Money For Nothing
Money was always the problem. Bits. Commerce. Spitfire spat off the side of the cloud she was currently resting on, giving a small mental ‘sorry’ to whomever the expectoration might happen to land on. But Spitfire was up here, in the clouds, and everypony else down there had nothing to do about it. That was the beauty of a pegasus—true freedom.
Spitfire stretched her wings and stared into the empty blue sky, so high above that even the clouds had begun to scatter and vacate. Freedom; that was a tricky one. Because as much as she felt free, Spitfire could count on more than one hoof the ways that freedom was a lie. It was a lie because she was bound to her parents, for example—their wishes were her wishes, and thus the course of her life was dictated in some small way by another pony’s expectations. There were her friends, who, while not directly responsible for what she did, were always chirping in her ear about their life choices, influencing her regardless of their intention or not. That had been how she’d heard about the… ‘casting opportunity’.
Even in quotation marks, Spitfire shuddered at the word. She knew exactly what her friend had meant—Cloudchaser and her obnoxiously cute-looking twin Flitter had been agog about the process when they returned to the academy on Monday, and over lunch in the cafeteria had told Spitfire every detail of what it was like to participate in a gangbang porn shoot. Cloudchaser said she’d never had a cock up her ass before, and it was the best feeling in the world. Flitter said they’d had to kiss, which was weird at first, but then not so bad. “Cloudchaser has soft lips anyway,” she said, and then giggled, along with her sister. Spitfire watched the pairs eyes meet, then shyly return to their food. With the excuse of a bowel obstruction, Spitfire ran to the bathroom where she was almost sick on the toilet for twenty-five minutes; that feeling you get in your mouth right before you’re about to throw up, the way it feels like saliva is flooding into your mouth, preparing you for the eventual emptying of your body. Spitfire held it in. Wonderbolts didn’t throw up.
That was the goal, after all? To become a Wonderbolt? Spitfire wondered sometimes if the very idea of such a thing was ridiculous—to be the best of the best? No, even better than that—to be so good that there was no living pegasus in the world that could fly better. Did Spitfire really consider herself so talented?
It was morning, around 4:13AM, which meant time to do laps. Spitfire made her way slowly to the course track and began to fly at a steady but not-too-stressful pace. She wanted to keep up her endurance, knowing full well her bursts of speed would win her points over any other pegasus in a race. Consistency was the key. Hard work. Determination. Everything she hated, in other words.
It was hard to fly. Spitfire found herself checking the time after every other lap, pulling her out of the ‘zone’ of her exercise and reminding her of the finality of existence. Her watch almost laughed at her; “Running out,” it said.
This was because Spitfire was, in a way, on the precipice of doom—her student loans had grown too large, she had no job to pay them back, and her entire future had been built around the idea of her accomplishment—of eventually joining the hero pegasi of Equestria she’d looked up to every day when she was a kid—when she’d played dress up and flown around her room until she knocked over her fish-tank and was sad while the little orange floaty things she’d stared at over the course of months since her birthday flip-flopped on the carpet and then stopped moving completely. ‘You can hurt someone with flying like that, you should know,’ Spitfire’s mother had said, her old-country accent laced around her speech. ‘Always be more careful.’
Careful. Spitfire was careful. Her care had gotten her top test scores and excellent performance in every measurement and metric. So where were the Wonderbolts—where was her dream?
‘It wasn’t really that bad.’ Cloudchaser’s voice sprung to Spitfire’s brain, dancing around like an echo in her ear chamber. ‘Like, it’s just a few guys, and the sex is rough but kinda nice, and afterwards they pay you… well. They pay you really well,’ Cloudchaser had said, sealing her story with a smirk. Flitter hadn’t said anything—just nodded. She was usually the quiet one.
“Did they pay extra because you were twins?” Blossomforth asked from the end of the table. She was usually eating during lunch, but had taken a breather from her hay-fries to join the conversation.
Flitter nodded.
“You betcha,” Cloudchaser said.
Hmm, Spitfire thot.
Hard work—well, look where that had gotten her. Maybe it was time to try something different.
It’s important to know that Spitfire was a lesbian—not that she hadn’t even been attracted to stallions, per se, but just that nothing in her had ‘clicked’ to make them seem desirable. Stallions were big, rough, crude, all things Spitfire could do without. Heck, even girls were like that too. Spitfire wondered some time if she was asexual—but, then again, she’d been eaten out by her roommate (Mayfly) the first week in the dorms, and from there had followed a cavalcade of toys, cuffs, and other ponies whose tongues were nice but not as nice as Mayfly’s. And Spitfire had never pursued a relationship, because there was too much going on in her life to have time for one anyway, and sex would probably just get in the way.
How bad could it be, really? She used a plastic one before—not too big, but just to get the idea of it. Truthfully, she didn’t particularly enjoy the experience; in fact, come to think of it, Spitfire wasn’t sure she ever really masturbated for herself. She’d do it when she was with a partner and she wanted to turn them on, because she knew nothing got another pony going faster than seeing the pony they were about to have sex with touching themselves. I can’t wait, the gesture said. Please hurry up and rut me. Of course, the rutting could then be a hoofjob or a kiss or scissoring or what-have-you, but the point was a signal; Spitfire was good at those, recognizing and sending them. Wonderbolts training taught you to look for insignia at a distance for organization, and for cloud formations up close, avoiding the perilous thunder-storms brewing and keeping your course clear. Spitfire was good at all of those things, but it didn’t equal a scholarship, and the very last bone in her body would turn to dust before she stepped back into the retail hell that she’d left as her first job after school. Having to try so hard to pretend to be nice to everyone; it felt impossible. Surely, in the long run, this would be much less painful.
The building with the address on the business card Spitfire had followed was nondescript—in a way, too ordinary, as though it was trying very hard to fit in without knowing exactly what fitting in was. Spitfire guessed that she could have picked it out a few blocks away, but then remembered that her eye-sight was much keener than most ponies’. The door was unmarked, with a single mail-slot at eye level. The building was a dark, drab brick, brown, with white highlights where the builder had gotten lazy and let the mortar spill everywhere—and there was a knocker on the door, a bull’s head. Spitfire grasped the brass weight in her hand and slammed it into the door, three times.
The slot opened after several seconds, revealing a pair of beady eyes and nothing else.
“Yes?” the eyes said. They had a voice like a rotten potato.
“I’m here for the, uh… audition.”
The eyes thru the slot changed immediately, full of narrow mistrust to open enthusiasm. They disappeared for a second, closed the slot, and opened the door proper. The eyes appeared to belong to a dark brown pegasus with a floppy fringe of hair, maybe a comb-over, and a cutie mark of the ‘male’ symbol overtop a setting sun. The symbolism was too complex for Sunfire to work out at a guess, so she didn’t bother.
“Right this way, please,” the comb-over pegasus said, ushering Spitfire forward and down a long, also nondescript hallway to a medium-sized, non-descript door at the very end. The door was white, and had on it a sign saying CASTING CALLS. For some reason, the all capital letters made Spitfire nervous.
“Just head on in and they’ll be with you in a second. Take this to fill out while you wait.” The pegasus handed Spitfire a clipboard with a sheet of paper attached. Spitfire scanned it as she sat, the questions none-too-surprising: When was your last sexual encounter? Have you ever been diagnosed with an STI (sexually transmitted infection)? Do you have any medical problems… etc., etc.. Spitfire hadn’t imagined getting paid for sex was so complicated.
Nevertheless, the form wasn’t too much of a pain to get thru. The act only gave her pause due to its sheer absurdity—Spitfire wasn’t sure she could tell a loving partner how to make her feel good, let alone some random stallion who wanted to bang her just to get the moneyshot on camera. She began to have second thots, but swallowed them like a spoonful of sour medicine. Every victory requires some sacrifice, Spitfire thought.
After enough time to read over the form thrice and start counting the tiles on the ceiling, the pegasus returned with a smile that made Spitfire even more uncomfortable than she had been. He grabbed her clipboard without waiting for her to hand it to him, and his smile grew even wider.
“You’ve never been with a stallion before?” he asked. The thought seemed impossible to him—his eyes so wide, Spitfire could tell that the concept of a mare not wanting her hole filled with dick was entirely alien to him. Spitfire was, in his eyes, an alien.
“No,” Spitfire said, staring at the floor. For some reason her eyes hurt. “I haven’t.”
“Wonderful!” The pegasus jumped and fluttered in the air a little, then seemed to notice what he was doing, and floated back down to earth, adjusting his non-existent suit and tie. “That is to say… there’s a very high premium market for ‘first times’. Er… ‘virgins’, that is to say.”
“I’m not a virgin,” Spitfire said. Her voice felt even more dead than normal. “I’ve just never fucked a guy.”
For no reason that Spitfire could understand, the pegasus flinched at the word ‘fuck’. Someone whose whole job was organizing ponies to rail each other, and he got offended at a dirty word? Spitfire’s understanding of other ponies dwindled more by the day.
“Well… that is to say, regardless, your, um, how shall we say, ‘novelty’, means that we’ll make a very good return on your… uh… ‘performance’.”
“Speaking of,” Spitfire said, leaning back on the couch. “What exactly is it I have to do? Blow them? Fuck them? Do you need me to do anal? What?”
She sounded like a season pro, but the vocabulary was all bluster—a shield. She’d never done any of the things she’d just said—was maybe about to do them for her first time. Was about to let some strange stallion inside her, probably not even knowing his real name—all for a pay cheque at the end of the day that meant she could go on learning. And to bury the memory of this one occasion forever, to never let it come to the surface? Well, she was sure that would be fine.
“My name is Stand Up—I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier.” Stand Up held out a hoof. Spitfire eyed it like it was a cobra, ready to bite, but eventually shook it, limply.
“Your co-stars for today will be Brick Layer and Fountainhead—they’re both consummate professionals, so you have nothing to worry about.”
That sentence was patently untrue—if there was nothing to worry about, what was Spitfire doing in this room in the first place? What type of pony was she about to give her pussy up to in order to make it thru college?
“Oh… will my face be visible at all?” Spitfire asked. Her heart panged with the first real fear she’d felt since walking inside—everything else had been buried through a layer of bravado, of distance, of needing not to be afraid; but this fear was real. If somepony saw her, that was it. No future, no career, no Wonderbolts—just an eternity of being Spitfire the porn star, ready to take it in any hole and show the whole world at the same time. Spitfire shudders.
Whether he was perceptive or not, Stand Up caught the shudder, and matched it by shaking his head furiously. “Oh, no, no no no, nothing like that! Of course, we have many, ahem, talents, who have no qualms exposing the entirety of their being to the world of Equestria. But, for yourself, Miss, um…”
“Spitfire.”
“Yes, yes! Miss Spitfire, I assure you we will keep your face fully obscured. No worries, no trifle. All good?”
Spitfire nodded. She had never been good at lying.
“Great! So all that’s needed is for you to wait here until Brick and Fountain show up… oh, and of course, I’ll introduce you to our camera pony, Aperture.
Spitfire suddenly noticed there had been another pony in the room the entire time—so hidden and blended in to the scenery that she would have left still without noticing him unless he were pointed out.
“Hullo,” Aperture said. He didn’t sound in a particularly good mood. An olive coloured unicorn, with tiny glasses and a wimpy mop of black hair—he looked about how Spitfire felt. As a result, she felt a small pang of pity for him.
The element of timing in pornography was subtle, but direct—a knock on the room’s front door drew Stand Up to open it, and in came the two stallions in question—two big, brutish, hulking, cock-swinging stallions, waiting to turn Spitfire from an innocent lesbian into a dick-hungry slut.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. For one, Spitfire had eaten before she came over. Sort of. She wasn’t hungry.
“Now, contrary to what you might believe, films of this type are not always done chronologically,” Stand Up said. “In fact, we often shoot one scene multiple times from different angles in order to get the right viewpoint.”
The frown on Spitfire’s face deepened. Stand Up seemed to notice, and began to sputter.
“Well… that is to say… that’s in most cases. I’m sure today we won’t need more than one take, perhaps two at the most. Isn’t that right, Aperture?”
“Two takes? But boss… the lighting alone! If I can’t move the shot we’ll get glare…”
“Work with it. Miss Spitfire here is having her first time, and she doesn’t need us making it worse for her than it has to be.”
Aperture nodded. “I got it.”
“Now then.” Stand Up clapped his hooves together. “Shall we go over the basics?”
“What are the basics?” Spitfire sat up on the couch, and the two stallions took their places beside her. Just their presence made her seize up—she looked to each one of them and caught nothing but blank stares and slavering lust-mouths. She was a piece of meat now, between two very hungry coyotes.
“That is to say, the order of the scenes. We’ll begin with foreplay, as long as you feel content—please, no longer than five minutes tho—and from there, move directly to the intercourse. You’ll blow Brick Layer and Fountainhead until they’re both hard, then fuck for around half an hour—give us a good moneyshot, and we can call it a day! The whole thing shouldn’t take longer than two hours, all things considered.”
Two hours of her life that she could never get back. Not that she had anything valuable to do with them anyway—the two hours that would turn to mush if she lay in her bed reading High Flyers magazine. Two hours running track that would make her stomach ache and remind her she been on nothing but protein shakes for two days, or two hours here, being filled up by something that was everything other than what she wanted? Life was a series of complicated choices.
“Now, without further ado… I usually like to leave while things are, um, going on. But I shall be back to check when everything is done! Enjoy!” Stand Up sounded like an evil genius laying out his plan just before pulling the final lever. When the door shut behind him, Spitfire felt the walls begin to cave in around her.
Lips were already pressing towards hers. She’d expected a ‘hello’, maybe even a ‘what’s your name?’ before any physical affection, but that apparently wasn’t how porn worked. Who was this pegasus the audience would see on their screen, taking these two stallions for their amusement? Did she enjoy the kiss? Did the vomit in her mouth almost threaten to escape all over Brick Layer’s face, ruining the entire shoot before it had begun?
The kiss tasted like onions and dirty celery. Spitfire held back the urge to spit.
Then it was Fountainhead’s turn, and immediately Spitfire noticed the binary rhythm that was to come; one’s turn, then the other. She was already a vessel, a thing to be used, and there was no turning back at this point.
For the foreplay, Spitfire couldn’t muster herself to participate. She felt the hooves running along her body, her back, her ass, all the places that would normally be sensitive if she were with a filly in college exploring each other’s bodies in the pure dark of after-curfew. Instead, it felt like two rolling pins were bandying about her frame, pressing and squeezing like they were attempting to flatten cookie dough. It was the farthest feeling from gentle Spitfire could imagine—but she didn’t say anything, because nopony wanted to hear their porn complaining at them.
Less than even the five minutes she’d been promised and Brick Layer had his face between her legs, was slobbering hungrily at her pussy. She wasn’t wet—couldn’t imagine herself getting wet in this scenario—but Brick’s saliva was so great in volume that it did something of substitution, and afterwards was added by a hoofful of lubricating jelly that was in a container near the end of the couch. The jelly was cold. Spitfire felt like she could turn into ice at any moment, her entire body freezing its blood in place.
While Brick Layer tried at Spitfire’s pussy like a bulldog into a can of freshly opened tuna, Fountainhead fancied himself the more gentle participant—licking at Spitfire’s ears, biting her neck, giving her all sorts of general, romantic attention that she wanted nothing to do with. If this was romance, where was the heart and love? This was business, a job, capitalism. Somepony wanted her to fuck, and she was going to fuck, but she wasn’t going to enjoy it—she might just have to pretend.
“Ohh,” said Spitfire, sounding like what she imagined her grandmother would sound like trying to make sex noises. “That’s good.” Kill the monotone, she told herself. Make them believe. Make the camera believe.
The stallions and camera seemed none the wiser, or if they were, they pretend on otherwise. Brick removed his face from between Spitfire’s legs, leaving a trail of saliva connecting his mouth to her slit as he did so. Fountainhead kissed her, began pawing at her clit with his hoof, like rubbing a piece of sandpaper along a ripped off fingernail. Spitfire grit her teeth and tried not to scream.
Aperture, meanwhile, hadn’t said a word, but was following the action in a slow circle strafe, capturing every angle of Spitfire’s discomfort, hidden as it was beneath her fake smile and the feeling of a stallion’s saliva between her legs. Spitfire thot to smile extra hard for the camera, then remembered her face was being omitted anyway—but she still smiled, because if she stopped, then she might cry.
Brick Layer didn’t even speak to her—there hadn’t been one word exchanged, despite the way he’d so flagrantly begun to lap at Spitfire’s sex—as everything was assumed, contracts signed. Brick Layer didn’t know anything about the pony he was about to fuck—couldn’t know, or he wouldn’t be able to do his job. All he saw was a wet hole that needed filling, and he was very good at that.
The first push made Spitfire wish she’d spoken up a little—at least to ask him to be gentle at first. This was nothing like the toy—it was a real tank to an army man.
Being full like this was something Spitfire wasn’t used to. She felt like all of her organs were balling up around the intruder that had pierced her sensitive spot. She felt like the head of Brick Layer’s knob might push right out her throat, it was so big that it hurt beyond any use of words or emotion. And then for a second it was gone, a blissful reprieve, that empty feeling before he pushed back in again—which he did, very hard—making Spitfire let out a long, high-pitched squeal, which, depending on your ears, sounded either horrified or delighted.
“This bitch is loving it already,” Brick Layer said, finding his usual steady rhythm. Porn could, in a way, be reduced to a series of motions—a pony found another pony, coitus occurred, and the camera monitored the entire act for it to be relived later by other ponies. Even the thrusting was a type of metric—push in and out enough times and eventually cum. That was all of sex then, wasn’t it?
At Spitfire’s front end, Fountainhead had stroked himself to half hardness and was offering his dick to Spitfire’s mouth like it was a dangling piece of sour candy she might suddenly be inclined to devour. In truth, Spitfire was biting down on her tongue to keep from screaming, but she still understood the rules—mouth open, let him inside. Celestia, did he shower? It smelled like a garbage pile, a dung heap, a collection of compost mixed with the cum-stains of a thousand fucks. This was love too, then, Spitfire thought as she began to suck. She’d never done it before, but the act wasn’t too hard—practiced on a dildo, on a cucumber, on her best friend’s hoof just in case—just move your head up and down, tongue to side to side, touch here where it’s sensitive under the head, here where it’s sensitive at the base of the balls, here all along the shaft and back down, it was practically autopilot, even while she was being fucked.
The fucking had at least calmed to a dull pain—Spitfire guessed she was bleeding, despite not being a virgin, which she imagined would make Stand Up happy. She also imagined she might get a better review of her performance if she participated in it, rather than letting it happen to her—but was it something she wanted to be praised for in the first place?
This was a one time thing, Spitefire told herself, with Brick Layer’s cock slamming inside her pussy twice a second. Each thrust was an ‘umph’, was a hurt, was Spitfire telling herself ‘almost over, almost over, almost over’. She didn’t know why—why the hurt, why the sadnesss. Why what she was doing was wrong. She just wanted it to be over.
Fountainhead, apparently tired of Spitfire’s mouth (or, more likely, too close to coming from her natural talent), moved to join his partner at the orange filly’s backside. “You ever done anal before?” he asked.
Spitfire shook her head. “No. But it’s okay. I can take it.”
Damn. She sounded just like the slut in that comic she had read—Miss Creamsicle and the Tale of the Town Bicycle. The whole thing was schlock, pandering, made specifically to be cum to and then thrown away. And that was what she was now anyway, right? Act the part then
“Ooooh.” Spitfire let out what she thot sounded like a gentle moan as Fountainhead’s cock prodded her asshole. She tried to relax, like she knew she was supposed to, but she couldn’t, and therefore the only solution was a lot of lube and brute force, which meant friction, which meant pain, which meant the next “Ooooh, gosh” from Spitfire was even more fake, but neither pony inside her could tell the difference.
“Both holes!” Brick Layer said, breathless, amazed. He was still pounding, but his balls were tightening, closer to his body, ready to empty his load in this anonymous orange filly. Or—he corrected himself—on to this anonymous orange filly. As popular as creampie stuff was, that was somepony else’s job. Tho, it did cause a certain grief, never getting to bust a nut where he wanted. Maybe just this one time, if he apologized afterwards…
“Oh, fuck, her ass is so tight! I’m gonna cum in no time.” Fountainhead’s thrusting was less aggressive than Brick Layers, partially because of his own pretend gentleness, and partly because going any harder might mean Spitfire passing out from the dual ramming. He could sense his orgasm approaching just from the act of being inside this pegasus—just because he was here, fucking her in the ass, the thought alone could bring him there, and did.
“Shhhit!” Fountainhead pulled out just in time, grabbing his cock with both hooves and aiming it before the first long spurt of semen fired out over Spitfire’s back. It left a long, shimmery line from the base of her neck all the way down to her buttcheeks, and the sight was erotic enough to make Fountainhead’s second burst of cum go even further, right into Spitfire’s mane. The remainder dribbled out onto her back and butt, some even going down the crack of her ass.
“Shit!” Fountainhead repeated. “That was something!”
The room was silent now except for the sounds of slaps as Brick Layer connected his pounding with Spitfire’s worn form. She was now almost lying on the couch, her legs given out in their strength, her eyes glazed and somewhere else in the distance. Almost over, she told herself.
Brick Layer didn’t give warning of his orgasm, or at least not a proper one—he just made louder grunting noises than usual, and, to the observant, buried himself just a little way in, only the head being milked by Spitfire’s pussy, so that every bit of the load he deposited would leak from her like melting ice cream from a cone on a hot day.
And it did; Spitfire dripped cum from her pussy onto the couch. Cum was splattered all over her back, in her hair, even a little bit on her face where it had dripped down. She was done. She had been used. She was ready to be paid.
Click. Click click. Aperture made quiet, plastic noises as he adjusted his filters and film.
The door opened with no knock, Stand Up making his way inside beaming. The sight in front of him seemed to bring no shock—a used up pegasus lying on the couch, dripping with semen. His two pinch hitters, their cocks still only half-soft, ready to go again as long as the mare in question will put up with them.
“My word! It looks like you had more fun than I expected.” Stand Up eyed Spitfire’s pussy carefully, noticing the pool of white that was leaking out of it. “Ahem. Did somepony here not listen to instructions? There were to be no creampies under any circumstance!”
“Gosh, I’m sorry, boss. She was just really hot, I couldn’t help it,” Brick Layer said. He was good at telling lies that were exactly true.
Stand Up’s frown vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. “Ah, well, can’t say I don’t know what that’s like. It’s how I got my first kid, anyway!” He laughed. Brick Layer laughed. Fountainhead laughed. Spitfire closed her eyes.
When she opened them, Stand Up was in front of her, holding out a cheque.
“I believe this belongs to you, miss. Thank you so much for your work—please think of us in the future should you ever need assistance again.”
The cheque was paper—it was paper that had the idea of money on it. Spitfire took it, stood up, dazed, cum still dripping from between her legs. She steadied herself with a foreleg against the wall, scanned the room—Stand Up was still there, watching her. So was Brick Layer. Fountainhead. Aperture.
“I…” Spitfire’s words drowned in her throat, lost in a sea of definitions she could never find them in again. “I mean… thank you. I… yeah.” She pushed the door open and left, not giving herself a chance to say anything stupider.
As she flew back home (walked for the first half, anyway), Spitfire stared and stared at the cheque she’d been given. Money. Freedom. And what was freedom? She took a long swirl around a cumulus cloud that was just to her left, carving spirals and patterns in the mist of its condensed rain. It looked like a sculpture in the air, and every other cloud beside it waiting to be formed, clay in the sky shaped only by wings.
When she got home, Spitfire put the cheque in the small wooden box she kept on her bedside table for keepsakes. Even though it was only 6:34PM by the time she got home, Spitfire fell into her bed and went straight to sleep. The nightmares would continue for many years to come.