Perpetuating the Pegasi
I set down the newspaper’s voluminous personal ad section like a mislabeled apple pie.
Fuckin’ lazy cads, the lot of them! Fibbers, too.
Emphasis on lazy.
Prize-winning racer, true-breeding pegasus.
Shipped discreetly and fast.
If he were a real prize-winning pegasus, he would fly here for live cover and be back at his house in the time the vials otherwise would arrive. Besides, everypony knows that live cover is the proper way to perpetuate the pegasi. Those nerds showing charts and graphs singing the merits of direct insemination were not shoved into enough lockers as colts. Don’t stallions allegedly enjoy the live cover procedure more, anyway?
“Never fear, Berry, you’ve got this,” I think as I double-check the forecasting spreadsheets. The numbers stood firm. Finances and hormone cycle lined up this year as the ideal year for me to perpetuate the pegasi. A lack of stallion was the only tribulation.
True-breeding pegasus sounds sure sounds nice, though. No need to move back to Ponyville if my foal can fly. No need to rent industrial produce storage when I can keep using my old farmhouse as my warehouse.
Getting up to go to bed, the mare in the mirror pins her ears at me. RUDE! I cannot pin my ears any farther than she has—
Oh, my ears were pinned before I entered the mirror’s view. The mare pinned her yellow ears at my scowl, not unforced aggression. Untreated heat brings out the worst in a mare. If only I hadn’t been looking forward to a foal next year[1], I could call on a mare friend to relieve me. To this day, I don’t know why she likes it so much, but she quite plainly does. There’s no way to seduce a stallion when I'm convinced someone just switched the apple butter and pear butter labels. Not when it’s showing like this.
I skip past the pile labeled “Pornography to turn you off,” a collection of stallions acting like absolute dunces with their erections. Straight stallions mounting each other because they were closer than the mares? Check. Stallions mounting inanimate objects with easily-accessed holes? Check. Stallions mounting the wrong end of a mare without care? Check.
Such old familiar favorites would need to wait. If I turned myself off stallions altogether, there’s little hope I’d make any genetic contribution to flying ponies. Without my progeny, who else will be around to warn future pegasi of the dangers of the Apple Store?
“OK Berry,” I start thinking before forgetting what I wanted to affirm. Flying to the kitchen with a mini disc in feather, I load the video while arranging supplies. This one’s a favorite; as much as I hate that I like it so much.
Bad porn music squeaks from the tinny kitchen speakers. The camera fades in as a greyed-out mare raises herself to stand from a slight squat. A periwinkle stallion meanders to check if she’s in her full season. I wink hard in anticipation of what happens next. Winked and leaked a bit. He begins licking at her plot with wild abandon and zero regard for accuracy as the camera zooms in. No focus at all, not even on the entrance with the most-tastable evidence of her heat. Evidence which I will let absorb into the cloud. Yes, a horny mare does live on this cloud.
He licks and licks. Some are applied to the clit; others try to part her nether lips to taste her directly; still others are a full-bore tease of her ponut; rarely, they go wild and reach her dock. With each stroke of his tongue on her ponut, I back myself into the damp washcloth hanging over the counter's edge that’s just the right height. The initial cold on my ponut sent a shiver up my spine that amplified into a full-body shake. It wasn’t the rimming that got me going: Celestia knows I’ve rimmed enough stallions to warm them up. It was how unconcerned he was with where his tongue landed. He enjoyed tugging her ring to the side every bit as much as when he pulled her lip aside on a loopy lick to her clit that made a silly sound when her vulva slammed shut—just imagine it: a surprise whether you suddenly feel joy on your anus, clit, dock, or dangly loop. Not some laser-focused orgasm machine (I’ll use one of those soon enough), but a lover fixated on a mare’s entire plot.
Foreplay concluded with more traditional mouth moves. First, he starts to alternate up and down from clitoris to dock. I give myself a workout bending my legs to adjust the washcloth between the relevant nerve bundles as I try to match the action on screen. The cool dampness of the cloth contrasts my humid winks. Humid winks that make my hind legs twitch.
He then turns his head sideways and works his lips. First, he massages her ponut. Next, his lips make out with hers. Finally, he works her large button. Her distorted nickers and squeals fill my kitchen. Not-so-finally, he works his way back up, spending more time making out with her marehood than on the way down. After a brief reprise of ponut-kissing, he bites her dock before mounting up. At least that’s what the captions say. It looked more like sudden pulling.
I’d even let an earth pony or unicorn mount me and raise his foal if he could yank my tail and pop those recalcitrant caudal vertebrae. Living on the ground again would be a small price for such a keeper.
The porno continued to play as my focus moved to servicing my needs. Horny mare molecules wafting in the air, I trot into the hall, then reach back with my wings to grab a leather ring to fit around my dock. I slowly start the final phases of self-pleasure against the dildo already affixed to the wall, a benefit of living alone.
Slowly, I let the tip insert itself as far as it could before I felt the tug of un-lubed silicone as it hit the limits of my slickness. No matter. I pull out and slide back in ever so slightly farther than before. Soon, I hilt myself as plot slams against wall. Alternating between the joyous tension tug in my tail each time I pulled forward and the fullness slamming by nerve endings each time I hilted, my innards felt tighter and tighter. More and more focus. The loud squelching passed me by, not even registering as “I’m glad I live alone,” let alone distracting me into giggles. Soon, I reached a hysterical paroxysm and left the dripping dildo to head to bed, mind successfully reset for the night.
A new morning, a new day to hit the gym. A mare needs her strength to carry a foal around for 11 entire months. Adding 10% to your body weight is no joke.
After flight weights for leg weights, I trot to the treadmill and set it to “TROT (BRISK).” Not much point for a pegasus to train for a full ground gallop. I balance my options when selecting the distance. Endurance is essential, but this gym’s inexplicable ban on pornography-watching on the treadmills is incompatible with long distances in my current state oestrus. Yes, this gym with its (in)famous reputation for group showers won’t let you trot yourself silly while a porno plays. At least there was a pair of gay stallions blatantly blowing each other behind the squat rack. Their activity looked well underway, so I set a five-mile target distance. There’s no way they’d still go strong for the back half of a ten.
At mile 1.3, management gave them the expected talking-to. If they leave a mess, they’re both banned for life. Otherwise, they’re free to have fun.
Mile 2.2, the stallion with the goldenrod mane and pink coat lifted his head, jizz dripping from his beak. Beak? As I bounce my trot, I see his blatantly equine anus under that tail he just flick—
He’s the first hippogriff I’ve seen here in the five months the “HIPPOGRIFFS WELCOME” banner hung outside the front gate. Beaked creatures in Cloudsdale rarely look so equine back there.
Still halfway to go. Sadly, Mr. Hippogriff had already enjoyed his service from his amber and gray friend. They cleaned up their area and departed for the stallions’ group shower.
Deprived of my show, I ticked the pace up to a mid-tier canter to make the remaining “ground” fly by sooner. At least being extra-sweaty gives me a stronger excuse, not that I’d need one, to shower before I leave. Perhaps a pony can find love in there. Who am I kidding? The solo showers are too small for a friend, the stallion shower won’t permit my entrance, the mares’ shower can make me feel all right, but lacks the gametes for today’s goal, and the all-gender shower alternates between a de facto solo stallion shower and the celibate mares’ shower.
The treadmill finally began its deceleration. I would feel this one in the morning. Cantering with weights is not part of my regimen. Thoughts of those stallions filled my mind. Do hippogriff stallions call themselves stallions? The fact that they were there solely for each other put on a better show than any well-framed porno could hope to achieve. Type 2 exhibitionists.
Shortly after I downshifted to my walk, I stepped forward. The treadmill finally saw fit to cease its forced exercise. Gingerly, I step my sweaty frame backward before spinning in a beeline to the water trough. As I chugged the water, my ears scanned for the telltale splashing and hiss of an active shower. There decidedly was one, but the trough’s acoustics precluded localizing its source. 2½ gallons later, as the tick marks informed me, I pulled my head out with both the night’s and workout’s thirsts satiated. An article from some shady mares’ magazine popped to mind: a brief discussion on how the Princesses could drink an incredible 25 gallons each day while away at Saddle Arabian trade conferences.
I cast off the leg weights to pile them into the complimentary cart with my wing weights. They would enter the shower with me for cleaning.
Head up and ears swiveling, I listen for the active showers. The stallion and his hippogriff friend had since finished and departed their shower. This early, nopony else had refilled it. The mares’ shower, attracted my disinterest. A rain of hope sounded from the all-gender shower. The pitter-patter of water accompanying the descant of a contralto mare or high tenor stallion singing.
Judging from the contents of her melody, she pined an apology for excessive party rocking. At least she may be willing to break her self-imposed celibacy and distract me. I’d even return the favor and pay it forward after last year’s peak heat. That year, a mare noticed my distress at being alone in the group shower and began licking under my tail. For being a mare outside the mares’ group shower, she knew how to pleasure another mare. Her tongue freely tickled all my folds until I was filled with excitement waiting to squirt out. She encouraged me not to hold back. In my post-coital bliss, I attempted to return the favor. Unfortunately, mare is not my preferred flavour. Despite my gratitude, I still could not summon the proper energy to return the full measure of pleasure.
“I get it. You’re straight,” she explained before taking matters into her own hooves (on account of the wet floor of the showers precluding her rolling to let me finish her with my own hooves).
If she could rescue me from this year’s heat, even at the cost of putting off foaling for another year, I would keep my muzzle beneath her tail until she drenched my muzzle or my muscles cramped too hard to continue.
A trail of drips glistened in the corner of my vision. My drips, hopefully, to lead a stallion to follow me in and have his way with me. All that from thinking about a mare I’ve only met once, a mare whose colors I forgot. Gym policy on natural leakages, so long as they were not from direct sexual acts? Mark the corresponding location & fluid on the board, then press the buzzer. Easy enough with a self-report station en route to the showers (to the mare side, of course).
Once inside the shower, I see Rainbow Dash.
What the hay is she doing here? Doesn’t she have the Wonderbolt orgy shower to enjoy?
She flicks her tail to sprinkle herself and there is not a single trace of vulva or vagina or horsepussy between her legs. Breaking news of Rainbow Dash’s sex change was not on my docket for this week—it must’ve been the hormones in all those apple treats her friend feeds her. It would make me the bits to afford a fancier house for my foal, once I found a pony to do the job. If only I didn’t hold out for a purebred pegasus for a guaranteed foal to raise in the sky.
I sneak around my quarry. Unicorns claimed such an operation was impossible, especially a complete recovery in so little time. Perhaps she’s now a fertile stallion: the operations certainly aged her. Only one way to test such a contribution to Equestria’s knowledge.
Dash continues her songs to herself unaware of my presence. I equip a loofah and soap in my right wing. If she is a stallion now, this gambit ought to work flawlessly.
“I already washed that,” her gruff masculine voice called as I stroked her ponut with my loofah. She continued, “But you can wash me there,” her wingtips pointed halfway down her plot, clearly implying that I wash her taint.
As I wash between her glutes, she grunts identically to a stallion. It must’ve been a major success for her to enjoy this so much.
“So, Rainbow Dash,” I hesitantly start asking her—
“Name’s Rainbow, but not Dash; she’s my—”
A woosh from the water system's changing pressure obscured whether he said “daughter,” “sister,” or “niece” as we instinctively stepped back.
He continued, “She used to climb on my back for a better view when she was a filly. Nowadays, she is the show.”
So he was a real stallion, after all. Even better. No point asking if he’s true-breeding; they probably haven’t tried their pegasus genetics against the earth ponies and unicorns in at least a century. All their foals fly, then grow to choose flying lovers. The joys of subtle inference a mare learns from strawberry farming.
We checked the temperature, and I resumed washing him. Washing him with my tongue, this time. The loofah had done its work before the pressure change. Scents don’t maintain integrity in running soapy water. Use my mouth as an equally-effective alternative to traditional presenting techniques.
With just one lick expertly applied, his rim was already twitching. This stallion is primed to shoot off like a rocket. Making him finish from this alone would be another feather for my wing, even if it postponed breeding until the evening. I roll my broad horsey tongue as pointed as it can be to scale the outer wall of his fleshy rim and immediately earned the reward of his glutes and left hind leg twitching. Fully ready to go.
I outstretch one wing to fondle his balls while increasing the temperature with the other. Yes, it is mildly counterproductive to my mission, but balls feel so much nicer when they’re hot and the sack has fully descended. Only Luna would know just how much I was leaking as I imagined all the motile sperm those large orbs could produce while I rolled them in my wing.
The mixed muted scents of soap, natural horse oils, shower disinfectant, and the water’s natural signature triggered happy memories of nothing. An unexpected and unreasoned reassurance that this stallion was the one, if only for this heat.
My tongue enjoyed mapping out his ridges. Not much taste to report on a fresh-washed ponut—at least nothing distinct from the smells minus the disinfectant. For the best, really. Nothing quite like his muscles contracting from the stimulation. Before it became fatigued, I unrolled my tongue to stimulate his whole donut at once. The annulus pressed against my tongue’s center just made me inexplicably happy. In this new flat-tongued configuration, his contractions tried their best to suck my tongue in for a moment until he relaxed—contractions that were also easily felt in my wing as they lifted his balls, contractions that seemed to strengthen out of necessity as his rod grew and needed more potent counterbalance as it thwacked against his barrel, contractions accompanied by grunts and nickers to make a mare’s heart g-spot soar.
“Could you please just…” Rainbow faltered as the warm water and his erection diverted too much blood from his brain for language processing.
“I’m stuck. Can you shove a hoof low on my taint? That’ll finish the job,” he managed to ask.
If I couldn’t make him spurt from pure ponut pleasure, even if all he needed was a final push, the very least I could do it offer him something better.
I disengaged from his hole, stepped to his left flank, placed one wing under his balls and the other along his shaft, then stuck my head forward to whuffle seductively to grab his upper head’s attention.
Now nose-to-nose after he arced his neck to face me, I was ready to share my offer.
“If you need that little bit more, stick it in me,” I snort quietly while gently touching his shaft with my wet feathers. “I’ve seen the results of the top-notch flies your family produces. Make one with me.”
He cut off a whinny and deposited a most frustrating answer. His lower head flared against my remiges and my feather felt heavy. I had twin realizations in the split second his log lifted to hit his belly again.
- He reached full orgasm, not just a recoverable squirt.
- Cleanup would take just as long regardless of whether it was a single spurt or the entire deposit.
To make a stallion feel loved, love him (or at least treat him right). I stroked him with his slick semen lubricating my wing for optimal sliding. His whinny was unfiltered as he pumped more and more into my outstretched wing, now cradling his head for better collection instead of working the shaft. Each sticky jet reduced the friction of wing against sensitive flesh. My other wing enjoyed the lift and fall of his balls. They will need to work hard on replenishment.
His flagging tail caught my peripheral vision. He must be nearing the end of his orgasm. His lips, no longer pulled back for Flehmen or whinny, returned to their neutral position until I licked them.
I kiss him while wiping my wing against his barrel. He can share the cleanup. More enforced time to keep his attention.
“You got me good. There’s no way I’d be ready before evening,” was his answer to my offer to fly back to my cloud and breed me there. Good enough to earn another kiss. Tongue-on-tongue, snorting into each other’s nostrils: why did this calm me like I ate wild mint and strawberry leaves? Intimacy is not a ripe strawberry. That metaphor is for lust. Intimacy is the leaves and vine. His velvet muzzle rubbed mine.
After vigorously vibrating the bulk of the water off next door to each other in the shaking stalls[2], we kicked off for a meandering flight. First, we flew high above the structural clouds, letting our top lines and wings sundry. Wind rushed under our wings, over our bodies, and through our manes. The romance of flight, for a pegasus, is equal to—if not greater than—real romance. We traveled the first hour in silent spirals, the whooshing of air seldom interrupted by wing flaps and heavy breaths when the updrafts were scarce. Seeing his frame clearly beside mine and touching wingtips on sharp turns reassured me that I would settle a pregnancy once he had recovered to do his duty. I must have let my excitement freely leak when the sight of his rainbow contrail treated me as we climbed. It was nowhere near as bold or persistent as Dash’s, but it was still beautiful, still a proud trait I’d hope to pass to any foal, filly or colt.
As the sun climbed closer to noon, we altered our easy flight’s path to intersect the decorative and shade clouds for vapor-cooled exercise. Eventually, our hunger broke the silence when Rainbow asked if I was ready to descend.
He led me to a meadow with a pond bordering the Everfree and reminded me his name was Rainbow Blaze. I did not risk spooking him by asking why he was called Blaze when he had no discernible facial markings. After all, I learned something from the Flim & Flam correspondence course, not merely delayed foaling by a year from tuition payments. I could explain why his name shortens to Rainbow, not Blaze, on my own.
We landed at the water's edge before he lazily led me to the shade of an apple tree. I held my tongue and immediately had my patience rewarded by the sight of strawberry vines battling the raspberry bushes for understory dominance. My nimble lips immediately separated the small fleshy fruits from their respective plants, my molars glad they lacked stones. Rainbow agreed with my selection from the menu and joined me in munching fruits on the other side of the tree. Soon, our choices were apples, tall grass, or the stemmy parts of raspberry bushes. We grazed in the meadow face-to-tail as we swatted the flies away from each other’s faces.
If only he misjudged his refractory time and was ready to mount me immediately. Sex in the clouds is a distant second to breeding right now. I’d love nothing more than to spend several minutes with the weight of a stallion resting on my back. Nonetheless, I stuck to the plan we agreed upon: wait for the evening before a second attempt. Even I was spent. There’s no way for me to summon the energy to rim him properly again, let alone try other warmups. As much as I’d love to see him flustered with a vast erection he can’t resolve, presenting myself to him now would only risk driving up apart.
Instead, we pass most of the day grazing. The health benefits of a prehistoric graze day cannot be overstated. Likewise, its time sink cannot be underestimated, let alone misunderestimated. Mental health benefits also manifested as we grazed rather than seek ways to skip time until evening. Occasionally, one of us rolled or napped while the other stood guard. Is this why the earth ponies are so insistent that they have no jealousy of us?
Celestia’s sun began its descent to the horizon. I lift my tail as a reminder of his opportunity to ensure genetic immortality before launching myself into the sky.
Our attempt at sleeping to gain strength for a morning session was unsuccessful because of me.
As we cuddled, I could not stop winking or shake the feeling that I was leaking again. Rainbow had that primal scent of a pony just before he got sweaty—or just after the sun burnt off the volatiles and rank organics. Horse oil, hay, and salt: sweat without the stink. We did race up here faster than our leisurely decline. I probably smelled the same with some horse pussy added.
He was the type of pony to pop a boner before bed.
I rolled him to his back, used my erect wings for balance as I straddled him cowgirl-style, and began grinding myself along his shaft. A sudden rise in pleasure reminded me that unless I shifted priorities, I would ride his train to orgasm town, not to pregnancy. Rainbow showed no urgency to twitch his member to stick it inside. Perhaps he needed something more robust to wake him into action.
I stood up with trembling hooves and shaking legs. Not only had I denied myself an easy orgasm, but thoughts of what I was to do filled me with viscerally nervous anticipation. Filling me with greater urgency and volume while repressing the ability to do what needed doing.
I let the micro breezes of air currents brush my open wings as I steadied my breathing and steeled my emotions. My legs roughly straddled his head while I internally asked forgiveness from the pillowcase. Cloud living meant rarely having surfaces that held concentrated scents. Typically for the better, but not today. No more mere leaking.
“Remember, you may feel the urge to go. Give in and enjoy it. Let out just enough to get his attention. Keep some in reserve in case he does not get the message the first time. If he does, the remainder and its pressure only increase your pleasure,” the voice of one of those cheesy instructional videos about prehistoric rituals for newly-minted mares came to mind for the first time in a half dozen years. I inhaled deeply and followed its guidance, soon rewarded by a pitter-patter on the side of his face, then the pillow as I adjusted pressure before cutting off.
He stirred, his free wing flaring up almost enough to brush me, his legs uselessly sideways trotting. His eye was open as he lifted his head and pulled his lips back. I flew to the ceiling before he leaped out of bed, a determined look in his eye as his ears scanned the room for the pony who put him in such a mood. Seconds later, his nostrils found the soaked pillowcase. He finally acted to plan when he licked the fabric before raising his head with bared teeth to confirm what his raging erection suspected.
I land facing away and he instantly put two and two together when he licked madly at my marehood to match scents and tastes. Knowing the vivacity was for completeness of inspection and not my pleasure only made me wink harder. No finesse or care when he bumped my ponut’s lower rim. This trick unlocked primordial knowledge in us both, as he needed no coaching to jump on my back and bite my withers when sliding himself in. OK, a firm chewing more so than a bite. Either way, I’d have an enjoyable bruise.
My hips bucked back into his only twice before he told me, “Stop.”
My bucks ceased, but my winks paid the instructions no heed.
“Slow…” he attempted to instruct before a wink wiped his mind.
“Slow down,” his second attempt commenced better. “The longer you tease me, the more… more I…”
His voice trailed off as his forehooves squeezed my ribs and I felt his muscles rhythmically constrict in full-body support of ejaculation.
It was at least thirteen pumpings. Even if no more than seven were full, he left me with bountiful material to mix with my gametes.
I pause for a breath after he dismounts. That brief body-on-body contact made my back sweaty. Before he can recover from the afterglow, I summon my will to fly onto his back.
“You don’t have to be a full-time monogamous father, but pregnancy settles best when the mare is cuddled after,” I remind him before hopping off and tugging his wing back to bed.
I will enjoy at least one night drifting off to the scents of stallion, sex, and salt. A night feeling the rise and fall of his breaths and heartbeats on my hoof. If he stayed another night or let me into his abode, wherever that may be, I may even give him a show of pleasuring myself until his stallion instincts kicked in again.
[1] Even before my oestrus cycle made the need urgent
[2] Single-occupancy stalls for a pony to shake herself off and reduce the energy spent on toweling and blow drying.