Eat yr wheaties™
Breakfast of champions. Braeburn had heard that phrase somewhere before. You were supposed to say it before whatever you ate first in the day, but it was funnier if you said it before you had something to drink—something with alcohol in it, which was funny in that old fashioned way that ponies before Braeburn's time would like especially, but seemed to share about less and less often as days went on.
Today, breakfast was from the local farmer's market. It always was. Braeburn contemplated there could have been such a thing as a market detached from the concept of farming completely, but that putting wares in the hooves of anypony besides the one who'd brought them up was a travesty against the very notion of farming itself. Braeburn thought a lot about small bits of nothing like this, little whispers that would creep into his head like a breeze through a crack in the window. Braeburn found he had a lot of time to think, when he was working, and when it got hot, especially.
It wasn't too bad today. Braeburn could feel the sun through the window in his kitchen, a quaint little affair stocked with hoof-carved wooden furniture, the type Braeburn came across in antique shops, seducing him inevitably over time with their well-carved curves and lacquered surfaces. If somepony was to suddenly find themselves teleported into Braeburn's house, they might find themselves wondering if they'd shifted in time as well as distance. Braeburn lit everything with simple oil lamps, and he did his cooking on an old-fashioned stove that had been built before he was born. He got his water from a well and he liked it that way.
Still... there was only so much a room could say, when it had been plumbed for conversation every day for over a decade. Braeburn couldn't remember the last morning he'd woken up and imagined something new to happen, an occurrence so far out of left field he had to reach in the depths of his minds most radiant pools of paint to portray where his subconscious had been wandering. In these rare moments, like flashes of inspiration from the sun itself, Braeburn found his mind yanked forcibly to places nothing like Appleloosa: slanted coastlines that curved and vanished into the horizon but seemed still to creep on infinitely, next to the crystal clear ocean. Empty expanses of nothing but cloud and blue skies, and the sense of plummeting, endlessly, but never feeling as though you were falling. Ponies of a thousand colours, mixing together so close their bodies began to blur into a single entity, with Braeburn first standing distant and aside, but eventually being swept into the mass, and losing sight even of himself into the amorphous mess of beings.
He'd considered asking somepony what all these dreams could have meant, but it never seemed worth it to bother with. Who would he ask, anyway?
Braeburn sighed. It was his day off, and he'd slept in later than ever would have been acceptable were there work to be done. 9AM... and for some reason the hands on the clock seemed to be moving in slow motion, as though they were afraid to exert too much effort, lest the internal mechanism of their timer overheat and explode. Braeburn caught himself watching the thing tick, checking the pace against his pulse, wondering if there was somepony somewhere who had memorized the exact length of a second, and whether that had benefited them in life or not.
No, you could say what you wanted about the days in Appleloosa, but ultimately, there was only one sense of the town, having lived in it for any length of time: slow. Boring, if you were feeling particularly uncharitable. And on days like this, with time creeping even closer to a dead stop, there was only one solution to help move things along at a speed that felt normal.
It was occasions like this—occasions of more or less perpetual frequency, that was—that made Braeburn ache for something outside himself. Something more than an empty room to offer his speculations to, or periods of so-called reprieve that resulted in him wondering how long he could or had gone without uttering a single word out loud for anypony to hear, including himself. Days that he wasn't sure the thoughts inside his head were his own, and what he ought to do when they started sounding not just unfamiliar, but seductive as well, offering strange substantiations for courses of action decidedly 'un-Braeburn-like', but ever more inviting as they flickered like movie scenes in the back of Braeburn's skull. Those days, the whiskey was extra necessary, and he kept a spare bottle around, as there was no telling when things might twist uncomfortably around that particular bent nail.
He wanted to feel alive without needing somepony else there to agree with his definition—and yet, nothing in his empty bed reassured him beyond the softness of sheets and the relative warmth of his quilted blanket. A relative had made it, a great aunt or great great grandmother, someone who was more branches on the family tree than a real, tangible being Braeburn could even remember meeting.
It was just a longing, he'd decided long ago. And it was the heart's nature to long for something, so there was no need to make a fuss about any of it. That was what he'd told himself as the pressure built, to let little bits of it off like releasing steam from a valve.
It had worked, for a little while.
Braeburn didn't bother finishing his breakfast, nor did he put his dishes in the sink—the half-eaten bowl of oats and chewed up grapefruit remained on the table as Braeburn pushed his chair in, and as he gathered his coat, keys, and went out the door, locking it behind him.
It was still only 9:35AM. He had about an hour and a half to kill.
Maybe, if he was lucky, he could find something to help dull the pain of his impatience.
If he was really lucky, maybe he could find somepony to help instead.
The bar Braeburn found himself stationed at was only out of sheer convenience, the closest saloon he happened to be near by the time any of them were open. Even as he seemed to be one of the first ponies through the swinging wood doors, it seemed like the place had been somehow operating in full swing throughout the night, complete with one or two permanent fixtures who may as well have slept at the bar for all Braeburn could tell. He avoided the stools near the end for this reason, noticing the smell even from several feet away.
An earth-pony mare with light lavender coat, bouncy, frizzy red mane, and a cutie mark of a pair of star-shaped earrings flounced over to Braeburn when he stepped up to place his order. The smile she gave him made his stomach sink even lower.
"Mornin, hun. What can I do ya for today?"
The smile seemed never-ending, either well-rehearsed or upheld by sheer force of will.
"Whiskey on the rocks, thanks."
"Sure thing. We've got Firehoof, Queen's—"
"Whatever your hoof lands on first is fine."
The mare raised an eyebrow only for a second before returning to her perpetual smile. She gave Braeburn a nod, then bounced away for a few seconds before returning with his drink, a sour dose of sunlight in a glass over ice.
Braeburn took the glass and paid the mare four bits, the cost of the drink plus one bit extra.
"Thanks, hun," she said as she tossed the bits into the register. "Just give a shout if you need anythin' else."
Oh, she'd be sure to see him back for a refill, if the day was to drag on as planned...
It was only a matter of choosing where he wanted to rot for the remainder of the sunlight. Braeburn surveyed the seating choices, not wanting to take up a whole table to himself, but reasoning he may as well until the place actually filled up according with the hour.
There was one that caught his eye though, and not because of the table or chairs, but because of the occupant: a unicorn stallion, with a coat and mane in different shades of stand-out, almost neon green. Braeburn didn't think he'd seen a similar colour on anypony else in the town, even though there wasn't necessarily anything unique about the colour green... just that, in a drab, dust-filled town, most ponies tended to crop up the same colour as their surroundings, more or less. Seeing a pony like that was sort of like finding a brilliant emerald amidst a heap of muck.
Whatever the sensation need accurately be described as, for Braeburn, it came as a simple stop. His hooves froze, as did his eyes, and for a moment his whole body forgot the process of walking forward, until he was for once and surely fixed and staring, blatantly, and perfectly so, right as the unicorn turned to catch him in the act.
And to wink at him.
Braeburn still had his whiskey in hoof, but he'd been through enough bars to know a wink like that was an open invitation at any time of day. Usually it was Braeburn on the other side, or a mare who'd been sidling up to him over the course of an evening and was probably only interested in his company for the station he happened to hold with it. Braeburn found his hooves moving more or less automatically, until he'd reached the table, with only one other seat, and the green pony sitting across.
The unicorn's horn glowed a matching, ethereal green, and a paler aura appeared around the spare chair, pulling it out to offer Braeburn a seat.
It stood as an object of interest, for a moment: the chair. Did it have one half of a contract hiding inside, an invitation to anything besides simply sitting and finishing his drink?
Braeburn didn't know how to speak anything but simple Equestrian this early in the day. Maybe after a whiskey he'd be in a different mood.
"Thanks," Braeburn said, sounding as bright as he could but wavering in comparison to the constant sunlight.
The unicorn seemed to receive it sweetly either way, and gave a big smile, brilliant enough to match the wink from earlier, as well as the mid-day sun and then some.
Braeburn felt a heat in his cheeks, which he hoped was just some kind of a warm up in anticipation of his drink. Which, come to think of it, he'd better get working on if he wanted to finish it in a timely manner. Though, the only one keeping time on his day off was him...
Yes. It did still taste like whiskey, which for anypony who's encountered it and failed to describe it as more than a mouthful of fire and cinnamon will understand encompasses a much more 'all-body' sensation. It is a failure of language to properly articulate taste and smell, but touch is even further away, and they creep next to each other, tingling your body with invisible fingers when you down a swig of something designed to make you burn from the inside.
Braeburn felt a small cough rising in his chest, but he swallowed it, along with another sip of whiskey, which brought his glass already down to the half-way mark. Now his cheeks were well and proper red, which probably gave them an adorable pastel effect inbetween his normal orange-brown. Probably it did, whatever. He wasn't here to think about his own face. He had somepony sitting next to him, and here he'd barely even described them. Words, as usual, were ineffectual.
As well, unbeknownst to Braeburn, he seemed to have sidled his chair much closer to the unicorn than it had initially been, and was now suddenly leaning on him, his chin on the green pony's shoulder, in that special crook designed for falling asleep in, on picnic blankets or camping trips. Braeburn felt hot all over, and it seemed only natural that to cool down, he should share his body heat with his neighbour, to help diffuse the situation over a greater area. The unicorn didn't seem to mind either, he just smirked as Braeburn got even closer, until the two of them were practically smooshed together, snuggled up almost onto one chair. Braeburn took another sip of his whiskey, which was now only vaguely fire-flavoured ice. He frowned. Surely he hadn't been that thirsty?
"Woah, slow down!" the green pony said. They chuckled softly and grabbed Braeburn's ice-filled glass at the same time, setting it down on the table, then noticing the lack of coaster, grabbing one sitting nearby, and plunking it underneath the glass. Once that was sorted, they smiled, and turned back to Braeburn, who was almost melted into them, and seemed to be sweating despite the indoor air-conditioning. "Didn't we just meet? I don't even know your name, hot stuff!"
Braeburn giggled. He'd had his hat on this entire time, and only noticed it now, he could pull the brim down low over his head until it was covering his eyes up, then it was like playing hide-and-seek, tee hee...
"Hey, hey, Equestria to orange stud. You still in there?"
"Oh." Braeburn felt the welling of hotness overwhelm him from the inside, then recede, like a fire that had flared before dulling down to embers. It was one thing to drink early in the day, but another entirely to be drunk that early, and still, Braeburn had only just finished his first drink. Surely enough time had passed that he wasn't making too much of a scene...
Ooh. Or it was just five past eleven, and the mare at the bar was eyeing the two of them from across the counter. Or she was just eyeing Braeburn. It was hard to tell.
"I don't know what's got into me," Braeburn said, wiping a hoof across his forehead. It came away damp with sweat, even damper under his hat, which he still hadn't taken off, and all of a sudden again he felt incredibly thirsty, where was a refill on his drink, he was just getting the day started after all... "I just... just wanted to come over to say 'hi', I guess."
The unicorn who was all emerald shimmers and smiles gave him the biggest grin yet.
"Well, 'hi' to you too," they said. They ran their hoof along Braeburn's hind-leg, propped up and ready to be wrapped around them, until they were certain they could feel the heat from Braeburn's body mingling with their own, and until they could hear Braeburn's hot and heavy breathing turn from desperate pants into even more desperate whimpers and suppressed moans. If there was a bone in Braeburn's body that wasn't ashamed, the unicorn seemed determined to find it out.
Braeburn wanted to answer. He was capable of composing a response at a remote level, but in a more immediate, physical way, his entire head was exploding, torn between warring impulses, and just an overall desire to do something, or things, or just to open himself up in a way he hadn't in so long. It was a song made of fire, calling up from his heart to his head, blurring everything in the process and making him wonder if he'd even woken up in the first place. Was he still lying in bed, and was all of this something he had yet to wake up from.
"Pinch me," Braeburn said, a thought that slipped out of his mouth into the air.
"I'll do a lot more than that," the unicorn said, back with another delighted chuckle. "But we should probably go somewhere more private. Do you know—"
"My place," Braeburn blurted, the image of walking into his own home and being thrown like a play-thing onto the living room couch already occupying most of his head. "Just let me pay for my drink and I'll take you there."
The green unicorn raised an eyebrow. Potentially, as names had yet to be exchanged, it was over being referred to as 'the green unicorn' perpetually.
"I really would like to know your name, though," they said, leaning close to Braeburn's ear to whisper it extra soft, and solicit another drawn-out whimper and shiver from Braeburn in response. "And of course... I'll tell you mine, if you'll tell me yours."
"Braeburn," Braeburn said dumbly, the syllables finding their way onto his tongue and then sort of just falling off. His body wriggled in his chair and against the unicorn's body on autopilot, like he was being tugged by invisible threats in every direction that made him extra alert and sensitive. He wanted to stand up, to lie down, to rut and be rutted and have all of it happen together, impossible to pull apart or distinguish.
He wanted another whiskey, too, but reasoned that it might have fallen on his list of overall priorities.
"My name's 'Soma'." The unicorn grinned, a glimmer in their eye. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Braeburn's eyes scanned the pony next to him, making advances on unfamiliar territory he was already dreaming of exploring. Eventually, he found what he was looking for: a simple cutie mark, of a small urn or vessel, that looked to be carrying water.
"Yeah," Braeburn said. "Pleasure..."
Before the two of them left, Soma led Braeburn to the counter and helped him acquire another whiskey, as well as bringing it to his lips for him to down the whole thing in one gulp. After a few coughs and sputters, the pair left, leaving the bar only to its staff and the lonely occupants who'd already been there when they arrived.
While they somehow managed to make it back to Braeburn's house without collapsing on top of each other in the street, it wasn't much of a difference, more of a continually swooning ball that carried itself forward by bashful eyelash bats and not-so-bashful hooves on hips. Before the front door was even open, the two of them were on each other, slobbering through mouthy kisses and rubbing their bodies against each other in a vague and purposeless fashion, the way an insistence to grind on anything comes about when lust takes over the better part of your brain. Soma was sporting a semi, but Braeburn was full-on hard, leaking precum down to his freshly polished wood floor and the insides of his back legs.
Already, Braeburn was moaning, struggling to get any part of him closer to his new partner. Soma was hard-pressed to keep any distance between them, pushing Braeburn away with his hooves and then letting him back in for more kisses, the heat of their bodies filling the room with the sense of sweltering.
"Mmmmnnh~," Braeburn murmured into another kiss, his tongue occupied, his dick straining for any sense of contact, rubbing his engorged head against Soma's lime-green coat and leaving clear streaks all over. Braeburn was begging with his body as much as possible, and even though he'd forgotten most of his words, his mouth could moan as much as possible until he finally got what he wanted. "Please," he managed, gasped it between tongue-kisses, a tiny spot of air surfacing from the ocean before diving back in.
Soma smiled between kisses, leading Braeburn along so the two of them could make at least inch-by-inch progress towards a more comfortable seating arrangement. He even magicked the door closed behind them, which was more of a courtesy than Braeburn was prepared to provide in his current state. He probably would have enjoyed leaving it open to let the whole town watch.
"Now now," Soma said, following with a 'tsk tsk' sort of expression. "Good ponies get what they want if they do what they're told." He gave Braeburn a slightly demeaning look, which made the lust-stricken earth pony shudder even though Soma was barely touching him. "And they don't make a mess in the living room. They have beds for that."
"Yes, right, the bedroom..." Braeburn babbled along as a sort of apology, trying to summon a solid form of will somewhere inside himself and finding the iron he was seeking softer than aluminum. Still, he managed to keep his hips only to minor bucking as they made their way up the stairs, and he even stopped drooling for a little while as they went down the hallway, before getting to the big empty bedroom at the end, Braeburn's queen-sized mattress almost always occupied by him alone.
Like downstairs, Soma got the door, his horn flashing sea-foam green as the magic tapered into the air.
Braeburn caught himself smelling for the sizzling scent of burnt candles that came along with the casting. It made him twitch, and dribble a little off his tip.
Buried in the back of his brain was an urge to resist, whether by token or in earnest. Braeburn felt it like a mirror of his own voice, somehow scrabbling to push Braeburn away from the lip of a giant cliff. There was an infinite ocean spreading out in front of it, and the spray of the seafoam spry enough to sample, tickling the back of his nose as the mist kissed his nostrils.
"I'm not... I'm not normally like this," Braeburn said. The pair had paused just outside the bedroom, as though stepping over the threshold would implicate the two of them together in some series of carnal activities impossible to dial back from. Braeburn was hot, sweaty, his head was fuzzy and flush, and his cock was harder than it had ever been. Dealing with the combination of sensations made him feel what he imagined the director of timetables felt like at the train station. Coordinating anything moving so fast with so much force seemed impossible.
"I know," Soma said. He gave Braeburn a reassuring pat on the back, taking care to let his hoof linger a little extra until he was sure he'd solicited another series of shivers from the meekly-protesting Braeburn.
"I just... it feels so... lonely."
Soma nodded. The two of them next to each other sidled just inside the bedroom, snapping the door shut behind them.
"Why don't you just have a lie down, and see if things feel better?"
Braeburn nodded, letting himself be led like he was a patient under the supervision of a sexy nurse, Soma's eyes following Braeburn's reluctant shuffle, as well as the helpless bob of his overly-hard cock.
It felt always like he was translating things through a mirror, the insubstantial haze of another dimension that he was only seeing snippets of and then detailing to those around them. Often the only narration was in his head. Right now it felt like his script-writer had taken a leave of absence, and he was with an attendant due to whatever mysterious illness had ridden him suddenly incapable of anything other than wimpy-looking bucks and desperate mewling moans.
But there was the bed. He could lie down, at least, though he found even the soft fabric of his blankets and bed sheets a tad overstimulating, sending little tingles along his skin that wouldn't have normally been there if he was just emerging from the covers on his own. Not just having another pony there, but knowing the intimacy was within the both of them, about to begin and bleed into the air until there was nothing they could smell but sweat and sex and the urge for each other.
Braeburn wondered this often, though again, he had nopony to express it to: was a pony exactly the way in one thing the way they were in everything else? That is to say, Braeburn's facade of confidence and leadership and always knowing what to do... how obvious would it be that it was just a mask when he was whimpering and exposed, begging for attention and receiving it only when the pony apart from him decided he was worthy. Maybe there was always this question of worth embedded, whether or not he was good enough, just the raw empowerment of being in company that electrified the time, supercharged it, made the seconds tick longer and more profoundly as they went by, embedded consciousness into the hours and left long scripts on the details of the days left behind.
It was all hot and fuzzy. Braeburn let himself lay down, and Soma was next to him, almost immediately. Somehow, they'd wound up in the proper place. Braeburn wanted to be the little spoon, but his cock was too eager for attention to leave him with only his own hooves, and therefore spun him around until he was facing the lime-green unicorn he'd met less than an hour ago at a table in the back of a bar.
If he assessed it again, maybe the outcome should have been different. But this felt right, and Braeburn's feelings had taken the wayside for too long. It was time to have just enough control to give up that control completely. Braeburn could hold his breath for a long time, but he greatly preferred letting himself drown.
It felt like it was a good idea to ask for guidance: to let somepony else do the thinking and directing.
"What should I do now?" Braeburn asked, his voice quavering and meek. He wanted to reach out with his hooves, to touch the pony in bed next to him, as though his hooves hadn't become familiar enough already on their walk home, and now just wanted free purchase to explore and conquer as they pleased.
Soma smiled back at him, a gleaming grin that sparkled the same as his horn had when laced with magic.
"Just try to enjoy yourself," he said with a sly smirk.
Braeburn felt a hoof running up and down the length of his cock, then one on the other side, sandwiched between two soft-but-stiff holds and rubbed slowly, coaxing it to an even fuller size than Braeburn had realized was possible. 99% of his body seemed devoted to controlling his cock, the other one percent to occasionally letting out moans and matching whimpers as a signal for more.
Whether Soma needed any more coaxing, he didn't say. But his hooves continued to stroke, and as Braeburn lay there, more or less paralyzed by the frenzy of his lust, Soma slid himself sinuously down the bed, creeping like a slow touch on the back of Braeburn's neck, until his mouth was perfectly level with the poor earth-pony's dripping member. Little clear-white pearly beads were drooling from the tip, mimicking the way Braeburn had let his tongue hang out, begging for attention with every fiber of his being and then some. Soma gave the simpering stallion's shaft one last prod, smirking as Braeburn whimpered.
"Poor thing," was all Soma said before he parted his lips to take the head inbetween them.
Braeburn's groan filled the room, like a noise let out from a dying animal to paint its last red mark on the overhead midnight. Braeburn's whole body thrashed, his hips bucked up like the whole of him was at the end of a vaccuum, this font of vitality now affixed to him and making his senses reel, tousling through a new and welcome whirlwind. His hooves looked for purchase on the bed and found only the scrabbling sheets, he did his best to cling to them, but felt the sensation of floating away all the same.
Around Braeburn's cock, Soma's tongue wrapped like a snake coiled over a staff. He bobbed his head up and down, lathering the whole of Braeburn's throbbing length and even painting the base of his shaft and his balls with saliva. No protest would have ended the act, but Soma's shaft was hardening as well, he was finally letting himself grow to match the occasion, and there was only so much hard pony dick in your mouth you could take before the rest of your senses and drives got the better of you.
Soma gave the swollen cockhead one last loving lick before he pulled his head away, leaving the slobbery mess of a shaft steel-solid and bobbing in the air attached to Braeburn's insistently thrusting hips.
"Come up on the bed," Soma said. His voice felt commanding and reassuring, a combination of both that was supposedly Braeburn's specialty during normal affairs. Now it crept into his ears like a sinewy syrup, and there was nothing he could do to resist.
Braeburn got up on the bed, just the way he was told. Before any instruction, he knew which position to assume. He'd been in it before, put other ponies in position just the same.
Face down, ass up. It sounded simple, almost childlike. A little ditty you said to yourself before taking the pose. At night's, Braeburn would touch himself like this sometimes, rutting into nothing against his sheets and staining them with the glimmery streaks of his precum. He would go until he could almost feel somepony else at his back, pressing against him, their warmth, their hardness, their hooves gripping his hips as they slammed him against the bed...
Braeburn let out a meek, high-pitched whimper as Soma took position behind him. He could feel the heat and proximity already, the air itself seemed to move in accordance as Soma straightened his shaft and lined himself up. Normally Braeburn would have given the lube-job before getting down to business, but his head was too scattered to make any sense of the course of events. Rut, rutting... it was a blur, together in the same way Braeburn and Soma had come to each other that morning. Braeburn was reminded of the time, resented it simultaneously, and focused himself on biting down a healthy piece of pillow.
"Ready?" Soma said. He leaned in close to Braeburn's face, letting his hot breath tickle the side of Braeburn's ear, earning him another in the long symphony of whimpers, and a backwards grind of Braeburn's ass as well.
"Yesss," Braeburn said, slurring the 's', rubbing himself backwards, searching for entry before his partner pushed forward. There was no hope of accuracy, Braeburn only succeeded in smooshing his butt onto the other pony's cock, not in a purposeful way, but just a hungry, hot sense of desperation, the way two young colts might frot each other before knowing the nature or implications of the act. Sex always felt like that for Braeburn, a hot want, but not a need, something to be embarrassed about after and silent about before. But in the moment, when the whole world had caught on fire... even breathing felt sacred.
Soma gave Braeburn a few last seconds to prepare. The head of his cock was mysteriously well-lubricated as he lined it up against Braeburn's puckered butthole, somehow not necessitating any extra attention before being ready to plunge inside. And yes, Braeburn was tight, but the slippery, honey-like gel that had been applied seemed to do its job, and before either pony could take a successive breath, the gap between them had been shortened like that, only a few hooves' worth of length, somehow impossible and perfect simultaneously. Whether anypony consented to spiritual interpretations of what was physically happening, the two of them were together, like that, whether or not they liked it. If Braeburn moved his hips, surely Soma would feel it. The wheel of causality flowed in both directions.
With his grin grown to an absurd size, and his horn glowing faintly from ambient arousal, Soma tapped Braeburn on the back, prompting him to turn his head amidst writhes and whimpers.
"You feel great," Soma said, shoving his hips just the extra inch left they could grind together, and earning an 'mmmph!' of approval out of Braeburn's tightly pursed lips.
"You toooo," Braeburn moaned. He wiggled from side to side, washing himself in the feeling of being stretched inch-by-inch, whatever the size of Soma inside him, enough to give him that sense of final, overflowing fullness. Toys never came close: Braeburn could slam himself down on a dick the size of his foreleg and only get a meager dribble out when he was done. Give him somepony real, somepony's flesh he could touch and taste and smell, that unmistakable salty scent of precum that reminded Braeburn so vividly of being a colt in puberty, his room drowning so much in the musky smell after months of self-love that his mother must have had to clean it while he was out at school.
As usual, thoughts made no attempt to connect to each other during the act of sex. A roller coaster, tornado, and technicolour tapestry all woven into one. Braeburn always failed to recount his encounters as anything meaningful in this way as well. Just that it felt... good.
"I want you to rut me," Braeburn said, his voice taking on hungry growl. "I want you to buck me, fuck me, fill me all the way—eep!"
Braeburn's subconscious torrent of dirty-talk was interrupted midstream by the sensation of his mane being yanked. Like that, he found his head snapped to attention, and then pulled a little further past, until he could crane back and above and see Soma smiling at him with a look that carried the same terror as a stare before a shoot-out.
It was, in a full sense of the thing, a reply to Braeburn's request. But it also let Braeburn know that his begging, while not unappreciated, was a direct slant in the dynamic of things to play out.
Only a second longer linger between their eyes. Braeburn managed a meek nod, another whimper, before his mane was released, his head allowed to snap back into position.
Position. The rest of him took that up too, filling it like a model, leaving his body up the attentions of the pony behind him, in whatever way they took fit to use him.
It was that feeling too: of being useful.
Braeburn shook his head in an attempt to clear the haze, but there was nothing besides the haze to take its place.
Soma began to pull his hips back, finally—it felt like Braeburn had been waiting even longer for this first real thrust than to have something inside him in general—and there was that moment, as all moments are broken up into smaller pieces, where Braeburn could have counted an infinite amount of seconds, holding his breath and begging and waiting and tensing and clenching and unclenching, and finally, there it was, he could feel the motion, the fullness, the stiffness, the girth, all part of somepony else inside him that went deeper and deeper and deeper until there was nowhere else to go, and even then, a slight nudge further still, pressing up against that special place so deep and forbidden in Braeburn's butt that it made him feel like an embarrassed little colt being admonished at school. Even though he'd done nothing wrong, the way it took him over was always too strong. His whole body wanted to weep, and sometimes his eyes did.
It wasn't a change in demeanor, necessarily—Braeburn knew the feeling could take over like this, as Soma became more silent and gruff, as his thrusts became more about the motion and friction and less and less about the melody of Braeburn's response. It reminded him of something then too: hot cinnamon, a cup of tea that burned the roof of your mouth. Braeburn found himself in the sun often, incapable of telling when he'd taken in too much warmth.
"Yes." Braeburn found himself saying the word, then acknowledging he'd said it. A detached version of himself was watching from another room, afar and adjacent simultaneously. The hot, sick scent of honey and sugar was everything in his nose, all the smells of salt and sex being taken over by this new and peculiar aroma. His cock was achingly hard, throbbing, begging for attention and release and respite each time Soma's hips slammed against his ass and forced him into the bed. Through two part participation, they were recreating Braeburn's nights alone, the desperate grinding he'd do to make a mess of his bedding for the next morning. Waking up stained and sticky, it almost felt like somepony else had been there with him, but left before he had a chance to kiss them goodbye...
"Yes," he said again.
Soma grunted behind him. It was a tenseness, building, you could sense it in somepony else the way you could yourself. Braeburn could, anyway. He could feel the extra erratic thrusts, the way the unicorn's balls would swing and slap into his own. That was always almost enough to push him over, he'd had nights founded on the premise of that little tickle of touch, whole rounds squeezing spurts out of him just with a tiny tingle of nuts rubbing together. It was like that now too, though still through the filter. Braeburn breathed in deep, snorted the air into his lungs through his nose, and caught at last the tinge of adrenaline musk that was his reminder of place and purpose: head down, ass up. Rub, rub, rub. Rut, rut, rut. It came to him like that, in a voice in his head, and he followed directions perfectly.
There was no announcement. Soma's thrusts became more haphazard still, erratic jerks back and forth, barely clinging to the premise of pleasure between them that wasn't at the end of this forsaken tunnel. Braeburn bit his pillow and clenched regardless, he would always cum when they did, regardless of whether or not he wanted to. That moment was always too much, it took over like a brilliant lightning that blazed in every atom of the skin, already it was welling up, the static electricity that collected before a storm...
Another grunt. Braeburn wanted it to be words, but nothing rang to his ear like that. Soma simply slammed home one last time, and Braeburn felt it. Felt it inside him, filling him up.
He felt it a lot. More than ever, as though he was focusing intently instead of just being yanked by the neck through the riptide. He'd already felt delicate, vulnerable, like a paper doily about to be crumpled and thrown away after it was used up—but this was a more complete sensation, it really was full, all the slippery stuff that had lubed up Soma's shaft before it had slid inside Braeburn's butt, now coating him until his insides swelled, it did feel like that, after all... Braeburn couldn't help but moan, to clench his eyes shut tight as he felt himself fill up with warm, hot goo, all of it stuck inside him with Soma's throbbing prick as a plug.
Braeburn's own cock had tried to hold out, but eventually had to concede as well, firing a hasty spray of hot, white spurts up the length of the bed, so fast and fierce some of them hit Braeburn on the face as he was leaning down. On the chin, to be particular, where he licked them off with only a few seconds' hesitation.
The change was subtle: the vaguest flicker, like catching a hologram on one side before it snaps away. Soma's face, his horn, and his emerald coat, all blinked, shimmered, and gave way to an insect-like set of crystalline eyes and jet black carapace.
Only for the second. Soma's face still contorted either way, and when the image returned to normal, neither pony had seemingly noticed it anyway.
It was definitely the smell of something, a flower or fragrance that had crept in through the window... Braeburn sniffed at the air as he wiggled his hips, streams of squishy liquid pouring out from between his butt-cheeks and pooling on the bed.
Soma pulled out, and Braeburn collapsed into the sticky puddle as if on cue. Soma let out a long, fulfilled sigh, and slid into place on the other side of the bed, taking up where there were barely any wet spots, as compared to the trench of liquid on Braeburn's side.
And still, miraculously, Braeburn felt full. Possibly he'd never had so much sticky stuff fired inside him before, or just never let himself be this taken away by the experience of somepony else's body. Possibly he had just cum very hard and was still yet to return to Equestria.
But, in fact, there was a more elusive reason for that feeling of fullness. Frozen in that flicker between realities at the moment of orgasm was, as it turned out, a small but insidious payload accompanying the load of faux-semen Soma had pumped into his companion. Like rewinding a film, if you paused at just the instant when Soma let himself go, and therefore blurred between forms, you could see the head of his prick swelling wider than ever, expanding to make way for the careful delivery of...
"Are you staying for breakfast in the morning?" Braeburn asked. He turned over on the bed to face his companion and smiled, his half-hard cock still dangling playfully between their two bodies. "I know it's just past the afternoon, but if the rest of the day passes that quickly..."
Soma smirked and ruffled Braeburn's mane with his hoof, earning a playful giggle for his troubles.
"Oh, I suppose I could stick around," he said. His eyes gleamed with something hidden. "Though, I dare say I'm still a bit hungry now..."
Normally, Braeburn would have still had the strength to turn away, but his body was more drained than he could account for, and felt overmore like a bundle of wet fish flopped on top of his actual self. He sort of felt happy to just lay there, Soma to lounge over him in replacement of a blanket. Their bodies fit together, the acid electricity that came with first touches gave way only to the dull fire burning underneath, the texture and sensation of being dragged towards the end of a brilliant white hot tunnel, yanked there over and over again by the hem of your neck, if so inclined. Braeburn let out a little mewl as Soma slipped his hooves over Braeburn's half-hard prick, cringed away meekly as the gentle taps became more insistent rubbing.
Again, he would have protested, but felt only affirmation on the other side of the mirror. It made no sense to push somepony away when they were so close, and still, even to drag him into hardness again, that was okay too, he could take as much as was necessary if it was for his new friend... Braeburn shook his head, expecting the sensation of swimming behind his eyes to dissipate, but only found it to deepen. When he blinked, it felt like a pool sloshed around in his head, disconnecting thoughts from their stems and swirling them about in a lusty, overheated soup. Before he could return to counting the seconds, Braeburn was hard again, the whole of his cock slippery with the load of cum he'd sprayed on himself and the bed only a few minutes earlier. He hadn't gone this hard into himself since being a teenager, unless the pony he was with happened to be interested in giving him that sort of attention, and they never did. Soma's hooves felt harsh at first, a little too rough on either side. After not too long, they gave way into slippery clouds, evidently from Soma parting his lips to dribble a healthy helping of spit down onto Braeburn's cock, a crystal clear river running down to the base like a river.
A sparkle of disagreement sparked in Braeburn's chest. He raised a hoof, the preemptive to pushing away the pony with eyes locked on his hard-on. But his hoof had just begun to move forward when his eyes locked with Soma's, and the sweltering swirl in Braeburn's brain became complete nonsense. All his previous inhibitions faded like dew from morning to afternoon, and now his cock intensely interested in any potential attentions. Soma's mouth was unbearably close to the head of Braeburn's cock, so close the heat from each breath tingled against Braeburn's prick and caused it to twitch in response.
For once, a feeling came before the words. With Braeburn, it was always the other way around, what to say first, like a rehearsal, before anything was said. Now he felt the impulse, the intent, the inclination: he wanted to serve. To be with, to belong. To serve and be in service of. The same glory that Princess Celestia bestowed to the sun. Braeburn felt it glowing inside him, a warm, pulsing sensation that crept up from his stomach and heated his chest. His heart seemed to beat along with it, each throb he could still feel tingling from the load he'd taken in his ass going along with the gentle thumps barely audible above the heavy panting both ponies had defaulted to. There was no need to complain, no need to protest. Braeburn need only do what he was told, and that would be enough to make him happy.
Soma could see it, there was no need for translation. And, like that, his form rippled completely, giving way to the inky darkness hiding underneath his false skin, the glistening dragonfly wings and glimmering chitin riddled with holes like a pox. His eyes, bulbous, many-faceted, crystalline.
Braeburn looked into the changeling's face and saw perfection. The swirl of haze and aroma that had swallowed his senses earlier flared up in full, it was the nectar of a Queen, a hierarchy handed down through love and exchanges of dripping fluids. Braeburn felt this in himself as fully as he felt with anything, a softball sized passenger lodged inside him and oozing insidious secretions. All along the lines of the correct, all something desirable and right and true. Braeburn wanted this feeling to remain in him forever, and yet its beautiful tragedy was to pass. He could read this inside himself as well, all of it spoken in the walls of flesh without spoken words. Braeburn's mouth opened without him knowing why, and a steady stream of drool began to pour onto his chest. His brain contained only the hint of a single word, his cock twitching and aching for attention as every second dragged on.
"Good boy," Soma said, before parting his lips and slipping his mouth down around the entirety of Braeburn's cock.
Even though his brain, in its muddled state, had indicated only slightly intensified sensations after already firing off a first time, somehow a secret awakening had been stored beyond that, and Braeburn felt his entire body catch on fire. He didn't know how to describe the physical world at the best of times, love and lust even more mysterious, and this new chemical compound inbetween the two, a single scream that used his body as its voice. Braeburn's hips shuddered away from the intensity, then rocked back into it, letting Soma's changeling face suck the whole of him with a perfect expression, mimicking a siphon to get every bit of cum left in his balls.
Braeburn thought there wouldn't be much left, but then something extra inside him squeezed, all parts were hidden in there anyway, and maybe the throbbing, lumpy something lodged in his butt was a piece of the equation, he couldn't tell that either. Braeburn let it happen to him, as he expected life in general had happened before then, and as he might continue to let it occur, but with a more overwhelming sense of completion. He wanted to be good, and useful, and all the things that came along with the feeling in his head, new and familiar all at once. He wanted Soma's cock again, wanted to get even more full up, to have as many of these things inside himself as was possible. Would he be good enough? Would he be worthy enough?
It was no use. His balls clenched in so hard they practically appeared to vanish, his sack shrinking against his body. Deeper than he knew to touch, Braeburn's prostate seized and squeezed and did everything it could to vanish into as small a space as possible, wringing out every last drop of prostatic fluid and then some, until Braeburn got that awful, forbidden feeling, that he was so empty and so unclean inside the only way to make things right would be to split him in half and scrape out every bit of jizz with something sharp and curved, until finally, finally, he could say he was empty, and at last, ready to be filled up again.
Soma hummed happily to himself as he sucked down Braeburn's load. His cheeks puckered inwards, his tongue slurped up and down the length of Braeburn's shaft, coiling around it again in a snake-like fashion. Braeburn's cock, like the rest of him, wrung itself as hard as possible in an attempt to go dry. Like the rest of him, it barely, barely failed to succeed.
Not a drop went missing. Soma swallowed with a pleased-sounding gulp, and his eyes glimmered in every facet of their lenses.
Braeburn's voice was gone, but it came from him regardless, summoned up the strength in his chest and lungs to do what he knew was necessary. To do it for somepony else, which was the most important thing of all.
"Thank you," he said, nodding to the changeling he knew as his new master.
Soma nodded back at him, sparing a slight smile, causing Braeburn to shiver with the sense that he'd done a good job.
"Now you may sleep," Soma said. It was still early, but there was no escaping the need for rest after a mating session. The egg inside Braeburn still had work to do, and Braeburn would be due a few more excruciatingly close-to-the-edge orgasms before the night was done. Soma would wake him for those, a bit like feeding an injured animal overnight. It was a calming practice, altogether, and Braeburn's mind would already be swimming with happy feelings, telling him he'd done a good job in his allegiance to the changelings.
All that was left was to wait...