Zecora's Chocolate
You brush aside another branch and your arm comes briefly into view again. Cuts and bruises cover it from your treacherous walks through the forest, where every batch and rock and animal is out to get you. You enter the clearing where the tree-house sits, with ropes around its twisting branches, jars hung from all of them, and a mask affixed above the small door. You take the small pouch on your belt and empty the small gathering of the herbs she had sent you to collect into one of the bottles and head inside. The small fruits you carry with one arm you sit next to some vials on a shelf, and you feel your stomach growl at the scent of your host’s cooking. The bubbling cauldron in the middle of the room smells wonderful, but you know how poisonous the native plant life is around here. The self-made wineskin slung across a strap over your should and chest has been empty for a while, and thirst is dangerous here in the Everfree forest. You call out to the zebra-looking pony, hoping she’s prepared something to replace or refill your skin.
“Quiet down, I know you thirst!” you hear her voice outside. Her constant rhyming was all but inaudible to you now, and you found yourself doing every now and again. You figured you’d be rhyming subconsciously in another month of staying with her. “I had a task to finish first,” she completes her rhyme as she enters the main room.
“A hard day’s work has emptied my skin, can I bother you to fill it again?” you reply, aware only too late that you had responded in rhymes.
“I work on your drink throughout the day, making it all in my own special way. Do not worry about it my friend, I take pleasure when your thirst I mend.”
Yes, you remember how she has to make it. She explained that it was magic she used, and this was the only way. At first you had doubted her and tried to hunt some of the game in the forest, and when everything in the forest looked to be able to kill ten of you at a whim, you turned to the plants. It had seemed ok at first, but the clear water you found made you vomit. When a blue fruit shrunk your head to the size of a baseball and your hands twice their normal size, you had returned to Zecora to eat your words and drink her brew. You had hammered out an agreement that, in return for your services gathering whatever she needed and helping out around the tree she would let you stay and give you ‘processed’ water and ‘food.’ The food given had started out cold and sweet, but you found that every now and again, she would give you a bowl of the stuff that was warm, and you acquired a taste for it hot.
At first, she had kept it secret how she made it, along with how she kept filling your wineskin—but once you depended on it day and night for survival, you had decided to find out just where it was coming from, just in case if something happened to her you wouldn’t starve. At first you had been incredulous; but then, you had realized, you were sharing a tree-house with a talking zebra in a magic forest, you could eat nothing else, and you had to admit you liked it. You had chosen not to tell her that you knew, not yet.
But today you were feeling especially grateful to the little zebra.
“Zecora, I think I’d like it, uh, fresh this time.”
“When I collect it in my pale, I assure you it is not stale.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Zecora, I know where it comes from; I know how you make it.”
She stares at you in surprise for a moment, then away in shame. Her ears lay down as you walk over and sit on her bed. You pat the spot next to you a couple times, bidding her come and lay next to you. She obliges, sulking over.
“I…I don’t really know what to say, just please, please don’t run away,” she pleads, putting a hoof on your leg as if to keep you from fleeing.
“No, no. I’m not going to run away, Zecora,” you run a hand over the back of her head, watching her eternal mohawk spring back up into the air. “What I meant is I don’t care where it comes from. In fact, I was wondering if you would let me drink it from it’s source.”
“I…I do not think—“
You put a finger across her mouth with a shush and roll her over in the bed, turning up her striped belly. You kneel on the floor next to it and pull her gently to the edge, exposing her genitalia. Even from under her striped coat you can see her blush, but you smile and pull her, and her clearly aroused loins, closer to you face. The crook of her hind legs rests on each of your shoulders as you lower your head, bringing her black crevice to rest on your puckered lips. Even down here she smells of a sugary perfume. You move your head a little to the right and the left, dividing her thick lower set of lips to give a better seal on your thirsty mouth. You hear her shudder at your touch. Looking up from between her legs, you can see she’s closed her eyes. A small hum springs them open and you rest a hand on her belly, pressing down lightly to signal you’re ready.
At first she’s reluctant and you feel her legs clamp together around your head, but after a moment they slacken and you begin to feel warm liquid in your mouth. The warm sweet tea, even tastier than before, starts to fill you. You swallow a couple gulps at first, breathing her body’s naturally pleasant perfume through your nose each time. Her body begins to empty even faster than before, and in a moment you have both arms wrapped around the outside of her thighs forcing your face to keep a tighter seal.
A sigh precedes her cessation, and she opens her eyes to look across her belly at you. A hoof runs through your hair and you pull your dripping chin back. Feeling a grumble in your stomach, you heft her hind up a little more and begin to lick around her puckered exit. She tastes just like the chocolate dishes she usually serves you, but this is warm and wet and hard-closed. Small gasps escape her as you gently force your fleshy bit into her, feeling her slowly relax. You give her a questioning look, and she nods silently. You feel her body tense when she holds her breath, her hot sphincter expanding to invite your soft warm tongue inside.
A pocket of gas escapes at first, filling your nostrils with the warm scent of chocolate, and a small bit of brownie with a couple white-chocolate chocolate chips squeezes out and lays between her cheeks, a thin line of chocolate syrup trailing behind it. A half-bite, half-kiss of yours removes it before you go back to poking at the expanding hole between her legs. Your tongue feels the tip of it first and you open your mouth wide, welcoming the larger brownie into your face; the hot, moist, and thick chocolate cake is easily swallowed, and you can feel the hard bits of white chocolate sliding against the roof of your mouth and the sides of your throat. The sounds of your enjoyment vibrate the softer parts of your face against her sensitive area, and each release of her breath as she pushes out your meal ends in a moan. The hoof in your hair moves to the back of your head, pressing harder with each of her body’s ejections.
You leave your lips to squirm around her egress as you chew the last couple bites, savoring the taste. The lower part of your face is smeared with syrup, and you wipe it off on your arm before cleaning her yourself. Her breathing returns to normal, still silent, still a hoof behind your head. When you finish your tongue returns to her slackened hole and you press it back inside, moving it in wide circles. She giggles a little before you detach and lay down next to her in bed. She turns over, laying a foreleg across your chest, and sighs contentedly.
“While ponies consider that quite taboo, I think that thing was highly due.” She smiles and raises her head to rest under your chin.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, I certainly did,” you reply. The two of you lay in the bed quietly for a while, your stomach quite full from the heavy meal. A question comes to mind.
“Zecora, why is it that every time it’s white custard with dark chocolate chips, the next time it will be dark brownies with white chocolate chips?”
“Many joke, upon my sight, am I white on black? or black on white?”