M̷̢̨̖̬̘̰̰͋̄̍̿̔̐ͅO̷̗͕̘͓̟̰̳̭͔̰̯̭̮͂Ŗ̴̤̟͋̀̊́̿̎̋̋͗͆̂͊̚E̸̦̣͓̼̦̩̋̿́̓̈́̚͝ͅ
Moondancer shrieks as the pages erupt in flame. She staggers to her hooves, chair toppling over as she backs away from the desk. A hot pink glow bathes over her and casts long shadows across the room. She knows implicitly that she should do something, before the blaze leaps out and consumes the chamber around her, but she’s overtaken with shock, freezing up her body despite the heat. Nevertheless, as the seconds tick by, the fuchsia fire remains isolated to the pages of the book, which shows no sign of charring.
“What do you wish for?” the fire asks. It does not speak, not in any form that Moondancer is familiar with; all she can truly hear is the crackling of embers. The meaning is something that she senses within, resonating with the core of her being. There is a question, a yearning that is unsatisfied, and the burning desire.
“U-um…” She is at a loss. Maybe there was a time when she would have had plenty of answers to such a question. There were so many reasons that she had wanted that old book in the depths of the royal archives. The feeling that her life is too plain. Her detachedness from other ponies. The intersection of those points brings out a terrible anxiety in her.
All she can blurt out is “More.”
The flames flicker and spurt, a sound that is almost like laughter, before it responds, “And so it shall be.”
The inferno blazes brighter with a roar and the mare has to shield her eyes. When she looks again, the study is different, changed. The tome and desk are gone (she shudders to think what other books had been resting there), leaving only the fire, a rippling bright pink orb. There is a patch of the floor which is hard, charred stone instead of wooden planks, like the crater formed by an explosion. Pink flame dances around the border, steadily creeping further outward. She is too stunned to process that her clothes have burned away, concealing sweater and pants, even her glasses—though she seems to have no difficulty seeing anything—and the tie that had been holding up her mane, letting her amaranth hair fall free over her neck and shoulders.
The fire bobs and shakes, and it stretches, elongates. An indistinct sphere becomes a central mass which then extends appendages, arms and legs and broad wings spreading out behind, a plume coalescing into a tail. Moondancer expects a head, with a muzzle and horn and long billowing mane, something that would evoke the image of an alicorn, but instead there is simply a pink fireball floating above the shoulders, like a miniature sun. Plasma churns across its surface, prompting her to intuit impressions of eyes or mouths, half-formed, swirling about.
The fiery apparition steps forward. Moondancer’s brain screams at her to flee, but instead she puts one trembling hoof forward as well, one after another, step by step, the distance between them closing. The heat is too welcoming, like a roaring fireplace, coaxing her to warm herself in its glow. Cinders dance around her, sizzling on her coat and bringing with them whispery fragments that tickle at the back of her mind.
Closer, closer, within arm’s reach. Surely she should have combusted by now. The light within the pink blaze is intense; she should look away, yet she cannot, transfixed by the motions of the flames. Bright magenta tongues swirl and lap at each other. Sway. Grind. Buck. A thousand ponies embracing each other all at once in a frenzied orgy, and the crackling is the sum of their voices as they drunkenly wail. Then she blinks and it’s all just a noise of color and light.
The eldritch entity raises its arm in front of itself. Much like its inchoate face, the appendage is rough and approximate, but then as it reaches forward it gains definition, a distinct forearm and wrist and palm and digits. Closer, yet closer, Moondancer’s eyes follow, her breath caught in her throat. The heat is greater than ever as the hand hangs poised just above her, over her face.
“You don’t want this,” she thinks desperately to herself.
A voice that is both her and not her, some deep, base instinct, replies, “You need this.”
The fire pinches the tip of her horn. The heat is distant at first, hardly an afterthought. Then it starts to build, coursing through the bony protrusion and down into her skull, her brain. Moondancer gasps, but the reaction is delayed, and by then the flame is already burning up within her brow, hotter than any fever, stronger than any migraine, piercing and splitting. She can hardly process her own screaming voice as the hand escalates from a pinch to a full-on grasp, encircling the entirety of her horn like the hilt of a sword. It pulls and tugs, to lift her from her hooves, to wrench the thing off, to warp her with its heat, seeping through her brain.
And with her eyes turned up in their sockets so she can see her horn, she doesn’t catch when the entity brings its other hand toward her, down low and angling upward to pierce with very physical fingers between her legs. Louder and harsher still she cries, so forceful that her lungs and throat would hurt if she were still conscious of them. All she can think about are the two points of contact, her horn and her crotch. She writhes helplessly as it lifts her, thighs squeezing together, hooves kicking at open air, to no avail. The hand on her groin, palm placed flat over her clitoris, fingers clawing into her vulva, doesn’t move at all, does not play, only presses into her, and its heat burns. She clenches and orgasms right on the spot, stimulated harder than any ponymade toy could achieve, juices evaporating immediately on contact with the pink flame.
“Do something!” her sanity shouts at her while its home melts to slag all around it.
Moondancer’s arms flap limply, hands clasping open and shut, reaching for anything to find purchase on. She doesn’t know if she can even grab the fire but she doesn’t try, can’t manage the coordination. Her eyes are unable to focus, when she isn’t squeezing them shut, her vision twisted into a blur of color. The pink light is directly in front of her, she ought to be able to reach right out and hold it, and yet there is nothing for her to touch. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that she can’t grab fire, but if it can grab her then surely it ought to work both ways. She can’t even discern any difference in proximity, the heat that must come from being so close to open flame, because she is already completely awash in a storm of sensation, every nerve ending quite literally ablaze.
She is hardly even conscious of what has happened when her hands settle into place on her chest, one clamped on each breast. She squeezes the pert mounds, her nipples stiff and engorged, mashes them down, rubs and caresses. She would be groaning if she weren’t already screaming herself hoarse. It embarrasses her to think how many times she’s had to pleasure herself, instead of trying to find a partner to satiate her, any number of ponies who might be willing to share a fling with her. Desperately she would knead at her flesh, yearning to wring as much out of herself as possible, until she grows tired of it. Now she can feel nothing, no surge, no rise, no build. She is at the pinnacle of ecstasy and yet her body craves more.
The flames crackle and chatter and whisper, a susurrus curling around in her ears and settling in the warped hollow of her skull. She sees the distorted light, the flickering embers, waving and dancing, back and forth. Its thousand eyes ogle her, peer into her. Mouths grin and bare gnashing teeth, sharp, hungry. Then they ripple and the eyes become round, full breasts and the mouths stretch into wide hips, swinging in a dance. They compel her to sway with them, undulating and bucking her hips, however weakly she is capable of doing so—she has no concept of gravity or position anymore, only knowing that the fire is holding her, raised aloft like a prize catch.
Moondancer writhes upon the fingers which are plunged into her womb (she cannot discern that the appendage is no longer even like a hand, some fiery facsimile like a hook, pierced into her flesh). She doesn’t know what she’s doing, is hardly even conscious of it, ruled by her carnal impulses to ride out the all-consuming wildfire. All she wants is to sate the fire burning in her loins, no matter how futile the effort might be.
And in response the fingers spread deeper, seeping into her, inflaming her nether lips and filling her cavernous depths to capacity and then further, yet further, further still. She gives a new cry, and in response the fire tugs on her horn—which stretches and curls as if made of taffy—and yanks her head straight back. She stares upward, expecting perhaps to see a bright white light, but her eyes are full of a pink glow, all-consuming, preventing her even from seeing her muzzle in front of her face. In this state, she can’t see what’s transpiring when some new appendages apply pressure to her cheeks, squeezing around her jawline. Are these the same entity or a completely separate one? She can’t tell and she doesn’t care.
It presses against her lips, a kiss which smothers her, silencing her vocalizations with an explosion that washes over her skull. Its iron grip prevents her from pulling away, not that she would ever want to. She reciprocates to the best of her ability, pushing back with inexpert motions of her jaws to match the enveloping force, which is like trying to empty an ocean with a thimble, and a whole ocean wouldn’t even be enough to quench this fire. She might have been starting to get the hang of it when something extends from within the suffocating inferno and spears straight into her mouth, maw stretched wide as it slides straight down her throat. The flavor on her tongue is indescribable, igniting taste buds one by one until they feel like they’re bursting. The thought of how she’s going to breathe as the shaft plunges down into her guts doesn’t occur to her; her lungs are already full of invigorating flame. Once again there’s no further movement, but she’s compelled to stimulate herself, so she weakly sucks and tugs on the fiery length, muscles contracting along her throat, lips clamping down.
Moondancer wants to whimper, but she can’t vocalize much of anything with her mouth full. She wants to cry, but her eyes are completely dry, any tears evaporating instantaneously. It’s not because she regrets any of this, however. It’s not because of her awkward and uncomfortable position. It’s not because her sense of normalcy has been obliterated and the mind she spent years developing is boiling into steam. It’s because she knows that she isn’t good enough for this. Her pathetic body is not built for pleasuring, and she doesn’t have the experience to use herself effectively, even stirred up into a frenzy like she is now.
“More…more…” she thinks blearily, the only thought she can muster, because it’s the only thought that matters. “More…more, more…more, more, more!” She squeezes her breasts, squeezes until she can feel something again through the inundation of heat that has overtaken her every sense. The ache, the yearning, the pain, it’s terrible and she needs to be rid of it, but she is so woefully inadequate. She needs to be more.
The fire crackles and murmurs in her ears.
And all at once the blaze blooms within her.
Heat exudes upon her hands and arms, billowing out like an eruption of lava, oozing and conforming. Then, with a muffled squeal, she clasps her nipples, and she finds that they are overflowing the capacity of her fingers. The bare pinkish flesh rises, dough in an infernal oven, and she kneads them, pressing hard into the pert mounds, even as her breasts fill the span of her arms and then some, becoming balloons inflating with hot air. She presses them together all while they swell, gelatinous bulk nearly rising up to her chin, and the warmth within invigorates her. She moans into the fire before she starts to suckle on it with renewed strength, clenching, tightening. She starts to overturn the tide of the smothering flame on her muzzle as her lips billow out to match it, swollen hills rapidly eclipsing her face; she would have difficulty seeing as a glossy hill starts to rise past her nose, were her senses not already hopelessly distorted.
The rhythm of pleasure overtakes Moondancer, matching the motions of the flickering flames, chaotic and spasmodic, twitching, lashing. She’s only able to move so much, her upper body locked rigidly with an ethereal rod jammed down her esophagus, gulping at its length in her mouth. Her hips are still able to shake, grinding on the appendage piercing her loins—it might not even be a hand anymore, seemingly having expanded to fill her vagina while she was focused on her mouth. Everything blurs into a smear of sensation, eroding, melting. She can’t think either about how every buck, pumping herself on the fire, makes her feel tighter, her vulva clamping harder around the semi-physical structure and filling the span between her legs. The “how” and “why” of the change don’t matter nearly as much as the simple fact that it’s so deliciously, agonizingly good.
Then there’s pressure on her flanks. The weight of it is enough to make it distinct from the all-pervading heat, although in the process it imparts yet more heat, making her squirm despite the touch which holds and squeezes her. Her own hands are still clamped around her chest, an effort to contain as much as possible, so these must be from the blaze, yet another set of limbs. It’s all around her, both sides, front and back, above and below, the inferno eager to caress and fondle and grope every inch of her. This elicits something new: not merely heat, not pleasure, not intensity; it is the feeling of being wanted, being the object of desire. That does in turn, though, have the effect of making her yet hornier, overflowing, and as she wriggles against the phantasmal embrace her thighs fill outward with abandon. Her rump balloons, forming a shelf all around her just as voluminous as her bosom, broad enough to fill chairs and catch in doorframes. Her flesh squishes and compresses around the hands which clamp upon her, planted over her cutie marks, and the crescent moon twists, curling in and around itself as it burns.
“You are so much more.” A multitude of voices speak to her all at once, their words overlapping.
Moondancer can’t respond, unable to speak, unable even to think. The only word which she truly registers is “more”, and it prompts her to cum instantly.
“You are an ideal vessel now. We shall linger within you.”
The mare stills: just for a moment, there is an air of uncertainty.
The fire seeps into her—not merely lapping at her skin and innards but assimilating with her flesh. The rush is a whole new surge of blinding stimulation. It is penetration all across her, every inch, every pore. It is dozens of ponies (no, not ponies, not remotely ponies) surrounding her and pressing on her all at once, grinding, humping, kissing, smothering, each wanting a sample for themselves. Her flesh writhes, pulled in every direction, and she wails into the blaze and her swollen lips. Her fingers are still clamped tightly onto her nipples—only barely able to reach far enough around the circumferences of her breasts to do so—and she can feel as the skin distorts, bulging, a cleft splitting open across the front of the huge globes, the texture becoming smooth and slick. Something slips out from within one of the fresh apertures with a waft of hot breath, wet, raspy, slathering on her fingers, and she is distinctly aware of this appendage, this new anatomy, yet the muscles move independent of her waning control.
“Together we shall be even more,” her nipples tell her.
All Moondancer can do is squirm. There is so much of her—too much for her to fully grasp, both physically and mentally. She can hardly even discern anymore what’s happening to her, what she has become, what led her to this moment. Everything is alight, consumed by the fire. She is the fire; destructive, nurturing, passionate, hungering. She gropes at herself, one hand prying at her lips, the swollen mounds on her muzzle, and the other plunging between her legs to play with the equally plump crevice of her groin. She writhes as her fingers play with the moist inner folds, and a harsh, keening groan gurgles up within her, but with her fat lips covering up her mouth the sound comes out muffled. Her breasts make up for that, each nipple-mouth crooning, mixed with laughter. Her horn sparks and pops with pink flame.
It is so much stimulation, so much more than her puny equine brain could have ever handled.
And yet it is still not enough.
Moondancer requires more.
It is no longer her concern, however; she understands that the fire will guide her. All she has to do is enjoy herself, and she has much to enjoy. She knows that other ponies, too, will enjoy her as well, and she can’t wait to show herself to them.