. He reached out to her again to stroke her shoulders, but she pushed his hand away and stared at him blankly.
“What do you think you’re doing there?”
She pressed a hoof into his sternum and held him down as her tongue roughly licked his shaft. His cock became a little harder, and she straddled his chest.
“Huh. Guess you do like mares.”
He couldn’t see her face, but her slit was swollen, wet, and open. The farmer thought about lifting his head to give her a lick, but she was a little bit too far away for his tongue to reach.
Her tongue was rubbing against his dick, gradually coaxing an erection from him.
“You taste like Number Two.” He wasn't sure how she meant that. She sounded... sad? Jealous?
She shifted her weight back, pressing him hard into the ground. He could hardly breathe. A fore-hoof batted at the head of his cock, and as his stiff penis bounced from side to side, Number Thirteen softly whispered, “Boop.”
He felt her body tense.
Something was wrong, and the farmer felt helpless, not only because of Number Thirteen's weight on his chest, but because of the sadness and anger he could feel in her heart. Even at the best of times, a Pinkie could cause guilt at twenty paces with a well-placed pout and tearful blue eyes. A disappointed or heart-broken Pinkie would literally deflate – the few times he had seen this, he swore he even heard a sound like a balloon having its air let out as it happened.
Thirteen's aggression terrified him.
He didn't know what to do. Break off the encounter, and risk subjecting Thirteen to rejection? She seemed on the edge of violence. Keep going, and risk stirring up the volatile emotions causing such turmoil in the pink pony?
Sometimes he understood why his predecessor gave up. Sometimes it seemed like an impossible job.
Her back was turned. He couldn't see her face. He had no idea how she felt.
Thoughts of his own safety only made it worse. He already felt insecure enough...
“Oopsie. Looks like I killed it.”
His erection was a lost cause. After a while living with the girls, he was up for nearly anything, but this did not feel good, and there was no way in Hell this was going to turn into a good time, either for him or for Number Thirteen.
Thirteen had made the decision for him. Rejection.
She ran away. The farmer couldn't be certain, but she may have been crying.
He lay there for a while and tried to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.
“What are you doing just lying there!?”
It was Number Three's voice.
All the Pinkies were energetic, but Number Three's larger-than-life feelings and burning passions seemed to form an aura around her, like the warmth of a fire. She wasn't only a hyperactive little pink ball of chaos – she was a force of nature.
“You can't just lie back and hope it's going to get better! You have to stand up and make it better!” She stood on her back legs and extended him a helping fore-hoof. “Put your pants on and make it happen!”
With that, she gave him back his jeans. He tried not to think too hard about how the girls manipulated objects with their hooves and pulled on his underwear.
Number Three continued. “Now, most of the time we want you to take your pants off and make it happen, but these are exceptional circumstances! But I tell you this – once you have triumphed over adversity, I will be waiting, waiting for you!”
She was caught up by a surge of enthusiasm and emotion, and almost yelled, “And together, we will take your pants off – and make! It! Happen!”
She punctuated the end of the sentence by punching the sky with her fore-hoof, then turned, gave the farmer a saucy wink, and bounded away.
He knew she was right, and that he had to do something about the problem with Thirteen. One of his Pinkies was sad and angry and hurting, and he had to take action. Confronting her would make things worse, but that was mostly because he had no idea what he was doing and what she needed to be happy again.
The first step was to understand the situation. He returned to the farmhouse, and began looking through the shelves of the bookcases for the switch leading down to Number One's surveillance center.
The switch was next to a fossil snail Number Four had found in her excavations. He remembered how she beamed as she brought it to him in a basket. They all had these moments of infectious happiness and enthusiasm that could sweep him away. It seemed like the most primal instincts of a Pinkie were to make you smile, smile at their antics, and smile because they were sharing them with you.
An hour later, the farmer found the archives of Number One's security footage. At some point, something had happened to Number Thirteen. He started with the recent past. It was easy to imagine that he might have said or done something hurtful, especially when he was still getting used to being surrounded by Pinkies.
The very first disc from his first day at the farm disproved this hypothesis. Thirteen was glowering at him sullenly as One, Three, Seven, and Sixteen were showing him around.
He looked at the large collection of discs from his predecessor. Had he done something to Thirteen? Is that why he had to go?
The first barrier he had to get over was the shameful feeling of voyeurism that came from digging around in the time before he was hired to take care of the farm. It wasn't any of his business, and it was very much a part of his forerunner's private sphere.
No. Number Thirteen's pain made it his business. He picked a disc and loaded it up.
It was a recording of a birthday party. All the Pinkies would be there.
The former farmer was a big guy, a former wrestler and body-builder. He counted the ponies frolicking on the screen, and paused it when all of them were in the frame.
He couldn't recognize Thirteen. He counted Pinkies again.
Fifteen pink ponies, one white pegasus.
“Where the Hell is she?” he said to no-one.
“Thirteen is sitting on his lap.” The farmer looked over his shoulder to see Number Eleven sitting on her haunches with an umbrella cap poised jauntily on her head. “She really, really liked the guy we used to have.”
Number Thirteen looked and acted completely different on the video, a poofy-haired bouncing Pinkie like the others...
He asked Number Eleven if something had happened, but she was busy flipping through the stack of discs. “Nah. They always got along great. But you should take a look at this.”
She pointed to a disc labeled “Good-Bye Party.”
He watched. Number Eleven fast-forwarded to the end.
His predecessor finished loading the last of his suitcases into a station wagon. One pink pony sat watching, tears gushing from her eyes as her friends tried to comfort her.
Her hair deflated as he drove away, and the farmer recognized her for the first time as his Number Thirteen.
“We've been trying to cheer her up, but she took it really hard. Do... do you think you can help her?”
He felt a moment of shame as he recalled his suspicions about the others meeting with Thirteen behind his back. They were trying to help their friend. They were trying to do what they could to make her feel better.
He hugged Number Eleven. He knew what he had to do.
The phone call was awkward, but as soon as he had made the arrangements, he had Sixteen fly out to find Number Thirteen.
She was waiting for him beside his car. He opened the passenger door, and she hopped into the front seat.
Thirteen scowled as she got into the car, and scowled as the farmer left the farm, drove up the dirt post road, and turned off onto the highway. She would sometimes give him a sidelong glance, but the awkward silence between the two persisted until he found the turn-off to a suburban bedroom community.
“What are we doing here?”
He smiled at Thirteen and caressed her cheek. She let him, but looked away. He suspected Thirteen knew exactly where she was.
They walked together to the front door of the house and rang the doorbell. There was a surprise as a pale blond woman with curly hair and a strangely familiar hair-do opened the door.
She and Thirteen exchanged icy looks.
“Darling! That – wh.. horse is here to see you.” She did not sound happy.
As the former farmer came down the stairs, a broad smile filled Thirteen's face. He knelt and hugged the pink pony, and she sniffled and cried. “Honey, we'll need a little time.”
The blond woman scowled at him, and lead the farmer to the living room. “Let me get you some coffee while we wait.”
A few muffled loud words were exchanged in the kitchen, where the former farmer and Thirteen were talking. She returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee.
The next hour was awkward. They sat on the couch, smiled uncomfortably at each other, and sipped coffee. He wondered what she was like in a less difficult situation. She seemed worried.
The door to the kitchen opened, and the former farmer and Thirteen embraced. The woman rushed to his side, and Thirteen moped as she rejoined the farmer.
“Let's get out of here.”
She had been crying.
They said their goodbyes and started the long drive back to the farm. Thirteen looked up, but not at, the farmer.
“Thanks for trying. He... told me why he left. I always thought it was because I was too clingy, but he had trouble keeping the books straight on the farm. And now he has somebody new...”
The farmer felt a brief stab of doubt. Had he just made things worse?
“...but he made me make a promise. I promised I'd give you a chance. Do you think you could pull over?”
He pulled over to the shoulder of the road, and a pink hoof stroked his thigh. He looked at Thirteen.
She was smiling beneath her lank hair, and her blue eyes shone. “I... I'm sorry I'm not all poofy and happy and hyper now. I'm probably gonna miss him for the rest of my life, and I'm always gonna feel a little sad about losing him. I'm glad you did this, and I want you to know that I really appreciate everything you've done.”
They looked into each other's eyes, and the pink pony leaned over into his arms. He held her and stroked her mane, and at that moment, he realized he would do anything to make her smile.