1: Sex Sells...
Chapter 1: Sex Sells...
I hated when I’d wind up waking early in bed, wavering on that fine line of still too tired to get up, but too awake to actually fall back asleep. I’d try to find shapes in the textured ceiling until I went cross-eyed. Focusing on anything else usually ruined any chances of falling back to sleep. Yet, my mind would constantly shift back to the important things. Things, quite honestly, I didn’t want to think over when not on the job.
The saying “sex sells” was a gross understatement. Sex does not simply sell: it’s an ever-changing field, growing, expanding to those whose desires are as large as their checkbooks. It’s not always the same thing, or what narrow-minded ponies might call “normal,” and yet when it comes down to it, it’s all about one thing:
Pleasure.
But what was pleasure? Was it the trophy wife in your life that gave meaning to your aging libido? Maybe the stud found along Central Park in Manehattan, willing to do what any mare—or stallion—with a deep enough wallet desired? Or could it be the shut-in ponies of Equestria, those secluded in the isolated castle they called home, too intimidated to step out and seek love, instead wanting and willing to make it up using art for their self pleasure?
I didn’t know what other ponies do, and if I was being honest, I didn’t want to.
I looked away from the ceiling and turned to my right, seeing the beautiful silver mane of my wife laying beside me. Wrapped up in the comforter and facing away, the only sign of life was her occasional twitching pink ear, letting me know that she was starting to wake up.
To my left, the alarm clock was still ticking away as it approached the sixth hour. I had another half hour before I needed to be up and moving. Get coffee going, so that it will entice the missus to also rise.
We are a working couple; everything we do, we do as a pair. We had modeled together a few times before we hit it off, a chance date out to share a pizza between gigs. That had eventually evolved into love, and from that moment on, ponies couldn’t pull us apart. We couldn’t see ourselves with anypony else, and after seven years, I still believe in that.
And for those seven years, we’ve been at this same gig. Waking up, jumping from job to job, and coming home with a reasonable pile of bits that sat safely in our joint bank account. We never had time to take any of those vacations we planned: traveling Equestria, visiting Prance, or taking a cruise.
We hadn’t even moved out of our dreary apartment.
We could do it. We really could. But we just keep telling ourselves we’re not ready yet. There’s only so much time, and while our minds and bodies are young, we need to keep working.
I wondered, every morning when I woke up next to her, if that’s what we both were still feeling. Or was it just me? Or… just her?
I wasn’t sure how much time passed while I stared at the ceiling, thinking, brooding on my internal struggle as a husband, or more dangerously thinking about the future as a stallion approaching his thirties.
I didn’t even bother waiting for the alarm to sound: I sat up carefully, taking the clock in my hooves to study it up close. I depressed the hammer, shutting off the alarm before it could ring the bells. Our room was quiet, save for her occasional little snores, and the clock’s tick-tocks cascading in my head.
When I stood, I was careful to not disrupt the blanket, or tread too loudly on the floor as I made for the door, begrudgingly heading out to start our day.
----------
I was going over our appointment book when I noticed something odd on our table: a business card for a local realtor in Ponyville.
At first, I simply ignored it. As I turned each page, marking down planned appointments for the coming weeks, that card would catch my eye again and again. I picked it up with my hoof, inspecting it. It was slightly worn, the edges frayed like it had gotten damp, then dried.
Weird. I’d not talked to anypony concerning realty. Had Bee finally started looking for a new place?
The coffee pot had only been percolating for five minutes when I heard our bed creak and moan from the offset weight. It was a stark contrast from when I’d gotten out of bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. My wife seemed to have no such reservations.
Unless, that is, we, meant to make it loud, but that hadn’t happened in a while. At least a month? I knew it hadn’t been two, because our anniversary had been a wonderful night, although it started a bit bumpy from an argument, filled with lots of cheap wine and Jack Gleeson albums.
The sound of approaching hooffalls drew my attention to the hallway. Her long silver mane was a mess, her tail even more so. Blue eyes muzzy with sleep, lids droopy, and she had some dried drool on her right cheek, making her pink face look almost comical.
I couldn’t do anything but smile at her, placing the card down in the book, its possible significance lost to the back of my mind.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I said, happy to see her.
Because I was. I was always happy to see her.
“Mornin’, Tabby,” she yawned, walking into the small kitchen to give me a nuzzle, which I returned in kind.
I gave her messy cheek a lick, trying to straighten out the fur.
She grumbled, but didn’t pull away. “Quit it, I know I look horrible.”
“You look anything but.”
The coffee pot continued to percolate, slow and methodical, putting out the holy smell of black nectar. We both preferred the old stainless canister style over the more modern glass pot. It wasn’t about how fast we got our coffee, but how it brought us together in the morning. It allowed us to both approach the morning at our own pace.
Turning, Bee ran her tail along my flanks and side, then lastly under my chin. She was just… so beautiful. Too beautiful for me. Too beautiful for anypony.
My eyes lingered on her cutie mark. It was a simple letter “B” inside a circle, the color a few shades darker than her pink coat.
Mine, the letter “A” in a square, stood out a shade darker than my dull blue coat.
Few ponies understood the significance of our cutie marks. We honestly preferred it that way.
Cutie marks weren’t always a definitive symbol of what ponies are to the world. I’ve met countless ponies whose marks were subtle, and unless you knew them personally you’d never understand the true, deeper meaning to them. Ours left many ponies scratching their heads in confusion, but few dared approach and ask us outright.
Bee was happy to indulge curious minds about us being models, although when the topic of what and where our images could be found… I would fall back onto my old statue modeling days. Bee, not as subtle, would say we were in several private galleries of the rich and wealthy, and unless you were very good friends with them, you’d never see them.
She wasn’t wrong.
Ponyville was a nice, friendly town, but the fewer ponies that knew what we actually did the better. They’d all welcomed us when we moved in together in this small apartment complex, and would often remark just how well we went together.
It was almost like we were made for each other.
The smell of coffee, and the rise of steam tickled my nose. I blinked, looking down to the pink hoof offering my blue mug.
“You were so out of it, you didn’t even hear it gurgling.”
“Oh. Sorry, I was just…”
She smiled at me. “Thinking again?”
I nodded, stepping over and taking a seat at our small dining table. She joined me, and together, each holding our coat matching mugs, sipped at our coffee. We both liked it black. Go figure.
Taking notice of our appointment book, she hastily closed it. “So, what were you thinking about?”
Her voice was sweet as honey, and my ears instantly shot in her direction. I still remember the first time I’d heard her call out to me. Say my name. Beg for more…
I looked to her, and she was staring at me, expecting an answer.
Do I tell her what’s really been on my mind these last few months? What I really want? For us? For me? Do I want to stir up that old argument again?
We hadn’t talked about foals for at least five years, because our work just wouldn’t permit it.
No… Her.
It wouldn’t permit her.
And after our first time together, there was no other mare I would dare work with.
If she had to wait, then so did I. Regardless of how much it hurt.
“Tabby?”
Blinking, I shook my head to free the cobwebs—they got thicker every day. Looking at her face, in all its messy glory, I wanted to tell her. Ask her. Beg and plead for her to hear my words.
Not yet. Not now. Soon, though.
“Just… about our jobs today.” I tapped the closed book.
She lingered on me for a bit, then our appointment book, and slowly let out a breath. Her hoof rubbed the side of her coffee cup, eyes and ears relaxing like she was relieved by my answer for some reason.
“It’s nothing we’re not used to, Tabby.”
“I know Bee, but I can’t help—”
I was interrupted by her leaning across the table, kissing my lips.
“Just relax. We’ll go about today like we’ve done every other day. We’ll get through it. Now, I’m gonna get a shower.” She grinned. “Care to conserve some hot water and share?”
----------
Morning in Ponyville shimmers.
It really does, the more I pay attention to it when walking towards the train station.
My wife shines in Ponyville. An earth pony mare in an earth pony village. I like to think the village shines right along with her. Sugarcube Corner was no exception as we walked by, spying Missus Cake out sweeping the steps.
“Good mornin’, dearies!”
“Good morning, Missus Cake!” Bee said with a wave.
“Heading for Canterlot again?”
Bee hesitated, so I cleared my throat. “No, not today. Work has us going to Manehattan.”
“Oh my, you two travel so much. Have you had breakfast?”
“No,” I said. Our shower had taken longer than intended, so we’d just finished our cold coffee and headed out.
“You shouldn’t be travelling on an empty stomach! Just one moment!” The plump mare rushed inside.
We waited for several moments; passing ponies gave us the occasional wave or else ignored us completely.
She came rushing out, a brown paper sack in her mouth as she charged down the steps. Bee took it from her, giving the baker a brief nuzzle in thanks.
“Think nothing of it, dearies. I’ll put it on your tab. Oh! Ha ha, silly me.”
Bee looked to me, a smile on her muzzle even with the bag in the way. I simply rolled my eyes. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard that joke a thousand times.
Then, something odd happened… Missus Cake leaned into Bee’s ear, whispering something I could not hear. Bee nodded, and the baker’s eyes lit up, full sparkle effect and everything. She smiled at me, and gave Bee another nuzzle before she returned to the bakery.
That was odd, but mares sometimes did odd things. We waved to her husband, who was looking out the open door at us, and continued on our way.
The rest of Ponyville was bustling with activity. Passing the market reminded me that we needed to get some more apples and carrots. Bee got distracted briefly at a storefront window advertising a new, plush velvet couch alongside a bassinet.
I tried not to look too hard at it. I knew our couch was getting worn, but that one seemed a bit too high end for our tastes.
With a nudge of her shoulder, we moved on.
It was not long before we arrived at the station. With our tickets purchased, we took a seat on the bench and waited. Bee had already dug into her muffin—banana from what I could smell.
Mine, more than likely, was blueberry. I wasn’t hungry just yet, and decided to wait until we were on the train partway to Manehattan. Knowing Bee’s metabolism, she’d want half of it by then, which I’d gladly share. I wasn’t a breakfast pony, preferring instead to have an early lunch, then a hearty dinner.
“Do you think Missus Cake put on more weight while she was pregnant, or after having her foals?”
Taken aback, I couldn’t help but stare straight ahead and blink, confused.
“I’m… not sure.”
“Huh. Me neither.”
What kind of question was that? I was about to ask when the train whistle blew, signaling its arrival.
She jumped from the bench, a bounce in her step as she looked back to me eagerly. I hadn’t seen her like this in… years. When the passion was still fresh between us. Love still as strong as oak. Back when we’d be on a job, looking at each other, longing, wanting to move and embrace each other in the throes of passion. This morning’s shower was a welcome change in routine.
Where had those thoughts come from? Better yet… where had they gone in the first place? I missed those, longed for them, but they seemed to have simply gone away with time. She'd lost interest, and soon, so had I, save for the occasional spat of passion at home, fueled by the fires of alcohol and Music For Lovers Only.
Bee practically dragged me onto the train, lost in thought as I was. We took one of our usual seats, facing away from the locomotive. I hated the idea of watching where we were going, instead wanting to watch Ponyville for as long as I could, until it was but a speck. A reminder that it would be there, waiting for us after our work was done.
I hated these jobs, being a freelancer, and yet, they are what brought us together. They are what we’re good at. We excel at an unorthodox talent that other ponies wouldn’t even ever consider as a special talent.
Yet here we were, seven years later. Sitting in this train car, on our way to do what we do best.
Sitting still.
----------
Bee always said I think too much. I couldn’t disagree with her one bit, but I sometimes envied the fact she didn’t think as hard about things as I did. Or if she did, she excelled at hiding it from me.
It was one of the things that attracted me to her, all those years ago. She was just so… free. Happy. Wild. Sex was great, but I’d take a day of being in her company, of simply having lunch at a local coffee shop over any late night escapades. Listening to her stories, criticizing a passing pony by their looks and fashion.
To me, that was what love was.
The train was just rolling into Manehattan, and I watched Bee licking her lips clean of blueberry muffin crumbs. I was almost correct; she ate nearly the whole thing, save for a single bite-sized piece she offered me with a faint blush on her cheeks.
I was okay with this. I’d get lunch on the way to the studio. There was a small cafe which sold cold sandwiches that I enjoyed just a few blocks from our first appointment.
As we disembarked, Bee rubbed up against my side, walking in sync with me as we made our way out of the station.
Shoulder to shoulder. I stand slightly taller, although walking like this we looked like one pony. My light grey mane, mixed with her sparkling silver. The only major difference was our coat colors.
We weren’t about to pull away from each other any time soon, weaving around ponies who weren’t paying attention to their surroundings. Busy ponies who cared little about anything other than themselves, and if that meant bumping into me or Bee on occasion, they didn’t show any remorse for their actions.
It wasn’t long before we found a small cafe that served a cheap—by Manehattan standards—lunch. Bee went ahead and took a seat at an outside table while I ordered us both daisy sandwiches and small coffees.
I sat down with her, and it wasn’t long before our orders arrived. It had been a good couple of hours since the muffins, and she ate with a gusto that I was envious of. As I ate, much slower, I couldn’t help but notice how she looked at me. Smiling, a cheeky grin behind her coffee cup as she’d drink. Occasionally Bee would run a hind leg along my own under our table, causing me to raise a brow, but smile along.
It was just so easy to get distracted with her, forget what I’m doing, or saying. And yet, a sense of doubt came to the back of my mind. Lingering on a thought, words said in heated anger months prior.
She’s being extra flirtatious. This is… we haven’t been like this in so long… not since before she told me no. No… we couldn’t… I couldn’t be a…
“Tabby, your sandwich is gonna get warm.”
“Right. Sorry.”
She’s already had a daisy sandwich with a side of hay fries. It was a marvel that a mare who ate like she did was still so sleek and trim. It made me envious—I had to watch what I ate, and be careful not to overindulge. Work out extra to compensate because of my family’s husky nature. Our employers didn’t want a plump stallion with rolls or bulges other than where it counted.
Lean, not overly muscular, but enough where when I labored, moved my hips or lifted with my legs, they could see it. We had to work out regularly, not so much for the muscle mass, but because we need to be able to hold perfectly still, even if that meant I had to hold her up while standing on my hind legs.
Dance classes were well worth the bits invested, and we continued to keep up the practice at each and every Ponyville festival. Bee’s previous work at a Canterlot night club had honed her skills to a level far above most, leaving the daring stallions who’d asked for a dance with her lost for words beyond a pat on my shoulder and a quiet whisper about how lucky of a stallion I was.
Indeed, I am.
I made quick work of the last few bites of my sandwich, and after paying our bill we were off once again.
The studio was only five blocks away, and with each step we made… I was less and less certain I wanted to keep on. I glanced over to Bee, and she was looking around at the scenery. We’d passed these buildings countless times. They never change. Just the ponies that mill by us, but she paid them no mind.
She looked back, eyes large and caring. I felt her flank brush against mine, and I leaned into it, a reminder that we’re in this together. If she can push on, so can I.
----------
Sketch Pad lived on the top floor of a ten story apartment complex. A studio apartment, and he used it appropriately.
I rang the bell.
He knew we were coming. He always left the door unlocked, but we always rang the bell. The lobby clock said we still had fifteen minutes before we’d be late, but we were always punctual with our employers. The term ‘freelance’ meant we were self-employed, but that didn’t mean our clients appreciated slackers.
A few seconds ticked by, and the door opened. No clunks of locks coming undone. No guard chain; that was long since removed. He was a very free spirited pony, and thought locks oppressed others, or some sort of mumbo jumbo he once told us. Bee was more accepting of it, while I noted the burglary rate of the area.
“Ah! Tabs, Bee, my two favorite ponies!”
He hugged Bee first, then me. Sketch was an ordinary unicorn: if the tribe could ever be considered ordinary, then he would be the prime example. Slightly plump, rounded edges, and a wild, unkempt yellow mane made up the red pony before us.
He wasn’t unfit by any means, simply husky, but could outrun any police ponies when his loitering in public parks became a disruption.
“Hello, Sketch,” I said, breaking the hug. “It’s good to see you well. It’s been, what, a few weeks?”
He pulled away, nodding his head and walking into his studio, and we followed.
“Yes, yes, I’ve been in a dry spell as of late. My inspiration, my mojo, was lost for some time. But I found it once again, in the embrace of a beautiful mare who not only appreciated my art, but didn’t run when I offered to show her around my studio.”
“Wow, Sketchy, sounds like you finally found the one.”
Sketch swept his hooves around the air, at the abundance of finished artwork, still waiting to find their home in the world.
Then again, most of Sketch’s art never found a home where it could be viewed by all who passed by. These were for the more private individuals, who wanted something to share with their loved one, or alone in fantasy.
“Alas, Bee, it was not to be, for the next morning I found her gone! Fifty bits missing from my wallet, and a clogged toilet from where she vomited profusely the cheap rum and instant noodles of our late night escapades.”
“That’s… something.” Bee looked to me, brow raised.
I just shrugged. At least this time, he didn’t wake up in jail.
“But! I must say, from our late night romping, she left me inspired! I wanted to draw her, paint her, but now all I have of her is memory, and that in itself is fuzzy in the non-fun places. So I knew right away the two ponies I needed to remember her by.”
I groaned. I had an idea where this was going.
Bee shoved me with a foreleg, silencing my unvoiced complaint.
Working for Sketch was actually a highlight of our career. He was usually very relaxed with what we did, allowing us to build up the mood, go along at our own pace, and let things be more natural. A pleasant change from the usual, Stand there, move your leg here, bite her ear, no, lick her ear. Move your hips so I can see you inside her. Rest your dick on her flank. That was always so commanding, absolute, like we were nothing but puppets for the artists to play with, not ponies.
I know Bee especially loved working with Sketch, and enjoyed his rambling stories as he drew us. He was a kooky stallion, but a pleasure to be around.
Sketch motioned to his studio proper. “Now, I hope you two are ready for a fun-filled hour!”
It was a corner of his apartment, where the blinds were turned so prying pegasi couldn’t catch a glimpse, yet still allowed the natural light through to brighten up the space. The city view was also grand, tall buildings reaching up, and if you squinted to the east you could just see the Empire Slate Building.
Surrounding the corner were five easels, all with blank canvases clipped upon them. The studio was furnished with a small bed and a couch with a mad scattering of blankets, pillows, and sex toys, where two, or maybe more, ponies could have a fun time.
Bee was quick to approach, and began making the bed. That was an odd habit of hers, one that I found endearing, although her occasional glaces back to me would earn me a thrown pillow or two for my expression. This also gave Sketch the time to get the appropriate tools of his trade out, cleaned, and ready.
He never complained about waiting on us, about allowing things to run their course. Waiting on him, however, was always constant. That didn’t bother us one bit, even though we were paid by the sold product, versus most of our other clients who paid by the hour.
Sketch wasn’t a real big star in the artistic world, but custom commissions for clients was always a booming trade, especially when a new rising star caught the public’s fancy. Millennia-old cities and empires returning, or even a new princess, always drummed up ponies’ wishful thinking.
And Sketch excelled at giving his customers what they wanted. His cutie mark—a white canvas with a smiling face—spoke of that trait.
Ponies, however outward, still shied away at such public things. So it came down to artists to use their imaginations, to create and design something for them to loosely base a fantasy around, to modify with their own features.
That’s why we were so popular with some of the lucrative artists. We were just plain-looking, ordinary, generic ponies who artists wanted to sketch a simple piece to show off their talent, their poses. To let their clients look through a catalogue of templates, ones that could easily be adjusted to fit what they envisioned.
Being earth ponies made it easier, because horns, wings, or even both could be added. Gryphons and hippogriffs were easy enough to sketch in. Quadrupeds were simple, but when you start getting into the minotaurs, or even diamond dogs, then it became more of a challenge. They weren’t as popular, but Bee was friends with a diamond dog dancer, and we’d met a few other uncommon species in our line of work, so it wasn’t unheard of.
Not that it bothered us any. We were just ponies, and his finished products would not change that.
Bee was just finishing with straightening the comforter when Sketch clapped his hooves together in glee.
“Yes, now I am ready. I need to set the mood for you two.”
“I think we’re good—” I began, but was ignored.
“Picture it, if you will. Last week, here, in this very room. She knew what she wanted, and I was only too eager to provide. Rum imbibed straight from the bottle, shared between us.”
I moved over to join Bee, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her ears were giving Sketch her full attention, although once I sat beside her, she rested her head against my shoulder.
“I’ve just finished showing her my most precious art pieces, the ones I’d never sell, the ones undoubtedly destined for public galleries upon my tragic untimely passing.”
Bee let out a giggle snort, while I simply rolled my eyes. Sketch was always such a theatrical pony.
“Then, I bring her to the studio here. I told her of all the amazing pieces conceived here, on this very bed. She was so entranced with my stories that before long, we were lost in each other’s bodies, melding together as we made sweet, sweet love on this very bed.”
I was about to get off, but Bee nudged me. “It’s alright, they smell clean.”
Releasing my breath, I settled back down.
Sketch’s magic lit, and an almost empty bottle of clear rum was brought to us. Bee reached for it, while I raised a brow questioningly, but Sketch shook his head.
“Do not drink, but smell. Absorb what was our scents that evening. Cheap rum, the oils of my paints. The fresh linens—you’re welcome by the way—and her perfume.”
Before either of us could protest, an atomizer bottle was hovered over us and sprayed. The particles trickled down, and the smell was… some imitation Prench perfume. I knew what the real stuff smelled like; Bee has a bottle from our fifth anniversary.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Bee took a big whiff and let out a contented breath.
I opened the rum bottle, and took a sniff. Honestly, mixed with the perfume and oil paints, it was pretty bad.
“Now, show me that night of passion. Do it. Do it now!”
I suddenly found the bottle of rum smacked out of my hooves. I watched as it tumbled to the floor, spilling onto the small area rug. I looked to Bee, startled at first, until she dove in and kissed me.
“YES!”
Sketch’s voice brought me back, and I leaned into the kiss. This was it, the way it always began working with Sketch. One of us would initiate, the other follow. Bee and I knew Sketch prefered drawings where the mare led, and I was never one to complain about how we built up to the final product.
Well, there was always that one part I wanted to scream at every time, but learned quickly that it would break the artist’s concentration, and that was a big no no. The jokes about “blue balls” never grew old for those ponies that were not me and not blue.
After a few seconds of intense kissing, Bee was quick to shove me onto my back, where my rear hooves barely hung off the edge. She joined me, laying on her side, kissing me passionately, and I was all eager to follow along.
“Almost there…”
I glanced over at Sketch—he was watching us intently, waiting for that perfect moment to strike. He was lost in his own little world watching us; pencil in his mouth, chewing the barrel as his eyes studied our movements, and his long, shaggy tail wagged like an excited puppy’s. Hearing another’s voice gave many ponies in a compromising position pause, but not us. We were used to it. Artists talking to themselves, helpers rushing around to keep art supplies stocked.
Bee and I would tune that out, and do our job.
It always struck me as odd how Sketch would have us get involved with each other, before stopping us to paint. For 99 percent of our clients, they already had the pose in mind. They’d have us get into a general position, then have helpers, or themselves, move our limbs around to their liking. Sketch wanted things to unfold naturally, and we could appreciate that.
However, it made it more difficult to concentrate and hold it once we got heated up.
My wife was rubbing my chest with her hoof, and before long began to raise herself up, straddling me.
It was by this point, I knew I was already unsheathing. It was so long ago when something like that in front of others had bothered me. Now, I paid them no mind. Bee was my sole focus, keeping me entrapped in her eyes, her moans of pleasure, her sweet voice telling me what I want, and need, to hear as we went about ourselves and ignored the others.
It was so easy to get lost in the moment with her, forgetting we were being studied. Freelance bodies whose talent was to stop on a dime when told, and hold that. Don’t move an inch.
This wasn’t like the porn film industry, where over-enhanced stallions with horn extensions ravished and bucked at overtly beautiful mares with wide hips and swollen bits. We’d tried that once, but it wasn’t for us. Bee got bored of constantly being teased, and the spell on my spine and balls to hold back my orgasms grew very uncomfortable the longer it progressed.
No, this was art, where we were being true, real, and captured on a page, or canvas. Frozen in time so others could use us as a template for their own desires and pleasures.
Bee was now sitting just above my groin, rubbing herself on that patch of skin just ahead of my sheath. Her dock and tail were resting against my erection. We were both getting excited now, and I knew, deep down, that at any moment—”
“There! Do not move!”
We froze. I knew it.
This was both the worst, and best, part of this job.
For the first several minutes, we couldn’t move at all. Couldn’t talk, couldn’t change our expressions. Not even twitch our tails, and if we had to blink, we timed them in sync so that no illusion would be lost that we were frozen together. Unless the artist wished one of us to close our eyes.
We were staring at each other’s eyes, lost in the heat of passion. Bee’s mouth was partly open, and she held it that way, her passionate breathing beginning to slow as she relaxed for the long haul.
I wore a happy, tight-lipped grin.
No pun intended, but the ability to hold an erection, without any stimulation, was hard. I had to keep my mind focused, keep grasp of those idle thoughts that kept my attention going, and longing for pleasure. Shallow ponies would say a mare has it easy, that they just gotta get wet and stand still. Bee would tell them otherwise, and I would agree, because there were some times, some poses, where the mare was doing all the work, and she had to keep the stallion at attention.
An artist called that their muse.
My muse was my wife, Bee. That was the best part of my job.
Those deep blue eyes were inviting, drawing me in, never letting me go. I knew this, otherwise we wouldn’t still be together after so many years. I never wanted her to look at anypony else but me, never share these intimate moments with anypony but me.
She was the pony I’d devoted my life to, that I’d shared my vows with. We knew each other in such intimate ways that others might never be able to understand. Practical strangers watching, critiquing, poking and moving our bodies as we laid interlocked in intercorse. Move your foreleg here, shift your tail up and around there.
We took all these in stride, because as long as we were together, none of it mattered.
“Okay, my two lovers, you may now speak.”
I had a bad habit of losing track of time in these situations, when I was allowed to face Bee, sharing our breath or entwined in a kiss. Her blue eyes would just lock my pink ones in their control. This, here, is the moment I work for, where we are but displays for those less fortunate than us. Those who don’t have that special somepony in their life, and use the drawings and paintings of us together as a way to live out their fantasies.
Some would call that perverse. I call it beautiful.
“How are you doing, Tabby?” Bee asked me.
“I’m fine. You okay, love?”
“Of course. Is my tail too tight? I can relax it if—”
“No no, you must not change your tail! It’s perfect!” Sketch looked from his canvas, eyes studying our bodies. “Your tail is hugging his erection, telling it sweet nothings, and promises of what are yet to come, should it allow. Your tail is the director.”
“I’m fine, Bee, really. You were really getting into it.”
“Yeah, well I wanted to make sure this guy here—” she allowed her flanks to shift slightly along my shaft “—was genuine, and stimulated for the long haul.”
“I said no moving!” Sketch growled, feverishly going at his canvas.
“You’re too kind,” I said, fighting back a blissful grin I knew would anger Sketch to no end.
Bee was, truely. I still don’t know what I did to deserve her. I liked to be poetic, thinking it was her love that helped keep it up; past, present, and for as long as our bodies are young enough to be drawn.
“Do you think Applejack is going to raise her price for apples?”
I moved my eyes side to side. “No, she’s too good of a pony to do something like that.”
Her muzzle shifted around, deep in thought.
“Yeah, but the Running of the Leaves is soon.”
“Her cellar apples are fine. Maybe not as ripe for a simple snack, but they’re still great for cooking.”
Bee looked unsure, so I continued.
“She’s never run out of apples for Ponyville in the years we’ve lived there.”
“Well, if she ever did raise the price, then that would be the reason, I’d figure.”
“Probably.”
Some of the ponies we worked for found it odd that we could just talk about our normal lives nonchalantly like we did. Others would jump right into the discussion, like it was totally normal to talk to a couple during a sex scene.
It was worth it, too; that kind of casual conversation was how I got a great carrot cake recipe.
As we lay there practically frozen, mid-coitus, talking about this or that, Sketch would move from his primary canvas and switch to another that was blank. He’d once told us that he did this to see other angles, other perspectives. Once in a while, when he’d go about this, he’d completely re-do the piece, starting fresh again, trying a whole new angle of attack.
That was usually frustrating, because, again, Sketch didn’t pay by the hour. We planned all our appointments generally in the same day, maybe two if we were booked enough and didn’t feel like riding the overnight train to and from home.
“So, do you think the first one will stick?”
I cocked an eyebrow, since I couldn’t shrug. “I think so. The canvases near the window would hide me too much, so he’d need to stick with one of the three centered ones.”
Bee smiled. “That’s true, but you forget who we’re dealing with.”
Sketch glared at us. “I can hear you two.” He glanced back at the rough outline he started, then quickly shuffled back to his original canvas and continued to draw.
Until he got the paints out, we had to remain perfectly still. Our muscles had to stay as either taut or loose as they were as he sketched out our poses in pencil.
He was good at it, as his name would suggest, quickly making a sketch that showed every important detail. Once the paints came out, then we could start to relax and move around some.
----------
Sketch got done more quickly than usual, which was a blessing. He was good at what he did, and knew us well enough by now to focus on the parts that would start to go away before he could finish. Our facial expressions, my erection, Bee’s occasional wink or her taut tail.
It was difficult to keep a stiffy up for more than ten minutes with no stimulation, be it visual or by touch, but thankfully Bee knew how to keep the guy downstairs perked and erect. A rub with her tail, a little breath of air there, even a gentle touch from a hoof or leg when it wouldn’t disrupt our pose. Contact and attention were key to making sure I stayed hard.
Then again, with Bee, it was sometimes hard to retract.
It was nice having an employer that truly cared about us, and who knew us well enough to not push us to our limits—or beyond. As soon as we were able to break our pose, he magicked over a couple glasses of water for us.
“So, what do you two think?”
Bee dismounted from my barrel, stretching her hind legs as she stepped down from the bed. I could tell right away one of her legs was asleep; she limped to a clear spot on the floor, and sat down. Sketch didn’t believe in chairs. She took her glass of water, drinking it eagerly.
I sat up, cracked my neck, and tried to flatten the spot of fur on my chest that her hoof had been resting on. I rolled off the bed and sat on the floor beside her as I claimed my glass. I took a polite sip and then began massaging her right hind leg with my free hoof.
She nuzzled me, which told me I’d been right about which leg was asleep.
We both looked to Sketch, who turned his easel around, with the finished product on it.
Well, as finished as we usually saw them.
The background was still only sketched in, left mostly barren so his customer could specify what they wanted. In the center, on the bed, were Bee and I, in the position he’d frozen us in, our colors painted with watercolors. It was odd to see from a third point of view. She straddled my crotch, her hoof resting on my chest, her mouth open in heated excitement.
I lay under her, a blissful smile on my face, looking up at her with half lidded eyes, My member rested along her dock and back, her tail trying to wrap around it.
Pink on blue. Our colors. Our ordinary looking bodies, our simple cutie marks that told ponies what poses were available. Slot A or Slot B.
It was remarkable how close to home those positions spoke to us.
There could be others in the painting, too. We’d done a partners image with another client once before, where there were two couples having at it. It was one of the few times both Bee and I weren’t comfortable. Not so much with the situation or the additional company, but because the other couple just… weren’t into each other. They didn’t share that love, that compassion towards one another that we had, and everypony could tell.
It was… almost depressing. Could that have been us, if we’d not found each other? If we hadn’t connected so well, fallen in love, and gotten married?
Would I be a chump stallion paired with a random mare for every display? Or her with any young, vertile stallion? Would we both have been strangers on some strange bed, faking pleasure for others?
I tried not to think about that. The very thought of Bee with another stallion set my blood to boil. I could never tell her that, or be outwardly jealous; I knew what we were and what we did. I had seen other stallions eye her up at the studios we work, artists and work hooves alike complimenting her figure. Saying what they’d do with a mare like her… or to her, if she could lose the blue sap she married. But wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that why we did what we did?
“Wow.”
Brought back to the moment, I blinked and looked back to Bee. She was standing now, studying the picture. “Those slots will be bought up in a hurry, I’m sure of it.”
“Oh ho ho ho, you flatter me so, sweet Bee. One such as I can only hope. They would make a handsome profit, but... it pains me so, to have to obscure your beautiful bodies and fill in what others want. Why can they never see the beauty in your form? The way your coats complement each other, or the spark of love in your eyes? Why can they not see the way your passion for one another suffuses your entire form?”
It was my turn to stand, and I gave Bee a kiss on the cheek.
“You know why, Sketch.”
“Yes, yes, those foolish fools don’t know what they are missing. When I see you two, my heart yearns to capture that love on canvas. That romance. It begs to be shared with the world, but the world frowns upon your love! I spit at the world.”
Thankfully, he didn’t actually spit.
“Oh, but upon my dying breath, the world will see you two. Your love, it will be glorious.”
Bee’s eyes seemed teary, but her smile told me they were tears of joy. Sketch had a way with words, and Bee loved the stallion like he was her brother. However, my attention was drawn to a wall clock.
“Sorry, Bee, we should be going. We got two more appointments to go.”
She sighed, but gave me a nuzzle. “You’re right.”
Sketch took the painting, and placed it on his display wall in the studio, along with a half dozen other similar paintings of us together. We were in all manners of positions—nothing quite like the one we’d just posed for, but all simplistic and loving.
It was a shame he wasn’t one of the big name artists, like some of them in Canterlot. We got a larger cut from him than from most of our clients, but only when he sold the slots, so we risked not seeing the bits for weeks, or at worst, months later. He was one of the only ponies we dealt with that genuinely acted hurt to have to cover our images, painting over our mundane colors with something bright and exotic.
“It wounds me, more than you two can know, that ponies do not look beyond your appearance, vain and ignoring your love. I try so hard to capture it…”
Bee walked over, giving Sketch a hug, and a peck on the cheek. “I know, Sketchy, and we appreciate your efforts.”
“Anytime, sweet Bee.” He looked to me. “You too, Tabs. Do not let what others say about you, or your beautiful, precious Bee, ever sway your heart and mind. Now, you must go out there, and show the world your love!”
All I could do was nod, unsure what prompted those words. Yet, coming from Sketch, they… helped. Maybe I was having some issues with our relationship, but was I that readable?
Sketch walked us to the door, and we said our goodbyes for the time being. It was a sad affair that we only saw him once a month or two, but it was difficult to sell for such a niche market, made all the more difficult when they were in a bidding war.
I did not envy the artists.
----------
Our next stop for the day was to the studio of Mister Prim. That’s what he liked to be called, or actually we were told to call him whenever he was around. On our list of ponies we like, dislike, or tolerate, he was near the top of the last one. At times, we found the needle bending down onto our dislike list.
However, his bits were good. He paid cash after a sketch, and it was a premium by-the-hour gig. Some days, we’d be there for an hour, others half the day. We never got any advance warning about this, either, which annoyed Bee to no end.
To her, going out and traveling was more than just work. She wanted to explore, to visit places we normally didn’t. It was difficult, because these days we’d be drained, tired, and simply wanting to go home after a session. Once upon a time, it was a challenge to see how long we could resist each other’s embrace and longing, going most of the day denying our pleasure, telling ourselves we’d check out that interesting place next time.
At first, we'd had sex anywhere we could find a good moment. A cheap hotel, the sleeper car on the train. As the years went on, we’d make it home. Then, at one point, we just stopped, instead going home to bed, or listening to our radio programs and falling asleep on the couch.
Maybe if Mister Prim wasn’t too harsh with us today, I’d surprise her and we’d go out someplace nice. See a show, have dinner at a Prench restaurant.
That would be nice.
----------
Mister Prim’s art studio was on the corner of Twelfth and Oak, one of the more booming, trendy, or what some would call modern buildings to spring up in the last few years.
To me it was gaudy. Ugly. Bee once described it as a waste of rocks and timber that could have been put to a more meaningful use as public toilets.
I couldn’t disagree.
Mister Prim’s office was on the third floor of the building. The first floor held an overpriced coffee shop and a mane salon filled with stylists who wanted to dye my mane or coat or even better, both. The second floor held a yoga studio—we’d tried a couple of classes, but soon found ourselves banned because Bee was more flexible than the mare running it. We’d never had a reason to visit floors four or five; maybe one day we would.
Today we just wanted to get Mister Prim’s ordeal out of the way, and thankfully the unicorn operating the lift knew us and didn’t even ask which floor we were bound for.
“Good afternoon, Mister Tabs, Miss Bee.”
Bee tipped her head politely. “Afternoon, Dewy.”
I could never remember the poor stallion’s name, despite numerous trips in the lift. He was nice enough to stop calling us our proper names after our second visit three years ago.
“How’s your foal?” Bee asked.
“Oh, he’s a hooffull. Already two years old.” He slid the gate shut and then reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a black and white photo.
“Aww.”
“He’s cute,” I said, examining the picture. Lucky stallion.
The third floor appeared, and Dewy pulled the lever back, applying the brake. We stopped with a clunk, and he parted the gates with his magic.
“We’ll see you later!” Bee called out.
“Of course, ma’am. Oh, word of advice, Mister Prim is in a tizzy today, so best of luck.”
“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes, knowing full well he was always in a tizzy, and we walked out.
The elevator opened up to a short hallway, with only a single door at the end. All chrome and glass, with the words Prim and Proper Paintworks reminding us that we were already dreading the fulfillment of this entry in our appointment book.
I opened the door, allowing Bee to enter first. The reception area was a dull, modern chic design with lots of shiny metal edges, bleached wood chair seats and backs, and glass tables and countertops. It reminded me of how I’d always imagined the futuristic setting of the Buck Rogers radio program looked like in my young colt mind, just minus all the fun.
The green coated mare with a short cut blue mane and red wire-rimmed glasses seated at the reception desk barely paid attention to our entrance. I nodded politely anyway, and then we took a seat on two of the waiting room chairs, uncomfortable, but trendy.
The mare pressed a button, and after the buzzer sounded, she spoke into a wooden intercom box.
“Mister Prim, Tab A and Slot B are here, early, for their two o’clock.”
She spoke our names as if we were the worst criminals to be standing in the docks, having committed another offence simply by being early. We were beneath her, two ordinary earth ponies, and she was a high class unicorn receptionist.
I didn’t think there was such a thing as a high class receptionist, but she obviously did.
Of course, since we were early, we had to wait. We knew this game, and Bee happily turned her head to look out the panoramic windows behind us. I looked as well, allowing her to point out landmarks she’d read new facts on. We’d been looking at this skyline for years now, but it never stopped Bee from learning more about them. Places she wanted to visit with me one day. The pegasi flying around the cityscape made me slightly envious, because we couldn’t just go up there and look so easily.
After fifteen minutes she got bored of window gazing, and began reading the Mare’s Health magazine. I was glancing through a month-old magazine myself, a rich pony’s book full of advertisements for sky ships, expensive cigars, and natural-looking horn extensions.
Finally, the opposite door from which we’d entered opened. A large brown stallion with slicked back dark brown hair nodded to us, motioning to follow. We stood, returned the magazines to the glass table, and followed begrudgingly.
Passing several rooms, we get a reminder of what Prim and Proper really was: an advertisement studio.
Single ponies, or clusters of them, were in each room; painting, drawing, designing the next thing we would be seeing on billboards or in magazines, trying to sell us everything they could. Advertisement was a big deal, and I was sure once those in-home moving picture boxes started to get popular we’d be hearing ponies singing and dancing about the goods, the ever-familiar jingles on our radio brought to life.
Bee said movie boxes were just a phase and would die off. My grandfather had said the same thing about the radio, and now they’re in practically every home and office.
Lingering in the shadows of Prim and Proper, Mister Prim ran a side business in the carnal arts. He was not shy about this at all, boasting to anypony who would listen how he could paint anypony in any sort of situation. Any sexual position, with anypony who the client so desires, so long as their wallets were deep. The more high class, the more expensive. He even claimed to have done an art piece of Princess Celestia herself.
He’s a classless lout, and the only reason he can paint such poses is because of ponies like Bee and I he hires to model for him. I doubt Mr. Prim had ever gotten his dick wet, save for some hoof lotion.
We were led off to a narrow hallway, where the offices are still and quiet. These were the private rooms, where the higher-ups of Prim and Proper did their brainstorming, largely consisting of ideas tossed out in a cloud of cigar smoke and alcohol fumes.
From there, we were taken to a solid wood door, marked only with a small black and gold placard which read “Private.” This room was a stark contrast to all the trendy glass panel rooms. This was our usual room, where we worked, and thankfully for myself, they didn’t allow smoking in there.
My father had smoked big, fancy-named cigars when I was little, but he had to go into his study or outside to do so. Mother at least knew to listen to the doctors, and made sure I had very minimal exposure growing up. Even after all this time, my eyes were watering from simply walking down these halls, and I was trying to suppress a coughing fit.
The stallion opened the door, and stood politely to the side, allowing us to precede him. Bee entered and I followed. The stallion stopped behind us, remaining to guard the door after closing it.
Here, we were greeted by the usual sight. A massive bed, which could not be realistic in its proportions: easily five pony-lengths wide, and double that in length. An overabundance of pillows, as well as pink linens adorning the surface. Rose petals and candles littered the ground; small end tables were placed anywhere they could scatter them. Some had padded edges or reinforced legs for certain poses.
There were a good half-dozen stallions all doing things. Some were setting up lights, others making sure Mister Prim’s needs and whims were taken care of, which included supplying expensive chocolates and coffee from the cafe downstairs. And there, sitting in his director's chair, was the white stallion, whose black-on-grey pinstriped suit made his long, slick, black mane look like it was draining down his back in nearly perfect straight lines.
We approached, standing before his greatness, and gave a small courtesy.
“Good afternoon, Mister Prim,” we both said together.
“Tab A, Slot B. Glad you two could show up.”
Each of his words had an edge to them, far sharper than his receptionist. She at least sounded like she could tolerate us. Mister Prim sounded the opposite of glad, like we were carrying some infectious disease, and ought to be thrown out of his building this instant. Like he was just tolerating our presence, as if he hadn’t requested it.
He stood and began walking towards the bed, which we knew meant follow him and don’t keep him waiting.
“Now, I’ve got an important meeting at three thirty, so we haven’t got all day. I have an excellent pose in mind for the two of you. Something simplistic, so I won’t need to explain everything.”
I nodded my head. Even if I’d said anything, he wouldn’t have acknowledged us.
“You’re going to be doing a blend of table top and missionary. I shouldn’t need to spell those out for you, so let’s first set up Slot B.” He pointed with a manicured hoof. “Lay on the bed.”
He spoke like a machine. No emotion, no care, just lay down, spread your legs, don’t block the view with your tail, and don’t move unless I say so. We had other clients who at least asked us what we thought, or if the position felt right. They made sure we didn’t have any injuries that could hinder our positions. Tartarus, most even offer us a drink or made smalltalk before we get to work.
I’d love to call this guy out, tell him he’s a jackass and should show us a little respect. However, while we’re good at what we do, we aren’t the only ones out there doing this line of work. We are replaceable, and he’s made that fact abundantly clear in the past.
It was amazing we’d lasted three years working for the asshole.
I stood back and watched Bee approach the bed, pressing a hoof against the mattress to check the firmness.
“So, do you want my hind legs hanging off the edge? Or spread upward?”
Mister Prim gave her a critical look, but I could tell she asked him a valid question since he wasn’t reprimanding her right away.
“Let us try with legs up first.”
Bee nodded, and jumped onto the bed. With a graceful motion, she laid down, rolled onto her back, and with no reservation spread her legs, revealing her intimates.
Right away I knew something about her pose was off, because Mister Prim’s brows twitched. He marched over, his face practically into her marehood as he studied her teats.
“You’re eating too much.”
“Wh-what?” she stammered.
“You’ve got a bulge, here, of fat.” He poked her stomach. “You’re gaining weight.”
I was pretty sure only Mister Prim could be the dumbest stallion in the world, telling a mare with his face between her legs she was getting fat. If she was any less patient, she could have bucked him across the room.
I’d have spoken, but I was just as stunned as Bee.
“No matter, we can make this work for now. Please, make sure to resolve that before our next appointment.”
Before he walked away, he grabbed her legs, shifting them a little wider. With a nod of approval, he looked to me next.
“Alright, Tab A, drop so we can position you.”
It was still weird having a stallion ask you to get a hard-on in front of him. It was one thing to get one naturally, even knowing a bunch of guys were watching. It’s another to get one upon request.
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, moving my eyes to Bee, her legs spread before me. I couldn’t help but focus on that small plump curve on her belly. How hadn’t I noticed that before? She was always so trim, making this small pudge appear so odd on her. Had I simply not paid any mind? Was I not giving her as much attention as I’d thought?
“Any time now, Tab A,” Mr. Prim growled. “Time is money.”
“Right, sorry, I just…”
Why was this so hard? Urg, no pun intended, but usually I could put all these thoughts behind me, ignore the ponies looking at my wife, thinking if he can’t do it, I sure as Tartarus can.
“Tabby, come here.”
Bee’s voice grabbed my attention, and she was looking to me, laying still, legs up.
Mister Prim looked ready to protest, but I ignored him and approached my wife, stopping alongside the nearest edge to her. She reached over to me, grabbing both sides of my face with her hooves.
“Tabby, it’s okay. You got this. It’s only ninety minutes, then we can leave.”
Home. Ninety minutes. Yes, I got this. We got this.
Looking into her loving eyes, I lost all my concerns. I was worrying over nothing. I gave her a quick kiss on the muzzle.
“Come now, you two. This isn’t some quick romp and go. My patience is running thin.”
I turned around to bark at him, but Bee held my face firm. I looked into her eyes once more, and this time she didn’t need to say anything.
I unsheathed, a slower process than normal, but once out and in the open instincts took over and it began to stiffen. Once Mister Prim visually confirmed I was, in fact, hard, he called over two make-up ponies.
The first stallion was quick to dab some stuff on Bee’s face, darken her eyelashes, add a little blush. Some other stuff I wasn’t sure the name of on her thighs to help the thin fur blend inside her legs. A spray bottle coated her tits and groin with a light drizzle of oil, so the lights would highlight them.
The second pony added some pencil lines to help define my natural muscle. Next they sprayed the same oil onto my erection and ball sack, and lastly brushed my tail and used a thin thread material to tie it so it stayed off to the side, something they knew I struggled to do. As good as I was at controlling my dick, my tail wasn’t so cooperative.
Once the two stallions had left us, Mister Prim made sure one last time Bee was positioned how he wanted her, and then turned to me and motioned with a hoof.
“Alright, I will be having three variants of this shot. This first one I will require you two to be perfectly still. No talking. Once I have that done, I will copy it and apply it to two other canvases, which I will then need to only add your genitals together.
“First, I want you to prod her. No insertion, simply place your head to her fold, and no more force. When I say, the second will be insertion, half—no, three-quarters in, just past your ring. Last one will be a cum shot, your penis resting between her teats, and we will apply a substitute semen along her underside. Get all that?”
I nodded, and Bee gave me a smile.
“Alright, places everypony.” Mister Prim looked to me. “That includes you, Tab A.”
This wasn’t a problem, and yet my legs did not want to cooperate.
It’s never been a problem. We’ve done this countless times.
With practice comes familiarity. So why was I feeling like a rookie again? Nervous, hesitant, and lacking my usual self-confidence. Was it stress? Was I at the end of my rope?
Have the last several months of my mind playing games with my heart finally gotten to me?
“Tab A, are you with us?”
I blinked, nodding.
“Tabby, honey, are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but I was cut off.
“Of course he is. Mount that mare, forelegs on either side of her.”
Again, I nodded, and hesitantly did as instructed. Walking with an erection, I could feel some of the oil they’d sprayed on it oozing into my coat along my stomach, but I ignored it. I leapt up, both forelegs on her sides, tracing my eyes along her stomach.
I shifted my hips, inching my rear legs step by step, so that I was not straining my back, but still looking like I was ready to plunge into my wife.
My tip touched her, and I stopped.
“Good, now I want you to slowly bend your head down, like you’re going in to lick her neck.”
I inched my head down, waiting for the cue.
“Yes, there, perfect.” I froze in place.
I could hear the sound of pencil on paper, Mister Prim already going at the beginning sketches.
Good, we’re off to a decent start.
My eyes lingered on Bee’s neck, then I slowly moved them up to meet her own eyes. I needed to see her, to know she’s here with me. It wasn't just her body, but her mind, her heart, her spirit. All open to me through her eyes, and me to her.
Mister Prim did not notice, or care; the important thing to him was that we made contact. Bee knew the game, perhaps better than I, and already had that perfect seductive smile going. It was rare for Mister Prim to have me change from a more confident, “sure of myself” stallion role, or Bee her wide eyed, enamored look, full of lust and wonderment. There was one time we’d done a role reversal, a ball gag in my mouth as Bee pegged me from behind with a strap-on.
Strangely, it was Bee who after the fact wasn’t all too enamored by the concept. Mister Prim was fine with us doing more vanilla posing, only because he had usual freelancers that did role reversals or stranger-than-strange kinks.
I was glad that Bee had a wild streak to her sexcapades at home, because I was already familiar with that, so it lessened the awkwardness of doing it in front of half a dozen ponies.
We stood still for at least a solid twenty minutes, and then something… changed.
Bee and I had not moved at all, yet I could feel distress from Mister Prim. He’d already crumpled and tossed away two drawings, and that was never good. That usually meant more time, more standing still, and a very grumpy Mister Prim.
“No. No, this will not do. You, new guy over there.” He pointed. “Yes, you, the one trying to hide your erection behind the table. Come here, now.”
I couldn’t see what was going on, but Bee’s eyes were flicking back and forth between two different targets. Laying on her back, facing me and looking partly backwards, gave her a vantage to see what was happening. I wanted to risk asking, but decided I’d wait to see if she showed any signs of distress. Mister Prim often had his moods.
After a few seconds, her eyes focused on one point, which I assumed was where Mister Prim was seated at his easel. Suddenly, her eyes shot up to me, and she blinked rapidly twice.
That was her signal. Something was going on.
“Is everything alright, Mister Prim?” I asked, not moving save for my muzzle.
“No, Tab A, it is not.”
“Do you need me to change something?” I asked.
He ignored me, mumbling something I couldn’t quite pick up without moving my ears. Bee wasn’t worried about it; she had her full attention directed towards... whatever discussion they were having.
Finally, two sets of hoof steps approached. I did not like this, not one bit.
“Tab A, would you please dismount Slot B?”
Bee’s eyes got wide, but she didn’t otherwise protest. I blinked twice to her, and she responded with three.
Are we okay?
Go ahead.
Holding her eyes for an extra moment, I unlocked my rear legs and backed off the bed, my erection bouncing off my belly as I turned to face Mister Prim and another stallion—sporting his own hard-on—which was a good bit larger than my own.
I was a modestly-endowed stallion, but knew the larger, bulkier stallions had equally large equipment.
“What seems to be the matter?” I asked, trying to keep my tone of voice neutral.
Mister Prim cleared his throat. “Simply put, your wife’s stomach fat is ruining the whole illusion, so I’ve decided to scrap the first pose, and go with the other two.”
I raised a brow. “Insertion, then?”
“Yes.” He nodded his head. “And I’m replacing you.”
Blinking hard, I fought to keep my tone under control. “I’m sorry, say that again?”
“I need a large-girthed stallion, to help blend in with her fat roll. This stallion will do, so he shall be taking your place.”
I didn’t even try to hide my displeasure. “No.”
“Rest assured, Tab A, you will still be paid for your time. I simply had a strike of inspiration, and plan to use your wife’s new bit of pudge as an advantage. We shall have this well-endowed stallion mount, and insert to where his bulge will meet her roll. Then, when we do the cum shot, it will appear as a slight cum inflation. A perfect little change, if I do say so myself.”
“And I said no.”
For the first time, the slightly displeased demeanour of Mister Prim shifted into a frown.
“Tab A, I don’t think you understand. I’m changing you out, and am still willing to pay you for doing nothing but standing here. If you don’t wish to watch, you may wait in the lobby.”
“I don’t think you understand, Mister Prim, that no means no. I will not have another stallion mounting my wife.”
“Now you listen here—”
“Stop!”
Both Mister Prim and myself turned to Bee, who was still, bless her heart, holding her legs spread.
“This is not up to you, either of you. This is me, my body, and I say what I will or won’t do.”
“Bee—”
“No. Hush, hun.” She looked away from me, to Mister Prim. “You say we’ll still be paid in full, for this time, even with my husband out?”
“Of course.”
I couldn’t believe this. This couldn’t be happening. Bee couldn’t possibly be thinking—
“Double our hourly rate and that’s a deal.”
“What?” Mister Prim and I said in unison.
“That’s the terms. I will only accept if we’re paid double, for two hours of work.”
“That’s ridiculous! I’d never—”
Bee interrupted him. “Mister Prim, you said so yourself. What you first found annoying, my slight belly roll, is now something you can make into a good kink. You’re not gonna find another lean, trim mare like me with this perfect roll. So, what’s it gonna be?”
My focus was stuck on Bee, dumbstruck. This went beyond everything we agreed to once we’d gotten married. We’d promised each other no other partners, not unless we were both okay with it. I was not; I had made that perfectly clear. For some reason Bee was still willing to go through with this.
Mister Prim didn’t think about her counteroffer very long, because a few moments later, he had another aide over and was whispering into his ear. The stallion then marched off.
“Fine, Slot B, we have a deal.”
“Uh, no, we don’t,” I protested.
“Tabby.”
I looked to my wife, and she was looking at me pleadingly. I walked over, ignoring Mister Prim’s discussion to the new stud regarding what exactly he wanted him to do to my wife.
“Bee, you cannot do this,” I half whispered, half growled.
“Tabby, I know you don’t like this, but…“ She bit her lip. “We could use the extra bits.”
“Not like this! We don’t have any major bills, we’re doing fine, and we have a good chunk in the bank. We don’t need it this badly.”
“Yes, we do.”
“What? Why?”
She opened her mouth, but hesitated.
“I… can’t say, not yet.”
I raised a brow. “What does that mean?”
“Please, trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing. I’ve dealt with larger stallions before.”
“Seven plus years ago, Bee. Unless you…”
This time her eyes grew wide. “No, Tabby, no. I’d never—“
“Then please, don’t let this be the first time, not for Mister Prim of all ponies.”
She opened her mouth, her eyes leaving mine to look behind me. I turned around: they were already spraying the oil on his still-erect member.
“Please, can you trust me?”
I looked back to my wife. Damn it, I wanted to say no. I wanted to take her, leave this place, and never come back to this bastard’s office again.
But I know my wife. She knows her own body, better than I ever could. She’d never push me beyond any point I couldn’t handle, nor I her, so who was I to deny what she said she could take as well?
This was our profession. We posed in sexual positions for money. Neither of us had been with another pony since we started dating—we’d turned down any three-ways or full-contact orgies. The closest we’d come since getting married was sharing a bed with another couple, but we were with our respective partners only.
“I love you, Tabby. Please, let’s just get this done and over with.”
Hoof steps approached. I had to be firm. I couldn’t allow this, no way. Not my Bee, my precious Bee. This was wrong, so terribly wrong. My mouth wanted to fill up with bile.
I felt a hoof on my shoulder. I looked down. It was pink. I followed it to the rest of the mare I loved so much, wondering if this was some sort of test.
Did she need to prove something to me? To herself? Was she trying to make a statement, or show Mister Prim we could take whatever bullshit he threw at us?
Did going along with it make us the bigger ponies, or would we be better off saying no, and stepping away? There were always other clients out there. We’d find another client, and Mister Prim could easily find another mare and stallion.
“Alright Tab A, please step aside so we can continue. Slot B, please return your hoof to its previous position.”
I looked at Mister Prim, whose expression showed little care or remorse over his decision. The new stallion, his body large and strong, his eyes hungry like he was about to indulge himself… with my wife.
I don’t know what exactly happened, because suddenly I’d punched Mister Prim square in the jaw. His body hit the floor like a sack of potatoes; the shocked silence that followed in the room would put a graveyard to shame.