Heartbreak; if you were a dragon, you could smell it in the air, maybe even taste it. A salty, sour, tear-like mist. Spike wished he had the luxury of sampling it from afar, instead of wading and wallowing through it like a morose swamp. It was a lot easier to appreciate the subtle aromas of spoiled romance if you didn't happen to be the recipient yourself.
At length, Spike had contained himself to his room for weeks. It wasn't a secret to anypony that he'd had eyes for Rarity since the first day he met her, and a crush that had built up over that long could theoretically take as long to heal as there was time left in the observable universe. It was therefore either a miracle or a direct defiance of entropy when Sweetie Belle found time to amble over and attempt to cure the poor dragon of his sorrows. Though the two of them were friendly enough after years of Spike's visits to Carousel Boutique, it wasn't as though they'd ever spent a lot of time together; Spike was always busy pitching woo at Sweetie's older sister, and up to a point that had been all he was interested in. Sooner or later, somepony had to clue him in on the situation, and who better than Rarity herself?
And though he had sequestered himself, and cried and grumbled that all his years of affection were for naught, Sweetie Belle had forced her way through the haze of grump and reminded him that whether or not Rarity wanted to be his special somepony, she was still his friend, and, besides, weren't there plenty more pegasi in the sky, metaphorically speaking? And Spike had gone on, oh, but Rarity, and Sweetie Belle had rolled her eyes and hit him with a pillow and promised to keep it up the next time he got misty eyed. She'd promised to come over every day that week for lunch, and she did, and by the end of the week, Spike practically felt like himself again. He'd argued about taking down the poster of Rarity on his ceiling, but Sweetie was quick with a pillow, and the argument hadn't lasted long.
Only two years ago. Strange, in a way he couldn't find another word for, the way time changed everything. It was like watching yourself grow up sometimes; you remembered a day picnicking under the sun when you were barely tall enough to see the apples at the tops of trees... and then in the blink of an eye, everypony you knew was grown up, going to school, concerning themselves with mortgages and foal-rearing. Maybe that had been part of the problem the whole way: where Rarity had always wanted to be mature, and distinguished, Spike felt perpetually like the little ball of purple-and-green scales that had emerged from his egg-shell only yesterday. All the world was new, even the way the sun looked at the break of each day. The way it glowed so radiantly used to remind him of Rarity. Now it just reminded him how nice the sun was.
One of Spike's favorite parts of friendship—and that had gone on with Rarity, even as much as it pained him to see her, she was still always available to talk and listen as much as Spike could bear without creeping into his old stock of x's and o's—was the way you could rely on someone else. You could rely on them in a way you couldn't rely on yourself, when you stared the clock down at the beginning of a new day and the blankets felt too heavy to throw off even for a second. You could count on somepony like Sweetie Belle, especially Sweetie Belle, to give you three solid knocks on your bedroom door before barging in, yanking off the covers and demanding you get up and face the day. Usually she'd be wearing the same outfit from her morning jog, and though Spike hadn't admitted it to anyone, the sight of Sweetie's bulging buns wrapped up tight in her shorts was a more mouth-watering sight than any breakfast waiting downstairs. Spike made certain to keep those thoughts to himself, on account of not wanting to ruin another friendship with untoward thinking. Even if he found the mental image of those two cream-coloured cheeks bouncing into his brain before bed from time to time...
Focus. Sweetie Belle had said 'yes' to lunch, and that's all they were going to do. Spike was bringing the iced tea.
It was a wonder with so many impromptu get togethers and hastily arranged meetings that anyone in Ponyville managed to track each other down on time, frankly. Spike had developed a talent for appointment-keeping after years as Twilight's assistant, but any amount of inactivity will render a skill rusty eventually. Spike was maybe fifteen minutes early. He considered promptness an accessory to politeness, only because Twilight had repeated that about fifty times a day when she was still in school. Spike reasoned you could respect somepony and be late for an appointment, but he'd never come out on top in an academic sense of the debate.
Still. Whether he was late or early, lunch with Sweetie Belle was a bright spot in an otherwise sour week. Twilight had started a new project apparently necessitating the retrieval of seemingly unending volumes of old, dusty scrolls, which of course Spike was assigned to assist with, since Twilight was too busy reading them to be of any real use. Before he'd showered, Spike felt like he'd rolled in a ten-century old carpet and come out as some kind of dust-bunny mummy. He was warm and clean now, but there was still a layer of grime that wouldn't come off until he got to kick his claws up and relax with a good friend.
When he got to the door of the Carousel Boutique, Spike considered waiting around a while before knocking. He wouldn't have minded so much, but if the iced tea got warm, that would put a damper on the entire lunch. So Spike knocked, somewhat apologetically, and waited for Sweetie to let him in. Probably she'd be wearing something light and suitable for the season... maybe a nice, semi-translucent sundress. It was purely an aesthetic appreciation, Spike told himself.
It took longer than usual for somepony, presumably Sweetie Belle, to come to the door, and even longer for them to unlock it. Spike hadn't realized, even coming over for frequent visits, exactly how many locks were affixed to the front door. You could never be too careful when it came to fashion secrets, Rarity always said. Spike tried not to think about it.
Spike was all smiles waiting for the door, even as long as it took. When Sweetie Belle's face peeked out into the sunlight, Spike smiled even brighter.
"Hey, Sweetie Belle," Spike said. "Sorry I'm a little early. I brought drinks though!" He held up the pitcher of iced tea he'd carried from home, standard recipe with a little extra lemon because Sweetie liked it sour. Spike could always add extra sugar if he needed to (which he did).
At first, Spike was certain he'd just goofed by arriving before their appointment. Sweetie Belle looked anxious, or maybe that wasn't the right word for it, just a little—off her guard, almost? She kept darting her eyes from side to side, and her face was all... wet, or... sweaty? It seemed like she'd just gotten out of the shower, in which case Spike couldn't blame her for being a little grumpy.
But the more he looked past the boutique doorway and studied his cream-white companion of the last two years, the more Spike noticed things surely couldn't be exactly as they seemed. For one, Sweetie Belle was only greeting him with her head poking out, the rest of her hidden behind the door. For another thing, though her face and mane were damp, it didn't seem they were wet, at least, not enough to indicate that Sweetie had been standing under a spray of water recently. It was more like she'd been sweating, profusely, and was even panting a little, trying to hide the fact that she was out of breath.
Spike sniffed the air, and tasted it with the tips of his forked tongue. The same way heartbreak resonated with its own distinguished scent, Spike's olfactory brain put two and two together and recompiled inside his head the peculiar, familiar smell, unique to everypony, but shared in broad strokes between moments of hot, sweaty passion, cloistered in bedrooms and underneath too-warm sheets.
Sweetie Belle smelled like sex in other words. In polite terms, like... pony-sweat. And that peculiar, unnameable aroma that permeated the air, the same tinge of smell that Spike recognized from his own sessions with claw and dampened pillows, but Sweetie's with less salt and more the hint of flowers, and damp, wet earth.
"Uh... hi, Spike," Sweetie Belle said. "Can this wait until another time? I wasn't expecting you, and I'm kinda, uh, busy, at the moment..."
"You forgot we were having lunch?"
Spike's face fell, as did his arms, holding the pitcher of iced tea perilously close to the ground.
Sweetie swept through a range of emotions, most of them focused under the governing lens of overall panic. Her eyes snapped from Spike, to the pitcher of iced tea, to the bright overhead afternoon sun, back to Spike, to something inside that Spike couldn't see, then to the iced tea. Then back to Spike.
"Uh," Sweetie Belle said again. The sweat on her forehead glistened under the sun. "No, it's just... look, today isn't a good day for me, okay? Can't we just reschedule?"
It was hard not to take any rejection personally, but somehow Spike felt he wasn't getting the full story anyway. And he still hadn't gotten to sit down, or drink any of the iced tea.
"What's going on?" Spike asked. He tried his best to crane his neck inside the boutique and peer around to what Sweetie's overall state might be, but she pushed the door further closed and scowled at him when he attempted to enter again.
"Nothing's going on!" Sweetie Belle snapped. Spike had barely heard her like this before it was a rarity that her normally; calm and adorable demeanor slipped into any thing resembling a fit.
But that's what she was doing now, and Spike felt himself at a strange impasse. He collected, in the back of his head, a strange vision of himself stepping overboard a sinking vessel, deep in the murky blue ocean, and finding himself sinking to the very bottom, heavier than the densest stone.
There was always the moment, turning back, when you either let them push you away, or pulled them in for the hug. Spike felt like he had read about this once before.
"Sweetie," he said. "Come on, what's going on—"
"Nothing's going on! Can't you see I just wanna be left alone right now?"
A sour sting sizzled in the back of Spike's recollections. The same voice that Rarity used to use, when her wallowing took on in full form.
"Sweetie," he said again.
She was off, running upstairs to her room and sobbing without any more care to keep the door shut.
Spike made sure to put the iced tea in the fridge before following Sweetie to her bedroom.
Spike had been inside Sweetie's bedroom before, and after the first few times had even managed to do so without feeling like an unpolished rock in a garden of flowers.
Today, Sweetie had shut and locked the door on him. Even her door was cute; a mix of pink and purple swirled in a pattern that matched her mane. Spike knew from experience the bedspread inside was of the same colour scheme—colour coordination was apparently a family intuition.
It was hard to fit Sweetie's crying into the marshmallowy picture. Spike had never heard her upset like this, and for about as long as they'd known each other, he was the one on the consolatory arm of the proverbial sofa. Was calming a friend down as simple as helping them the way they helped you? Or was there some more arcane magick to it?
Spike steeled himself, resolving the lump in his throat to stay there as long as it wanted. He had to at least try.
So he knocked twice.
"Sweetie Belle," he said. "Can you let me—"
"Go away!" Sweetie's voice was loud, even though it sounded muffled by a layer of at least a few pillows.
The yell reminded Spike. Years ago, standing in more or less the same place, a same-sounding sobbing coming from the other side of a locked door. Back then, he was the only one who'd stuck around no matter what, because he was sure the feeling in his heart wanted him to. It felt like a swallowed web of complications bubbling up in the bottom of his stomach. Something he wanted, or needed, to push away. Sweetie was his friend. He was here to help her, and that was that.
"Sweetie," Spike said again. "I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, you can always talk to me—"
Sweetie answered with an incomprehensible howl, followed by the sound of her hand thumping into the clump of pillows she'd been using to muffle herself.
It felt right to try the door. He did, and found it was now unlocked.
Spike let himself in quietly, and closed the door behind him without a sound.
Once again, he felt like a curmudgeonly stone in a beautiful floral arrangement. Sweetie's whole room looked to be made of cotton candy. Spike was still dressed for the afternoon walk, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a faux-leather vest over top. The t-shirt logo was mostly obscured, but presented a scribbly, sort-of-childish picture of Equestria's night-time princess, underneath which were scribbled the words "NOT SAFE FOR WOONA". Perfectly normal attire for an afternoon lunch—maybe a bit out of sorts planted in a sobbing girl's bedroom. That was how Spike felt, anyway.
But like it had every other time past the first few, Spike's out-of-place anxiety diminished rapidly, even more so when the sound of Sweetie's persistent sobbing crept to his ears and reminded him he was here to help, rather than just hang out. He made his way to the foot of Sweetie's bed, still somewhat awkwardly, but managed to plant himself down next to Sweetie's stretched-out legs, and to offer a consolatory claw-stroke along the length of her back, which, though she grumbled against it through her pillows, seemed to draw a somewhat welcome sigh afterwards.
"Can you just tell me what's the matter?" Spike asked. "I don't think there's any reason for us to keep secrets from each other. You're my best friend."
Sweetie raised her head from her mound of plush, fluffy pink-and-white pillows. She wiped away the tears still gathering at the corner of each eye and sniffled as she did so.
"I'm your... best friend?" Sweetie's voice was meek, shaky as projection could be when tapered through the tangle of sobs still ringing inside the chest. But her eyes sparkled, just a little, and Spike caught it the same as he might spy a glimmering jewel in the dense, dark interior of a forgotten cave.
Spike nodded.
"Uh-huh," he said. "Is that okay?"
"What? Of course! I mean..." Sweetie sniffled again and turned her head. When she turned it back, she was smiling, ever-so-softly. "Of course it's okay. You're... ugh, this is so stupid!"
Spike hadn't gotten the response he'd expected, but he knew things could lead in uncertain directions when volatile emotions were evolved. De-escalate, calm, relieve, and work on addressing the issue. That sounded like something Twilight would say, which probably meant it was a good idea.
"Just tell me what's bothering you," Spike said. He put his claw on Sweetie's shoulder, pressing gently into the soft fabric of the blanket over top. "I'm sure we can work it out together."
Sweetie sighed a long sigh. She waited a long moment to get up, and when she did, she kept the blankets tucked around herself, holding them up like a full-body shield.
"Would you still like me if I was a boy?" Sweetie blurted the question out like it was fire in her mouth, scalding her tongue if she kept it too long.
Spike stared, and gave a few blinks for good measure, to assert the absurdity of the question his ears were questioning.
"Uh... yes? Is that a real question? I don't like you because you're a girl, you're my best—"
"What if I was way bigger? Like... huge, instead of tiny?" Sweetie clutched the blankets even tighter against her chest. Was she referring to the meager size of her breasts, which Spike had no official interest in anyway, or her overall stature, carved out into possibly more luxurious hips and encompassing thiccness... which again, Spike had no bother investing in the particulars of?
"What's this actually about?" Spike asked. "Can't you just tell me?"
Sweetie sighed again, like the breath running through her was attached to the current in the background of the universe, moving in gentle surges to keep her aligned again. Spike found himself breathing calmly to match her, and soon the two of them were in sync, the atmosphere of the room gathering around them like a tense, electric fog.
"Promise not to tell?" Sweetie asked, her eyes wide, trusting.
Spike nodded. His stare back was serious, determined. He'd had his trust broken enough to know how much it hurt.
"Promise," he said.
"Okay," Sweetie said. "It's probably better if I just, uh, show you..."
"Show me what—oh."
Without so much as a flourish, Sweetie Belle had yanked off her blankets. She was, fully and completely, naked in front of her best friend, and a complex series of chemical and emotional interactions had taken their first step towards a war that would result in their perpetual annihilation. Hormones had demands, and Spike was ill-equipped to answer them.
But there was also the matter of the sizable 'diversion'.
The 'particular' of Sweetie's problem, cleverly alluded to in her questioning.
The significant and undeniable attraction now presented between them.
Sweetie Belle's huge, throbbing cock.
Truthfully, Spike had never seen one like it. Never that, uh... big, before.
He found himself doing some silly calculations in the back of his head. Quick maths, if you will.
"Wow," he said, softly, mostly to himself. "That's, uh... pretty big."
Sweetie's lower lip threatened to overwhelm the horizon and eclipse the planet as she pouted it out. The only more tangible threat to Equestrian infrastructure, by measure of sheer magnitude, was her giant, pulsing, twitching, veiny, monstrous...
Oh, alright. It wasn't as big as all that. It was just very easy to get carried away when confronted with something so... overwhelming.
Spike found himself fighting the urge to harden and soften simultaneously. He felt ashamed of his own size, embarrassed that he was ashamed in the first place, and then somehow absurdly delighted in the comparison, as though there was ever any hope of contesting Sweetie's gargantuan member, and there was therefore no need to worry about it, and finally, he could just stare, and appreciate the sheer enormity of the thing, the way it hulked and loomed and looked wholly incapable of fitting anywhere without a lot of dedicated shoving and lubrication. In the end, 'hard' won out, and his own dick started a fierce quarrel with the crotch of his jeans to see who could more profoundly assert their space. Spike found himself wondering if it was possible for his cock to simply burst through the zipper from sheer arousal. Maybe today he'd find out.
Sweetie's sullen face was hard to contextualize, next to her giant love-muscle. It didn't seem the sort of thing to be disappointed about.
"It's beautiful—you're beautiful. Um." Spike scratched nervously at the back of his neck. "I mean that as a friend, of course. Heh."
Sweetie's mouth scrunched up like she was on the sour end of a prank, but as the likelihood of Spike lying to his confessed best friend crept in, Sweetie's expression softened infinitely, a wave sweeping over her from head to toe, giant cock included, that she might have been worried about nothing.
"Really? You're sure it's not... weird?"
Spike shook his head and put a claw awkwardly on Sweetie's shoulder for reassurance. Awkwardly because at any distance, maneuvering around the obstacle of Sweetie's engorged prick was a challenge. Spike managed, but he felt just the slightest hint of skin against his claw, just once, and it was enough to make his cock twitch furiously in his pants as though it wanted once again to break free.
"Who's to say what's weird? I think it's, uh, kinda hot, but that's, uh, still my opinion as your friend, I mean—"
How Sweetie managed to lunge towards Spike without simply smacking him with her gigantic cock was a wonder, but somehow she pulled it off, and her lips felt as soft as the rest of her in those small glimpses of friendly contact, the long-lasting hugs or gentle squeezes of reassurance. Spike didn't seem even to remember he had a mouth at first, and only then to open it dumbly and let Sweetie Belle work her tongue inside, swirling and playing and making his jeans even more uncomfortable.
The kiss was over more or less as soon as it started, but it left an impression in Spike that he wasn't sure he'd soon forget. More specifically, it left him with a lot of questions.
"Sorry," Sweetie Belle said, sounding like she meant it. "I don't know what came over me, I just—"
"No," Spike interrupted. He smiled brightly in a way that made him look as boyish as ever. "It's fine. It was... well, it was more than fine, I mean. Uh." He cleared his throat and did his best to look straight into Sweetie Belle's eyes, both pieces of the pair nervous in their stares.
Unfortunately, Spike's eyes kept moving to a point just between the two of them, where Sweetie Belle's 'new information' remained insistently hard and stuck out even more than Spike did.
"Uh," Spike said. "Is it normally that, uh. Big?"
Sweetie blushed even redder than she had been, which was a bit of a look matching the pink and purple of her mane. She looked a bit like a candy-apple covered in sugar-floss.
"No," she said. "It just... I was kind of... before you showed up, I mean..."
"You forgot we had lunch?"
Sweetie's face threatened to become a uniform shade of crimson.
"Yeah. I'm sorry. I got distracted, and when you knocked, it just kind of, threw me off..."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
It was a relative silence to each of them, minus the soft sound of breath in and out, and the fixation between them both on the enormous pole that had been occupying Sweetie's attention instead of her other afternoon appetites.
Possibly, in the infinite distances away from Ponyville, a single bolt of lightning poised to strike the earth.
"You know," Spike said, "I've always kind of, uh... nevermind—"
"No, no, what is it?" Sweetie turned sharply towards Spike, adorably oblivious of the way her almost foot-long prick would swing in accordance with her momentum. Spike stared at it, mouth parted slightly, as the veiny, girthy thing slowly bobbed to a relative stop.
"Uh," he said. "Well... your, uh... your..."
"My dick," Sweetie Belle said, somehow finding a coaxing, warm tone that softened the atmosphere (though not anything else).
"Yeah," Spike said, sweating more by the second. "Well, your, uh, your dick... what I'm saying is, do you think, uh, as your friend, I mean, would it be possible, to, uh... you know, maybe I should just say it—ah!"
Sweetie Belle closed the distance between the two of them, taking only a moment to push her cock to the side so it wouldn't keep their faces apart. Her breath was warm, and Spike shivered as he felt it on his face and neck.
"You wanna touch it?" Sweetie Belle asked, her voice dripping in honey.
Spike swallowed, though the nervous lump in his throat persisted. His plan was to clear it out by force.
"Yeah," he said, short, and breathless. "And, uh... maybe, if it's okay with you—"
Like she had shortened the distance between them on the bed, the same immediacy that had drawn their kiss together, Sweetie Belle smiled, just a brief second for Spike to glimpse, before she placed both hands on the back of the sweet dragon's head and guided his head down—well, not down very much, really, more sideways—to her enormous prick. A small shuffle of positioning on the bed put them so close Spike could almost press his entire body against the thing, treating it like this magnificent, unknown treasure. He found his mouth watering as though it was natural, and with Sweetie's hands still on the back of his head, parted his lips and extended his tongue for the first taste-test of Sweetie Belle's gargantuan futacock. He found himself murmuring the word quietly in the back of his mind as his tongue touched skin, his palette instantly overwhelmed with the heady, warm sweat-scent of a pony's prick already having been rubbed warm and hard.
Whether he'd thought about this a lot, or just a little, Spike's tendency to let himself be overwhelmed by passion was as present as anything. Sweetie Belle next to him was more in for the show than necessary as a guide. The fingers resting on the back of Spike's head curled and grabbed against his spines as his tongue began to work, finding instantly a little spot beneath the head of Sweetie's prick that made her howl extra loud. A few minutes ago, Spike hadn't even known his best friend was sporting a twelve-inch dong and a low-hanging set of balls to match, but now here he was, wondering to himself, sizing up in his mind how much of the shaft he could take before he absolutely started gagging. Something he'd never tried, yet found himself mysteriously wanting to excel at.
Lightning aforementioned could strike or not. Spike felt stars sparkle over his mind's-eye, remembered a position that might make tackling Sweetie's sheer enormity more manageable.
Spike allowed himself to draw his head up from Sweetie's prick, to which Sweetie answered him with a desperate-sounding whimper. Spike could smell an intensity in her sweat and secretions, the extra taste of adrenaline that surely only came when somepony other than yourself was touching, when somehow and suddenly you were open to an entire world of sensations that had never been written down or shown in the light. Spike found himself oddly inspired to poetry, but did his best to suppress the urge to pontificate in verse for later.
"Hey," he said. It took a few seconds for Sweetie to notice, and then a few more for her to respond.
"Huh?"
Spike grinned. Sweetie Belle's suddenly abridged vocabulary made him feel a strange commonality between them. As though he'd be able to come up with something better to say, having just gotten his first sort-of-blowjob.
All the more reason to take it to the next level, in Spike's opinion.
"I remember seeing this in a magazine once," Spike said. With Sweetie's full attention, and Spike's eyes still playfully unable to leave Sweetie's prick, Spike laid down on the bed and turned himself until he was on his back, with his head just poking out over the side. While he was fully clothed next to a naked Sweetie Belle, he felt just a little silly, but reaching down to undo his own jeans felt just as odd. Maybe he should—
Sweetie Belle leaned down and kissed him before Spike had a chance to make any further adjustments, and it was her hands that undid his jeans, springing his cock free and instantly seeing it poke out the hole in his boxers. It was a relief to not be all pent up anymore, and Sweetie's hands rubbing him, parts bare skin, parts through the fabric of his boxers, were already sending him into that barely-capable-of-conversation place Sweetie had been just a moment ago. Like that, the token of control went between them, and Spike's brain reeled in desperation to come up with a way to seize it back.
"Hey," he said meekly, swatting without much conviction at Sweetie's hands, by now cupping his balls and jerking his shaft up and down in earnest. "I'm supposed to be—ungh!—the one... fuck!"
"Mhm, but you look so good, I can't help it," Sweetie said. She licked her lips while looking in Spike's direction, then dove down onto his cock, taking the whole thing in her mouth in a single motion and letting out an overjoyed murmur, humming along the length of his shaft.
Spike groaned wordlessly and bucked his hips up off the bed.
"No fair," he groaned, "time out. Time out!"
Sweetie giggled and pulled her head off Spike's cock with a sexy-sounding slurp. "Sorry," she said without really meaning it, and smirking for good measure.
"Come on," he said. "I wanna try this. You're supposed to stand here, while I lay down—"
"I know," Sweetie Belle said. "I just couldn't help myself."
Spike laughed and smiled back at her.
"It's okay. Trust me. I know the feeling."
Sweetie kept her smile, eyes sparkling without a hint of tears.
"Here?" she asked.
"No, a little bit—like, right in front of me, so your, uh—"
"Oh, right, I get it. So I just kind of..."
"Yeah, just, put the tip, uh, in my mouth, and then, uh, kinda... fuck, my uh, my throat..."
Sweetie grabbed his head by both sides. Her face was upside down over his, but the direction of their lips seemed irrelevant.
"Oh, Spike," she said.
She kissed him before her name could reach his lips. Names like that, beautiful and absurd. Just saying it, she felt something that was outside words.
When the kiss finished, a bit of drool remained on Spike's lips. Sweetie wiped the trace of it off hers. She looked at Spike, checking his eyes for determination and certainty.
"You ready?" she asked.
Spike nodded, which looked silly, his head upside down on the bed. Both of them smirked.
"Yeah," he said. "Come on."
"Okay."
It still felt a bit awkward. Just... shoving it in there like that.
Oh. It was like he was daring her to wait. Spike had, reached out and just started, squeezing her balls, one, then the other...
"Come on," he said again, sounding even more eager. Spike licked his lips with his big dragon tongue, and opened his mouth wide, showing off the back of his throat and his slightly pointed canines.
"Oh, fuck," Sweetie murmured to herself.
She didn't need any more encouragement, couldn't have handled it if she wanted to. Spike's mouth was open, and the head of her cock needed to fit inside, it had to, she couldn't get all this worked up and not have a release, she needed it, and that was what Spike was here to help with...
Spike, lying on the bed, wondered how to describe to anyone else the feeling of being used as a tool for somepony's orgasm. It wasn't anything he was familiar with, having been denied any such helpfulness by Rarity in perpetuity. At a reach, you could see bringing yourself to climax in a similar vein, but Spike didn't view them at all similarly. Here, he was offering himself wholly up, his entire body for use and perusal by his best friend. He hadn't expected to walk into a foot-long futacock when leaving for lunch this afternoon, but after seeing it between Sweetie's legs, throbbing and glistening and begging for attention, Spike had felt something awake in himself that felt fiery, alive, and unable to be subdued. His mouth had watered, and the hardness of his cock had persisted since he'd gotten a proper stare at Sweetie's enormous endowment. That same something inside himself had wanted to open up, to let Sweetie use him in whatever way she could to feel good. That was what friends were for, after all, wasn't it, to help each other, to make each other feel safe, and good, and happy, and to fuck each other in the face until the tip of your cock was bulging out their throat...
Urk. Spike felt himself choking a little, but nothing he couldn't adjust to. Sweetie had started off gentle, just testing the capacity of his mouth and esophagus... and then she'd picked up the pace, just a little, until she was doing it, really, they were doing it, a proper face-fucking... but Sweetie felt even that wasn't right, because what she noticed most particularly was the way the head of her cock protruded inside Spike's throat, the bulge she could trace with her own eyes as she buried it deep and her Spike slobber and gag just enough that it sounded like choking, a sound she hadn't heard before or known herself to enjoy, but suddenly felt addicted to. What was that sound, why was Spike letting himself be used like this, practically a toy hole around her shaft, and he seemed still to be liking it, as nervous as he had been at first, surely he'd let her know if anything was too hard or too fast.
Sweetie found her resolve to restrain her movements weakening. She saw Spike's hips move weakly up and down, thrusting his cock into the air, pre-cum leaking down from the tip. She heard his weak-sounding gags, but saw how his claws remained either gripping the bed-sheets or roaming over his own body, pinching his nipples through his t-shirt or rubbing his cock idly between Sweetie's thrusts into his throat. Whatever the intent of the earlier afternoon, the two pieces of the pair had found each other, and Sweetie was throat-swabbing Spike with her enormous prick until one or the both of them came to climax.
It wasn't, therefore, that Sweetie Belle meant to increase the force of her thrusts, necessarily. Just that she did, anyway, and whether or not Spike's gags intensified, or the nature of his movements suggested slightly more at protest, that was something Sweetie was no longer particular to, or something she was even capable of paying attention to. Sweetie had started thrusting, shoving her prick down Spike's throat, and at last her hands had found the side's of his face, and held him there in place, savouring the stifled-sounding squeaks the mostly-immobile dragon made with his mouth around her prick. There seemed to be no part of Spike's topside that wasn't occupied with Sweetie Belle's cock, and each time her thrusts increased in intensity, her balls would slap even harder off his face, adding to the absurd symphony of sex sounds as Sweetie drew closer to her climax.
There was no part of her left to speak, to remember words, where she was, anything beyond the constant motion, cock-to-throat. Sweetie's nostrils flared as she sucked air down greedily, fueling her thrusts, her balls swelling with a load as gargantuan as her prick. Her fuck-sounds, which had before consisted mostly of sweet whimpers and moans, were now animalistic, base and raw, like a timberwolf's growl before eviscerating its prey.
If he wanted to protest, Spike made no sign of it. He held onto the bed for dear life as Sweetie Belle slammed him, her thrusts more and more erratic on approach to the finish line.
"Spike—!"
It was all Sweetie managed to get out before she started cumming. Her hands fell from the sides of Spike's face in short order, trembling with the rest of her, as her balls seized and scrunched up against her body, exchanging with the shaft of her prick the first shot of the pent-up load that had been building since before Spike's arrival.
At his most generous, Spike would have compared it to sticking his mouth on the end of a milkshake machine. Certainly the consistency was around as thick. But as far as Spike was aware, milkshake machines had an 'off' button, and after the first few frantic gulps of cum from mouth-to-throat, Spike was rapidly beginning to suspect Sweetie's balls might have seized the key to an infinite production of sticky white jizz, currently being used to paint the inside of Spike's throat, stomach, and anywhere else he'd forgotten to remember from biology class.
Holding onto the bed became an unnecessary goal from past times. Spike focused only on breathing through his nose, then on keeping the spillover from his mouth from getting into his nose, then finally on pulling his head away when he caught the size of each spurt diminishing, and Sweetie Belle's groans softening, along with, mercifully, the shaft of her prick still lodged inside Spike's throat.
Only when Sweetie's balls were decidedly, certainly, verifiably and completely emptied, did Spike allow himself to pull away from her cock and catch his breath. Sputtering, coughing, cum leaking from his mouth like soft-serve ice cream.
It took a short while for Sweetie Belle to come back from whatever plane of animal reality she had been on. Her face washed through a spectrum of emotions, landing somewhere near 'guilt' and 'satisfied shame'.
"Ohmigosh," she said, staring Spike's cum-covered face, t-shirt, and the pools here-and-there in the bed-sheets. "I'm so sorry. I don't... I don't know what came over me."
Spike waved a hand. "No worries," he said, through the last of his coughs and sputterings of cum.
"That was... that was really hot," Sweetie said. Though her cock had began to soften, it was still big enough to be the focus of attention.
"Yeah," Spike said. "It was. Like... really hot."
"Kind of the hottest thing ever, you could say."
"Yeah. You could."
The two of them sat on Sweetie's bed for a moment longer, reveling in respective degrees in the smells of sweat, cum, and pervasive arousal in Sweetie's bedroom. Sweetie cleared her throat nervously, and Spike did the same, though with more practical purpose.
"So," Sweetie said. "I guess we should reschedule our lunch?"
Spike nodded.
"I guess so."
He smirked at Sweetie and patted his stomach, then licked his lips, catching a tiny drop of cum on the end of his tongue. He slurped it up and winked at her.
"After all," he said. "I did just have a pretty big meal."
[LAUGH TRACK OUTRO]
