Anonfilly, The Spa's Precious Lotus

 

Green coat the color of old circuit boards left in the rain, black mane and tail that never quite sit right no matter how many times you shake them out, teal eyes that see too much and trust too little. No horn. No wings. No cutie mark—just a blank flank that feels like a billboard announcing your incompleteness to every pony who glances your way.

 

You don’t tell anypony where you came from. You tried once, in the first week, mumbling something about hands and screens and a life that lasted decades instead of years. The blank stares you got in return taught you quickly: nopony would believe you, and even if they did, what could they do? Magic can’t unmake whatever cruel joke dumped you into this pastel prison. So you keep your mouth shut and let them think you’re just another orphaned filly with an attitude problem.

 

Twilight Sparkle—Princess of Friendship, Element of Magic, walking encyclopedia with wings—adopted you because that’s what she does. Finds broken things and tries to fix them with checklists and heartfelt lectures. She enrolled you in Cheerilee’s class because “socialization is important.” You go because arguing with an alicorn who can ground you with a single raised eyebrow is a losing game.

 

The other foals try. They really do. Sweetie Belle offers to braid your mane. Apple Bloom wants you to join the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Diamond Tiara, reformed or not, keeps inviting you to “cool filly hangouts.” Snips and Snails corner you at recess with jokes that fall flat. You snap, you sneer, you walk away. Friendships don’t last where you came from. People drift. They ghost. They die. They betray. Why would brightly colored talking horses be any different?

 

Today the argument was worse than usual. It started with Pipsqueak asking why you never smile and ended with you telling an entire circle of foals that friendship is a scam adults invented to sell greeting cards. Some cried. Some yelled back. Cheerilee sent you home early with a note. Twilight read it, sighed that particular disappointed sigh, and launched into a twenty-minute monologue about emotional regulation and the therapeutic benefits of self-care.

 

You tuned most of it out until she said the magic words: “If you don’t go, I’ll keep talking.”

 

That’s how you end up trotting toward Ponyville Day Spa, hooves dragging, tail flicking irritably. The building is pink and white and smells like lavender from half a block away. A little bell chimes as you push the door open with your muzzle.

 

Aloe and Lotus greet you in unison, voices smooth and lightly accented. “Velcome, little one! Princess Twilight booked the full filly package for you.”

 

You grunt something that might be acknowledgment and let them lead you past the other customers—Rarity getting a hooficure, Fluttershy wrapped in a towel like a burrito—to a smaller room with a bubbling hot tub, massage tables, and bowls of sliced cucumbers.

 

They start with the soak. The water is almost too hot, and the salts make your coat tingle. You sink until only your muzzle is above the surface, glaring at nothing. Lotus gently nudges your head back and places cucumber slices over your eyes. Cool. Dark. Quiet.

 

You hate how fast your shoulders loosen.

 

Aloe works shampoo into your mane with practiced hooves. Her touch is firm but careful, untangling knots you didn’t realize were there. Neither sister fills the silence with chatter. They’ve seen moody fillies before. They know when to leave one alone.

 

Minutes pass. Maybe twenty. The cucumbers come off. Warm towels. A massage table. You climb up reluctantly. Aloe starts on your back, pressing along tense muscles you’ve carried since the day you woke up small and green and wrong.

 

You almost fall asleep.

 

Almost.

 

Because even here, floating in steam and quiet, the thoughts creep in. Humans don’t get this. Humans don’t get gentle hooves working the knots out of their soul. Humans don’t get adopted by princesses who actually care. Humans don’t get second chances in candy-colored worlds where every problem can be solved with a song and a hug.

 

And that’s the worst part: part of you wants to believe this place might be different.

 

But you know better. Everything ends. Everything fades. Even immortal alicorns will outlive you by centuries, and when you’re gone they’ll remember a bitter green filly who never quite fit. Better not to get attached.

 

Aloe’s hoof pauses between your shoulder blades, right where the tension keeps returning. “You carry heavy things for such small shoulders,” she murmurs.

 

You don’t answer.

 

Lotus drapes a warm blanket over you while Aloe finishes the massage. They move on to hooficure—filing, polishing, a clear coat because you refused any color. Then a gentle facial mask that smells like mint and honey.

 

When it’s over, they lead you to a mirror.

 

You look… clean. Mane brushed straight and shiny, coat gleaming, eyes still sharp but less bloodshot. You look like a normal filly. The kind that might have friends.

 

You hate it.

 

But your steps are lighter as you leave. The sun feels warmer. The air smells sweeter. You don’t smile—old habits die hard—but the scowl isn’t quite as deep.

 

Twilight will ask how it went. You’ll shrug and say it was fine. You won’t mention how, for one quiet hour, you almost let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, some things could last.

 

You won’t mention it because you’re still human enough to know better.

 

But you’re also pony enough now that the thought hurts.

 

===

 

The spa days become weekly.

 

Twilight frames it as “consistent self-care routine,” complete with a color-coded schedule taped to the castle fridge. You roll your eyes, mutter something about nagging princesses, but you go. Every Tuesday afternoon, same time, same little bell chime when you nudge the door open with your muzzle.

 

You tell yourself it’s just to shut her up.

 

But the truth is uglier and quieter: you like it. The hot water unknots something deep in your barrel. The cucumber slices cool the constant burn behind your eyes. Aloe’s hooves find pressure points you didn’t know existed, and for one blessed hour your brain stops screaming about how everything is temporary and everyone leaves.

 

You stop cursing at the crusaders when they get too chipper. You stop snapping at Snips and Snails when their jokes flop. Your tongue is still sharp—some habits are carved too deep—but the edges aren’t drawn as often. Even Cheerilee notices; she gives you one of those soft adult smiles that makes you want to bite something.

 

You hate how much you don’t hate it.

 

Then one Tuesday, while you’re drying off and pretending not to enjoy the warm towel Lotus wraps around you, you flip the massage menu over out of boredom.

 

There it is, tucked at the bottom of the “Specialty Services” column in neat cursive:

 

Happy Ending Massage

An extended full-body session with focused attention on complete tension release. Guaranteed to leave you floating. (Filly-safe variation available.)

 

Your brain slams on the brakes so hard you feel psychic whiplash.

 

Happy. Ending.

 

Those two words together, in that order, drag you straight back to dark corners of human internet forums, seedy urban legends, the kind of late-night tabs you closed in a hurry when someone walked into the room. The kind of thing that absolutely, positively does not belong in a world of rainbow magic friendship ponies.

 

Your ears pin flat. Your tail twitches. You stare at the menu like it personally insulted your mother.

 

No way. No possible way.

 

This is Equestria. Ponies sing about sharing cupcakes. They solve wars with group hugs. The worst vice you’ve seen here is Pinkie Pie eating too many sweets and getting a tummy ache. There’s no way “happy ending” means what your filthy human mind is screaming it means.

 

Right?

 

You glance up. Aloe is humming while she organizes bottles of oil. Lotus is folding towels with serene precision. Neither of them looks like they’re running a secret brothel for stressed-out mares.

 

It has to be something else. Maybe it’s literal—like they massage you until you’re so relaxed you feel happy, and then they end the session. Or they give you a balloon animal. Or a friendship bracelet. Something pure and nauseatingly wholesome.

 

But the phrase won’t leave your head.

 

You fold the menu carefully, slide it back onto the little table, and trot out like nothing happened. The bell chimes behind you. The walk home feels longer than usual.

 

That night you lie in the too-big guest bed in Twilight’s castle, staring at the crystal ceiling that reflects starlight like a disco ball. Your mind loops.

 

Happy ending.

Complete tension release.

Filly-safe variation.

 

You press your face into the pillow and groan. You are a grown-ass man in a child’s body in a cartoon horse world obsessing over whether pastel spa ponies offer illicit hoofjobs.

 

This is a new low.

 

You tell yourself you’ll ignore it. Next week you’ll just get the regular package and pretend you never saw it.

 

But Tuesday comes.

 

You’re on the table again, face-down in the little donut pillow, Aloe working the knots out of your back. The air smells like eucalyptus and lavender. Your traitorous body is already melting.

 

Lotus’s voice drifts over, soft and professional. “Would the little miss care for anything from the specialty menu today?”

 

Your heart punches your ribs. You don’t answer immediately. You can feel your ears burning.

 

Aloe pauses, waiting.

 

You swallow. Your voice comes out smaller than you want.

 

“What… exactly… is the Happy Ending one?”

 

There’s no gasp. No awkward cough. Just a gentle chuckle from Lotus.

 

“Ah, that one is very popular with tired parents and overworked guards. We extend the session by twenty minutes and focus on the lower back, hips, and thighs—many ponies carry stress there without realizing. Then we finish with a special warm stone placement along the spine. Most clients fall asleep and wake up feeling like they’re floating on a cloud.”

 

Aloe adds, amused, “The name is a bit dramatic, yes? But ponies do leave very happy, and it is the ending of the massage.”

 

You bury your face deeper into the pillow to hide the fact that your entire body just flushed hotter than the hot tub.

 

Of course. Of course that’s what it is.

 

You are the pervert here. You and your grubby human brain.

 

You mumble something about maybe trying it next time, and they move on like it was nothing.

 

But later, floating out of the spa on legs that feel like warm jelly, you can’t stop the tiny, traitorous laugh that bubbles up.

 

This world keeps surprising you.

 

And for once, the surprise doesn’t hurt.

 

===

 

You book the Happy Ending the next Tuesday.

 

You tell yourself it’s curiosity. Nothing more. Just proving to your paranoid human brain that everything here is still pure and saccharine and safe. Twilight raises an eyebrow when you ask for the extended session but doesn’t argue; she’s just happy you’re “embracing self-care.”

 

The room is the same: soft lighting, steam curling from the hot tub, the faint scent of essential oils that makes your eyelids heavy before you even lie down. Aloe and Lotus move with the same calm efficiency. Warm towels, gentle shampoo, the slow, deliberate press of hooves along your spine.

 

You’re face-down on the table, forehead cradled in the donut pillow, when they begin the extended part. Lower back first. Then hips. Then thighs.

 

It’s professional. It’s clinical. It’s exactly what Lotus described: deep, steady pressure that chases out tension you didn’t know you were hoarding. Your legs feel like warm taffy. Your breathing slows. For a moment you almost drift off.

 

Then you hear it.

 

A whisper from the next room, muffled by the thin wall but clear enough in the quiet.

 

“…told you, darling. After hours on Saturdays, if you know the phrase. Membership only. They do wonders for stressed-out mares… and the specialty sessions for fillies and colts are discreet. Nopony talks, of course.”

 

A soft, conspiratorial laugh. Another voice, lower: “I thought that was just rumor.”

 

“Not rumor. Trust me.”

 

Your entire body locks up.

 

The words hit like ice water down your spine. Specialty sessions. For fillies and colts.

 

Aloe’s hoof pauses mid-stroke along your inner thigh, sensing the sudden rigidity. “Everything all right, little one?”

 

You force a nod into the pillow. Your voice comes out strangled. “Fine. Just… ticklish.”

 

They resume. Professional. Unhurried. Perfectly innocent.

 

But you can’t unhear it.

 

Every touch now feels loaded. Every glide of a hoof along your thighs burns with new meaning. Your mind races in frantic circles—this is Equestria, this is supposed to be wholesome, this can’t be real, you’re hallucinating, you have to be hallucinating because the alternative is that the pastel pony paradise has a secret underground brothel that caters to foals and nopony bats an eye.

 

You lie there frozen, heart hammering, while they finish the session with warm stones along your spine. You float, yes. But not from relaxation.

 

You mumble thanks and bolt the second they unwrap the final towel.

 

The walk home is a blur. Twilight asks how it went. You shrug, say it was fine, lock yourself in your room.

 

That night you can’t sleep.

 

The whispers loop. Specialty sessions. Discreet. Membership only.

 

You tell yourself it’s nonsense. Gossip. Misheard. But the doubt festers.

 

By Friday you’re a wreck. By Saturday morning you’ve made up your mind.

 

You wait until Twilight’s buried in research, then slip out a window you learned to jimmy weeks ago. Ponyville at night is quiet, lamplight glowing softly on cobblestones. You stick to shadows, small size finally useful for something.

 

The spa is dark, officially closed. But there’s a faint light in the back alley, a door you’ve never noticed before. A single earth pony stallion stands there—big, bored-looking, wearing a discreet black vest. He glances down when you approach.

 

“Phrase?” he grunts.

 

You freeze. You don’t have a phrase.

 

You wing it, voice barely above a whisper. “Heard there’s… relief for the truly stressed?”

 

He studies you for a long second. Something in your eyes—too old, too knowing—must convince him. He steps aside.

 

The door opens onto stairs leading down.

 

Music drifts up, low and sultry. The air smells like incense and something muskier. Velvet curtains. Dim red lanterns. Ponies—adults, mostly—lounge on plush cushions, sipping drinks that definitely aren’t cider. In side rooms, silhouettes move behind gauzy screens.

 

Your stomach drops.

 

It’s real.

 

A hostess—a sleek unicorn mare—approaches with a practiced smile. “First time, little one? We have private rooms for younger clients. Very gentle, very safe. Discretion assured.”

 

You back away slowly, ears flat, tail tucked. “I—I think I’m in the wrong place.”

 

She doesn’t stop you. Nopony does.

 

You scramble up the stairs, out into the cold night air, and don’t stop running until you’re back in the castle, heart pounding so hard you think it might crack a rib.

 

You curl up under the blankets, shaking.

 

The world you landed in isn’t pure. It never was.

 

It just hides its shadows better than humans ever did.

 

And now you know where they are.

 

You’re not sure you’ll ever set hoof in that spa again.

 

But the worst part—the part that keeps you awake until dawn—is realizing that some small, twisted corner of your old human mind isn’t entirely surprised.

 

===

 

You don’t tell Twilight.

 

You almost do, a dozen times. The words sit on the tip of your tongue every time she asks why you’ve gone quiet again, why your appetite’s dropped, why you flinch when she ruffles your mane. But you swallow them every time. What would you even say? “Hey, Mom, your favorite spa has a secret foal brothel in the basement?” She’d either laugh it off as a nightmare or march down there with the full force of royal indignation—and then what? Cover-up? Denial? Or worse, confirmation that everypony knows and just pretends?

 

So you keep your mouth shut. You go to school. You do your homework. You nod when Cheerilee praises your “improved attitude.” You let the crusaders drag you into half-hearted adventures. You act normal.

 

But Tuesdays still come.

 

Twilight insists. “The spa is good for you,” she says, levitating your little saddlebag onto your back whether you like it or not. “You’ve been so much calmer since we started. We’re not stopping now.”

 

You don’t argue anymore. Arguing takes energy you don’t have.

 

The bell still chimes when you push the door open. Aloe and Lotus still greet you with the same warm, accented smiles. “Velcome back, little miss.”

 

You try to act normal.

 

You really do.

 

You soak in the hot tub without complaint. You let them shampoo your mane. You lie face-down on the table and close your eyes and pretend the whispers you heard were just a bad dream.

 

But the moment their hooves move lower—past your back, along your hips, kneading into your thighs—your body betrays you.

 

You tense. Not the usual stubborn filly tension they’re used to working out. This is different. Sharper. Your breath catches. Your tail twitches involuntarily. Your ears pin so flat they ache. Every perfectly professional press of a hoof feels like it’s dragging nails across the raw nerve of what you know.

 

They notice.

 

Of course they notice.

 

Aloe’s touch lightens, almost hesitant. Lotus pauses entirely, warm oiled hooves resting on your flank.

 

“Little one,” Lotus says softly, “you are very tight today. More than usual.”

 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is frozen.

 

Aloe’s voice is gentler still. “Ve can stop if you need. Or… change to something else. Something more… soothing.”

 

The implication hangs in the steam-thick air like smoke.

 

You know what “something else” means now. You’ve seen the red lanterns. You’ve heard the hostess’s velvet offer.

 

Your heart hammers so hard you’re sure they can feel it through the table.

 

You shake your head, muzzle pressed into the pillow. “Just… regular. Please.”

 

They resume, slower now. Careful. Watching your every twitch. But the professionalism feels paper-thin, like a mask you’ve seen slip once already.

 

When it’s over, you don’t linger. You mumble thanks, grab your things, and trot out fast enough that the bell jangles twice.

 

Outside, the fresh air feels cold against your flushed coat.

 

You don’t cry. You’re too old for that, even in this body.

 

But something inside you curls tighter than any muscle they could ever knead loose.

 

And you know—deep down, in the ugly human part that’s still awake—that next Tuesday will come again.

 

And you’ll go.

 

Because Twilight thinks it’s helping.

 

And because some traitorous fragment of you is starting to wonder what “more soothing” really feels like.

 

You hate that part most of all.

 

===

 

Weeks bleed into each other.

 

Tuesdays become a ritual you dread and crave in equal measure. You trot in with your head down, ears half-cocked, tail limp. Aloe and Lotus greet you the same as always—warm voices, gentle hooves, the faint accent that used to soothe and now sounds like a lure.

 

You try to hold out.

 

You really do.

 

You stick to the regular package. Hot tub. Shampoo. Standard massage. You tense at every touch below the barrel, but you grit your teeth and endure. They notice—of course they notice—and their offers grow softer, more careful.

 

“Ve can adjust, little one. Something to truly melt the worry away.”

 

You shake your head each time. Mumble “no thanks.” Bolt out the door the second the towel comes off.

 

But the pressure builds.

 

Nights are the worst. You lie in the dark of your room, staring at crystal reflections on the ceiling, mind replaying every glide of a hoof, every whispered conversation you weren’t supposed to hear. Your body—small, traitorous, hormonal in ways you never asked for—reacts to the memories. You hate it. You hate yourself for the heat that pools low in your belly when you remember how professional hooves felt on your thighs.

 

You’re an adult. You know what loneliness feels like. You know what desperation feels like.

 

You know what giving in feels like.

 

One Tuesday the dam breaks.

 

You’re face-down again, forehead in the pillow, breathing steam and lavender. Aloe is working your lower back with slow, deep circles. Lotus is at your hips. The tension is unbearable—not the good kind anymore, the kind that makes you want to scream or bolt or beg.

 

Lotus’s voice drifts down, soft as silk.

 

“Still so tight today. Perhaps… the special relief? Just for you. Private. Soothing.”

 

Your heart stops.

 

You don’t answer at first. The room is quiet except for the faint bubble of the hot tub in the corner and your own ragged breathing.

 

Then, so quiet you’re not sure they hear:

 

“…yes.”

 

A pause.

 

Then Aloe’s hoof strokes once along your mane, reassuring. “Good girl. Ve take care of you.”

 

The lights dim further. A curtain pulls across the door. The air grows warmer, thicker with new oils—something sweeter, headier.

 

They don’t rush.

 

They never rush.

 

Hooves return, slick with something warmer than before. Starting innocent—shoulders, back—but drifting lower with purpose now. Inner thighs. The soft places where flank meets barrel. Gentle at first, exploratory, watching every twitch, every hitch in your breath.

 

You tremble.

 

Part of you screams to stop this, to run, to tell Twilight everything and burn the whole place down. You’re a filly. This is wrong on every level. But the adult in you—the lonely, broken human who hasn’t felt wanted in years—whispers that you know exactly what this is, and you asked.

 

Their touches grow bolder. More intimate. Hooves trace places no massage should go, pressing, circling, coaxing. Soft murmurs in that lilting accent: “Relax, little one. Let go. Ve know what stressed fillies need.”

 

You do let go.

 

Your body betrays you completely—arching, gasping, small hooves scrabbling at the table’s edge. Pleasure you didn’t want crashes over you in waves, sharp and humiliating and overwhelming. Tears prick your eyes because it feels good—too good—and because you hate how much you needed it.

 

When it’s over you lie there limp, floating in a haze of endorphins and shame. They clean you gently, wrap you in warm towels, stroke your mane until your breathing evens.

 

“No charge for this one,” Lotus whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You come back when you need. Ve keep secret.”

 

You nod, mute.

 

The walk home is on legs that still tremble. The night air feels too cold against flushed skin.

 

You don’t tell Twilight.

 

You don’t tell anyone.

 

But next Tuesday you’re back.

 

And the Tuesday after that.

 

Because some cracks don’t heal.

 

They just get deeper.

 

===

 

It starts small.

 

One Tuesday becomes two. Then you’re inventing excuses—headaches, “growing pains,” bad days at school—to slip away mid-week. Twilight notices your improved mood, your softer coat, the way you don’t snap as often. She credits the spa. She has no idea she’s right for all the wrong reasons.

 

You tell yourself it’s just stress relief. Nothing more. A filthy little secret in a world that pretends to be clean. You’re an adult. You can control it.

 

But bodies—especially this one, small and sensitive and starved for touch—don’t lie.

 

The sessions lengthen. What started as gentle, exploratory hooves becomes bolder. They know your spots now. The way pressure just there makes your hind legs kick involuntarily. The slow circles that drag whimpers from your throat you didn’t know you could make. They murmur praise in those soothing accents—“Such a good filly, so responsive”—and something twisted inside you preens at the words.

 

You start craving the scent of their oils before you even reach the door. Your flanks tingle at random moments in class, remembering. You catch yourself staring at other ponies’ hooves—Cheerilee’s as she writes on the blackboard, Twilight’s when she levitates a book—and hate the heat that follows.

 

The shame is constant, a low background hum. You’re disgusting. You’re using them. They’re using you. You’re a foal doing adult things in a body that isn’t ready. But the shame itself becomes part of it—sharp, humiliating, and weirdly intoxicating. It makes the release sweeter when it finally comes.

 

They never charge for the special sessions. “For our favorite little regular,” Lotus says with a wink. Aloe brushes your mane afterward, gentle as a mother, while you float in post-climax haze. You hate how safe it feels.

 

You try to stop once.

 

A whole week without. You tell Twilight you’re “all better,” that the regular spa is enough. You endure the standard massages with gritted teeth, body screaming for more while you lie rigid and silent.

 

By Friday you’re shaking. Snapping at everypony. Hiding in your room with hooves pressed between your thighs, chasing a fraction of the feeling and hating every second.

 

Saturday night you crack. You sneak out again, down the alley, past the bored stallion at the door. The basement is busier on weekends—more adults, more moans drifting from behind curtains—but they have a private room ready for you. Smaller. Softer lighting. Toys you’ve never seen before, shaped for pony anatomy.

 

You don’t ask how they knew you’d come.

 

You don’t leave until dawn.

 

After that, resistance crumbles.

 

Tuesdays. Thursdays. Saturday nights when Twilight thinks you’re at a “sleepover” with the crusaders (who’ve stopped asking why you ditch them so often). You learn the phrases for deeper services. You let them bind your hooves gently with silk ropes when you ask. You let them use their mouths.

 

You stop recognizing yourself in the mirror. The filly staring back has brighter eyes, glossier coat, but they’re too wide, too hungry. Your blank flank feels like a brand now—untouched, unmarked, but no longer innocent.

 

Twilight worries you’re “going through a phase.” She schedules more spa time.

 

You almost laugh.

 

The addiction settles deep, a warm rot in your barrel. You know it’s destroying something in you—the last scraps of the human who believed in boundaries, in consequences. But the pleasure is immediate, overwhelming, and for those stolen hours you’re not alone.

 

You’re wanted.

 

You’re touched.

 

You’re seen.

 

Even if it’s in the dark.

 

And the darkest part—the part that keeps you awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling with slick between your thighs—is knowing you’d do worse for another taste.

 

You’re not sure where it ends.

 

You’re not sure you want it to.

 

===

 

You don’t even pretend anymore.

 

Thursday afternoon. Twilight’s at a meeting in Canterlot. You slip out the side door of the castle, saddlebag empty except for a few bits you’ve hoarded from allowance. The walk to the spa feels shorter every time—like your hooves know the path better than your head does.

 

The bell chimes. Aloe looks up from the counter, smile softening when she sees you. No surprise. No questions. Just a quiet, “Velcome back, little one. The private room is ready.”

 

Lotus is already inside, dimming the lanterns to a deep amber glow. The air is thick with that heady oil—jasmine and something darker, musky, designed to sink into your lungs and loosen every inhibition. A fresh towel is folded on the table. Beside it, new toys: a smooth, curved wand of polished crystal, a set of soft silk ties, a small bottle of warming lubricant that glints in the low light.

 

You climb onto the table without being asked. Face-down first, like always. Your body knows the routine.

 

They start slow. Always slow.

 

Warm hooves on your shoulders, kneading away the day’s tension. Shampoo in your mane, fingers of magic from Lotus’s horn combing through the black strands until they shine. You sigh despite yourself. The sound makes Aloe chuckle low in her throat.

 

“Good filly. Already relaxing.”

 

They flip you gently onto your back. The table is padded thick enough that your small frame sinks in. Cucumber slices over your eyes—cool, dark. You hear the soft click of the lubricant bottle opening.

 

First touch is feather-light: Aloe’s hoof tracing down your barrel, circling your blank flank. Your breath hitches. Lotus joins from the other side, mirroring the motion. Four hooves now, gliding, pressing, mapping every sensitive inch.

 

You feel the silk ties loop loosely around your forehooves, anchoring them to the table’s sides. Not tight. Just enough to remind you you’re held. Safe. Theirs.

 

The crystal wand is cool when it first touches your inner thigh. You jerk, a small whimper escaping. Aloe shushes you, voice velvet. “Easy. Ve varm it first.”

 

Lotus breathes warm air over the toy, then slicks it with lubricant. The scent hits you—sweet, intoxicating. When it presses against you, it’s warm now, sliding slow and deliberate.

 

Your hind legs spread without being asked. Shame flickers, but it’s drowned fast by the first slow thrust. Aloe controls the wand, twisting gently, finding that spot inside that makes your vision spark even behind the cucumbers. Lotus leans down, mouth hot against your teat, tongue circling, sucking softly until you’re arching off the table.

 

Words spill out of you—broken little pleas you don’t recognize as your own voice. “Please… more… deeper…”

 

They give you more.

 

Lotus moves lower, muzzle between your thighs, tongue replacing the wand for long, wet licks that make your hips buck. Aloe takes your mouth in a kiss—deep, surprising, tasting of mint and salt. Her hoof works between your legs now, circling your clit with practiced precision while Lotus laps inside you.

 

The pleasure builds slow, then sudden—crashing over you in waves that leave you shaking, crying out into Aloe’s mouth. They don’t stop. They ride you through it, drawing out every aftershock until you’re limp and oversensitive, begging them to stop in the same breath you beg for more.

 

Only when you’re a trembling, sweat-slick mess do they ease off. Gentle now. Cleaning you with warm cloths. Untying the silk. Stroking your mane, your belly, whispering praise.

 

“Such a perfect little filly.”

 

“Our favorite.”

 

“You come back soon, yes?”

 

You nod, mute, floating in the haze.

 

They wrap you in a fresh towel, carry you to the recovery chaise in the corner. Aloe brings warm cider. Lotus brushes your tail until it shines again.

 

You stay there longer than you should. Dusk is falling outside when you finally leave, legs still wobbly, coat flushed under the green.

 

The addiction sings in your blood the whole walk home.

 

You know you’ll be back tomorrow.

 

And the day after.

 

Until there’s nothing left of the filly who once hated touch.

 

Just the one who needs it to breathe.

 

===

 

Aloe and Lotus have run the Ponyville Day Spa for years. They know every type of client: the harried mothers, the vain socialites, the guards with knotted shoulders, the occasional princess seeking anonymity. Most are predictable. Most leave satisfied and return on schedule.

 

Then came the little green one.

 

She started as any other filly—stiff, sullen, dragged in by the Princess of Friendship herself. Blank flank, teal eyes that looked through you instead of at you, black mane that fought every brush. They gave her the standard treatment, gentle and professional, expecting the usual slow thaw.

 

But she thawed too fast.

 

Aloe noticed first: the way the filly’s breath caught when hooves lingered on her thighs. The tiny, involuntary twitch of her tail when pressure deepened. Lotus caught the flush under that green coat, the way those sharp eyes softened behind cucumber slices.

 

They tested the waters carefully—Equestrian discretion is an art form. A softer offer. A lingering touch. And when she finally whispered “yes,” voice cracking like thin ice, they knew they had something rare.

 

Now she comes three, four times a week.

 

They clear the schedule for her without discussion. The private room at the back—the one with the thicker curtains, the lock on the door, the drawer of special tools—is always ready. Fresh oils warmed. Toys cleaned and oiled. Silk ties laundered soft.

 

Aloe loves the way she trembles at the first touch, still pretending she’s reluctant even as her hind legs part on their own. Lotus adores the sounds—those broken little filly whimpers that climb into desperate cries when they work her together. Tongue and hoof and crystal wand in perfect rhythm until the child is sobbing with pleasure, tears streaking that pretty face.

 

They take turns deciding the pace. Some days slow and teasing, drawing it out until she’s begging in that hoarse, embarrassed voice. Other days fast and overwhelming, pushing her over the edge again and again until she’s limp and glassy-eyed, barely able to stand.

 

Afterward they spoil her. Warm cider. Gentle brushing. Soft words in their shared accent: “Our perfect little filly.” “So sweet for us.” “Come back tomorrow, yes?”

 

She always nods.

 

They’ve grown fond—more than fond. She’s their favorite by far. So responsive. So needy. So beautifully broken under that sharp tongue and cynical glare. The way she clings to them in the afterglow, small body shaking, tells them everything: no one else touches her like this. No one else sees her.

 

They rationalize it the way all careful professionals do. Fillies have stresses too. Curiosity is natural. They’re gentle. They’re safe. She keeps coming back, doesn’t she? She asks for more.

 

And business is good. The little green regular brings a certain energy to the spa. Other clients sense it—the air feels charged on the days she visits. Word spreads in whispers among those who know the phrases.

 

But she’s theirs.

 

Aloe sometimes strokes that black mane while Lotus cleans between her thighs and thinks: we’re giving her what no one else can. Pleasure without judgment. Touch without expectation.

 

Lotus watches those teal eyes flutter shut and thinks: she belongs here, on this table, under our hooves.

 

Three or four times a week isn’t enough anymore.

 

They’ve started leaving the back door unlocked on random evenings.

 

Just in case she needs them sooner.

 

===

 

You keep the mask on in public.

 

At school you sit in the back row, hooves folded on the desk, teal eyes fixed on Cheerilee’s chalkboard like you’re paying attention. The crusaders still try—Apple Bloom slides you an extra apple at lunch, Sweetie Belle asks if you want to practice a song, Scootaloo challenges you to a race at recess. You give them half-smiles now. Short answers. Enough to keep them from worrying too much.

 

They notice you’re quieter. Calmer. Less likely to snap when Diamond Tiara makes a snide remark about blank flanks. They chalk it up to “growing up” or the spa days Twilight brags about. They have no idea the calm comes from being wrung out three times a week, body limp and mind blissfully empty after Aloe and Lotus finish with you.

 

You play the part well.

 

You raise your hoof in class sometimes. You join group projects without complaining. You even laugh—real laughs, short and startled—at Snips and Snails’ dumb jokes. The other foals start calling you “less grumpy” behind your back. Cheerilee sends positive notes home. Twilight beams when she reads them.

 

Twilight is gone a lot.

 

Friendship problems don’t solve themselves. A map table lights up, the Cutie Map calls, and suddenly the princess is packing an overnight bag, lecturing you and Spike about responsibility as she teleports away. “I’ll be back in a day or two. Spike’s in charge. Be good.”

 

Spike tries. He really does. Makes gem sandwiches, suggests board games, asks about your day with that earnest big-brother tone. Owlicious just hoots from his perch and watches you with those unblinking yellow eyes.

 

You like the alone time.

 

The moment Twilight’s gone, the itch starts. A low heat between your thighs, a restlessness under your coat. Spike’s busy with chores or comic books. Owlicious sleeps during the day. You slip out the window or the back door, small enough to go unnoticed.

 

Straight to the spa.

 

Aloe and Lotus never turn you away. They smile wider when they see you alone, no royal escort. “Our favorite filly, come early today?” They lock the front door, flip the sign to CLOSED, lead you to the private room like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

You get bolder when Twilight’s away. Longer sessions. Riskier ones. You’ve started asking them to leave the silk ties tighter. To use their mouths longer. To make you cry before they let you finish. They oblige every time, murmuring praise while you fall apart under them.

 

You come home flushed and wobbly, mane slightly mussed in ways Spike attributes to “playing outside.” He never suspects. Owlicious might—he watches you too closely sometimes—but owls don’t talk.

 

The double life holds.

 

By day: the improving student, the almost-normal filly, the one Twilight proudly tells her friends is “really opening up.”

 

By stolen hours: the addicted little mess who begs two adult mares to ruin her on a massage table.

 

You know it can’t last forever.

 

Someone will notice the frequency of your “errands.” Or Twilight will come home early. Or you’ll slip up and moan in your sleep the way you do after a particularly rough session.

 

But for now the mask stays on.

 

You smile at Apple Bloom across the lunch table.

 

You nod when Spike asks if you want hay fries for dinner.

 

You keep the secret burning inside you like a second heart.

 

And when the castle is quiet and the dragon’s asleep, you touch yourself in the dark, chasing echoes of their hooves, hating how good it feels.

 

The green filly everypony sees is fine.

 

The one underneath is already gone.

 

===

 

The session ends the way they all do now: with you shattered and remade.

 

Your small body is limp, slick with sweat and oils and your own release, hind legs still trembling from the last forced peak. The crystal wand lies discarded on a towel, glistening. Lotus is cleaning up quietly, humming that low, satisfied tune she hums when you’ve been especially good. Aloe scoops you up—effortless, like you weigh nothing—and settles onto the wide recovery chaise in the corner.

 

You melt into her forelegs without resistance.

 

Your head rests against her soft pink chest, ear pressed to the steady thump of her heart. She cradles you close, one hoof stroking down your back in slow, soothing lines while the other lifts the brush—your favorite, the wide soft-bristled one that feels like heaven on your mane.

 

She starts brushing.

 

Long, deliberate strokes from crown to withers, untangling black strands that always knot from your thrashing. Each pass sends shivers through you, aftershocks chasing the pleasure still humming in your veins. You nuzzle deeper into her coat, breathing in the mix of jasmine oil and her natural scent, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

 

“Good filly,” she murmurs, voice warm and accented, lips brushing your ear. “Such a perfect little thing. Took everything ve gave you. So obedient today.”

 

The praise hits harder than any touch.

 

Your chest tightens. A soft, involuntary whine escapes your throat. You press closer, forehooves clutching at her barrel like a foal seeking comfort. The human part of you—the cynical adult buried deep—screams that this is pathetic, that you’re disgusting for needing this so badly. But the filly you’ve become just soaks it in, greedy for every word.

 

Lotus joins, settling on your other side. She takes the brush from Aloe, starts on your tail while Aloe keeps stroking your mane with bare hooves. “Our favorite,” Lotus whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “So responsive. So pretty when you come undone for us. Good filly. Best filly.”

 

You’re addicted to this part most of all.

 

The brushing. The warmth of their bodies sandwiching yours. The endless stream of praise that fills the hollow places no friendship lesson ever reached. You could stay here forever, floating in the haze, small and held and wanted.

 

Your eyes drift shut. A contented sigh slips out as Aloe’s hoof traces lazy circles on your blank flank. “Ve brush you all night if you vant,” she says softly. “You deserve it. Such a good girl for your aunties.”

 

You don’t correct the “aunties.” You don’t want to.

 

Time blurs. The brushing never stops. The praise never stops. You doze in their forelegs, waking only when one of them shifts to kiss your mane or murmur another “good filly.”

 

Eventually you have to leave—Twilight will be home soon, or Spike will wonder where you vanished to again. They help you stand on wobbly legs, clean you one last time, brush you until you gleam.

 

You trot out into the cooling evening air, body loose, mind quiet.

 

But the craving is already building again.

 

For the brush.

 

For the forelegs around you.

 

For the words that make you feel, for a little while, like you belong.

 

You know you’ll be back tomorrow.

 

Begging for more.

 

===

 

You lie smoothly now.

 

It’s almost scary how easy it is. Twilight’s in the library, buried in scrolls, when you trot up with your saddlebags packed and that practiced half-smile on your muzzle.

 

“Hey, Twilight? The crusaders invited me for a sleepover at the clubhouse tonight. Apple Bloom’s sister is supervising, so it’s totally safe. I’m mature enough to handle it, right? You don’t have to worry.”

 

She looks up, quill pausing mid-air. Those big violet eyes search yours for a second—too knowing, always too knowing—but you hold the smile steady. She’s been so proud of your “progress.” The calmer moods. The better grades. The way you don’t argue as much.

 

She sighs, soft and fond. “Alright. Just be careful, and send a message with Spike’s fire if anything comes up. Have fun, sweetie.”

 

You nuzzle her leg quick—guilt flickers, but you shove it down—and trot out before she can change her mind.

 

The sun is dipping low when you reach the spa. The front sign reads CLOSED, but the back door is unlocked, just like they promised in that last whispered session.

 

Aloe opens it before you knock, smile warm and conspiratorial. “There’s our brave little filly. All night, yes? Ve have everything ready.”

 

Lotus is inside, lighting candles that cast golden flickers across the private room—expanded tonight, curtains drawn across the entire back area, massage tables pushed together into one wide bed piled with pillows and fresh towels. Bottles of oils line a shelf. Toys gleam in the low light: crystal wands of different sizes, soft plugs, vibrating charms powered by tiny enchantment runes. Silk ties dangle from hooks on the wall.

 

You drop your saddlebags in the corner. Your heart is already racing.

 

They don’t waste time.

 

Clothes—well, nothing to remove, but they strip away the pretense fast. Aloe lifts you onto the bed, Lotus already warming oils between her hooves. They start gentle: full-body rubdown, working out every knot from the day. You melt almost immediately, sighing into the pillows.

 

But gentle doesn’t last.

 

Soon hooves are everywhere—inner thighs, teasing circles around your teats, slick fingers of magic from Lotus’s horn tracing your slit while Aloe’s mouth finds your neck, nipping softly. You whimper, hind legs spreading wide without shame anymore.

 

They take you slow at first. Aloe between your thighs, tongue long and deliberate, lapping deep while Lotus straddles your chest, letting you nurse at her teats like a needy foal. You lose track of time in the first orgasm—shaking, crying out into pink fur, hooves clutching at manes.

 

They don’t stop.

 

Hours blur.

 

Positions shift. Toys come out—one thick crystal plug eased into your tailhole while Aloe rides your muzzle, grinding slow until she shudders above you. Lotus works a vibrating wand against your clit, drawing out climax after climax until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, begging in broken whispers.

 

They praise you constantly.

 

“Good filly.”

 

“So perfect for us.”

 

“Take it all night, yes? Our sweet little addict.”

 

You do.

 

They tie you spread-eagle at one point, teasing with feathers and ice charms until you’re frantic. Then they untie you and hold you close, brushing your mane for what feels like forever while you float in subspace, nuzzling into their forelegs, greedy for every stroke and murmur.

 

Midnight snack: warm cider and honey cakes fed to you hoof-to-mouth while you sit in Aloe’s lap, impaled on a toy they work slowly inside you.

 

Dawn creeps in through cracks in the curtains before they finally let you sleep—curled between them, bodies tangled, their hooves still idly stroking your coat.

 

You wake to soft kisses on your forehead, gentle cleaning, fresh brushing until you shine again.

 

“Best night yet,” Lotus whispers.

 

You nod, hoarse and boneless.

 

The lie held.

 

Twilight will never know.

 

And you’re already counting hours until you can lie again.

 

===

 

They have been waiting all week for this.

 

Ever since the little green filly whispered her plan during last Thursday’s aftercare—curled in Lotus’s forelegs, voice hoarse from crying out, mane damp with sweat—“I could lie about a sleepover… stay all night…”—they’ve been preparing.

 

The back room is transformed. Tables pushed together into one wide, padded bed. Pillows piled high. Candles in scented jars flickering jasmine and musk thick enough to taste. Oils warming on a small enchanted heater. Toys arranged on silk cloth like surgical instruments: crystal wands graduated by thickness, soft silicone plugs with flared bases, vibrating runes etched into rose quartz eggs, bottles of slick lubricant in different viscosities, silk ropes dyed deep crimson.

 

Aloe checks the clock. Dusk. She flips the front sign to CLOSED, locks the door, heart already beating faster.

 

Lotus adjusts the lighting—amber lanterns turned low, shadows soft and inviting. “She vill be here soon,” she murmurs, accent thicker with anticipation. “Our sweet little addict.”

 

They don’t have to wait long.

 

The soft knock at the back door. Aloe opens it and there she is—small green frame in the twilight, saddlebags slung over her back, teal eyes bright with nerves and hunger. No words needed. Aloe pulls her inside, nuzzles her cheek. “Good girl. You came.”

 

Lotus takes the bags, sets them aside. They lead her deeper, hooves clicking softly on the tile.

 

The filly climbs onto the bed without prompting. Lies on her belly first, ears pinned, tail lifted just enough to signal readiness. They start slow—always slow at first, to savor the way she melts.

 

Aloe works the mane and shoulders, warm oil dripping down black strands. Lotus starts at the hindquarters, kneading flanks, thumbs pressing deep into the muscles around the blank mark. The filly sighs, a shaky exhale that makes both sisters smile.

 

They strip away the day in layers. Gentle massage turns sensual—hooves gliding inward, teasing the sensitive skin of inner thighs, brushing lightly over her slit until she’s squirming. Lotus leans down, breath hot against the filly’s ear. “Ve have all night, little one. No rushing.”

 

The first climax is slow, deliberate. Aloe’s tongue between her legs, long and thorough, while Lotus suckles at her teats and murmurs praise. The filly comes with a muffled cry into a pillow, small body arching, hooves kicking.

 

They don’t let her rest long.

 

Positions shift like choreography. They lay her on her back, silk ropes looping loosely around fore and hind hooves, spreading her open. Toys come out—first the smallest wand, slicked and warmed, eased inside while Aloe straddles her face, grinding slow, letting the filly taste her. Lotus works the clit with precise hoof circles, drawing out the second, third, fourth peaks until tears streak green cheeks.

 

Hours dissolve.

 

They feed her honey cakes between rounds, licking crumbs from her muzzle. They hold her while she shakes through overstimulation, brushing mane and tail until she’s purring. They take turns riding her tongue, praising every eager lick. They fill both holes at once—plug in the tailhole, thick crystal cock in front—working her until she’s babbling nonsense, begging in that cracked little voice.

 

At the deepest point of the night, they untie her and simply hold her. Sandwich her between their larger bodies, hooves stroking everywhere, whispering endless praise.

 

“Our perfect filly.”

 

“So sweet.”

 

“So needy for her aunties.”

 

She clings, nuzzling, dozing in the warmth.

 

Dawn light creeps under the curtains before they clean her—gentle cloths, fresh oils, thorough brushing until her coat gleams like emerald. They dress her in nothing but a loose robe for the walk home, kiss her forehead, send her out with soft promises.

 

“Next time ve keep you longer.”

 

The door closes.

 

Aloe and Lotus share a look—satisfied, possessive, already planning the next lie she’ll tell.

 

Their favorite little green regular is theirs now.

 

All night was only the beginning.

 

===

 

Months slide by in a haze of secrets and slick skin.

 

School winds down. Posters go up for the annual summer camp—two months in the Whitetail Woods, “forest survival skills,” “cutie mark discovery expeditions,” supervised by Cheerilee and a herd of counselors. Every foal buzzes about it. The crusaders beg you to sign up with them.

 

You see opportunity.

 

You forge the permission slip one night while Twilight’s asleep—her signature practiced from watching her sign a hundred notes home. You write a short essay about wanting to “explore nature for my special talent,” words dripping with fake enthusiasm. You trot it to her in the morning, eyes wide and earnest.

 

“I really think this could help with my cutie mark, Twilight. Survival stuff. Self-reliance. You’re always saying I should try new things.”

 

She’s packing for yet another Map call—some dragon-pigmy griffon feud in the Badlands. Scrolls everywhere, quills levitating. She skims the form, signs without question, ruffles your mane.

 

“That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you for taking initiative. Have fun, stay safe, write if you need anything.”

 

You nuzzle her leg, guilt a fleeting twitch quickly drowned by anticipation.

 

The day camp “starts,” you wave goodbye to the crusaders at the train station—hugs, promises to send letters you’ll never write—and double back through alleys to the spa.

 

Aloe and Lotus are waiting.

 

They’ve prepared for this. The entire back wing cleared. A small bedroom set up adjoining the private suite—soft bed, drawers for your few clothes, enchanted icebox for snacks. The massage area expanded further: padded floors, hooks in the ceiling for suspension ties, a sunken hot tub big enough for three.

 

Six to eight weeks. Uninterrupted.

 

You drop your bags and step into their forelegs like coming home.

 

The days dissolve into ritual.

 

Mornings: slow wake-up sessions. You curled between them, their hooves already wandering, teasing you awake with gentle mouths and slick toys until you’re gasping into pillows. Breakfast fed to you in bed—fruit, pastries, warm milk—while they brush your mane and tail, praising every sleepy nuzzle.

 

Afternoons: experimentation. New toys arrive by discreet courier—larger plugs, vibrating eggs that hum inside you for hours, enchanted straps they wear to take you face-to-face. They teach you positions you never imagined in this body, murmuring encouragement while you ride them, small hooves clutching manes, tears of overwhelm streaking your cheeks.

 

Evenings: intensity. Tied spread or suspended, edged for hours, brought to peak after shattering peak until you’re hoarse from crying their names. They take turns bathing you in the hot tub afterward, washing every trace away with scented soaps, holding you while you shake.

 

Nights: tenderness. Brushing for hours. Praise whispered endless—“our perfect filly,” “so good for aunties,” “stay forever”—until you’re dozing in their arms, body marked with faint hoofprints and love bites hidden under your coat.

 

Time loses meaning.

 

You don’t think about school. About Twilight. About the human you used to be.

 

There’s only their touch. Their voices. The constant, overwhelming pleasure that fills every empty place inside you.

 

You eat when they feed you. Sleep when they hold you. Beg when the ache builds again—and it always builds again.

 

By week four your coat gleams constant, mane silky from endless brushing. Your eyes are brighter, but distant—like you’re floating even when standing.

 

They spoil you rotten. New ribbons for your tail. Sweet treats. Soft blankets that smell like them.

 

You stop counting the days.

 

Six weeks? Eight? Doesn’t matter.

 

The camp letter you dictated—Lotus wrote it in your hoofwriting, cheerful lies about campfire songs and foraging—goes out on schedule. Twilight sends back proud replies you barely read.

 

You’re theirs now.

 

Completely.

 

And when the “camp” finally ends and you have to go home, legs weak from disuse outside the bedroom, mind quiet and sated, you already know you’ll find another lie.

 

Another way to come back.

 

Because nothing else feels real anymore.

 

Only them.

 

Only this.

 

===

 

Weeks into their perfect arrangement, Aloe and Lotus move through each day like priestesses tending a private altar, and the little green filly is the offering they never tire of worshipping.

 

**Mornings** belong to gentleness.

 

They wake before the sun fully crests the hills, slipping from the wide bed where the three of them sleep tangled together. The filly is always in the middle, small body curled between theirs, black mane spilled across pillows like ink. Aloe is first to stir; she noses along the filly’s neck, breathing in the lingering scent of last night’s oils, then begins with soft kisses—forehead, ears, the sensitive spot just behind her jaw. Lotus joins from the other side, hooves already warm with fresh lubricant, sliding slow between hind legs that part instinctively even in sleep.

 

They bring her awake with mouths and gentle hooves, drawing out the first climax of the day in lazy waves. No rush. No toys yet. Just tongues and careful circles until the filly whimpers, arches, and spills over with a sleepy, muffled cry into Aloe’s chest. They praise her endlessly—“good morning, sweet filly,” “such a pretty way to wake,” “our perfect little treasure”—while she clings, trembling through the aftershocks.

 

Breakfast follows in bed. Lotus feeds her bites of melon and warm oat porridge from a spoon, wiping drips from her chin while Aloe brushes that glorious black mane in long, soothing strokes. The filly leans into the brush like a cat, eyes half-closed, sometimes dozing again between bites. They adore this version of her—soft, pliant, still floating.

 

**Afternoons** are for discovery.

 

The sun climbs high, light filtering through heavy curtains they keep half-drawn. They move to the padded floor or the wide massage bed, toys laid out like instruments. This is when they experiment.

 

Some days they suspend her gently from the ceiling hooks—silk ropes around ankles and barrel, spreading her wide while they take turns beneath, mouths and hooves and enchanted straps working in tandem. Other days they keep her on her back, legs held open, introducing new sensations: ice charms dragged along overheated skin, warming oils drizzled inside her, vibrating eggs that hum for hours while they massage her from the outside in.

 

They watch every reaction—the way her teal eyes go wide when something new stretches her, the way her breath hitches when they find a fresh spot that makes her kick and sob. They praise every response: “Look how beautifully you take it,” “Such a greedy little hole,” “Aunties are so proud.” When she comes, they hold her through it, murmuring endearments in their shared accent until she’s limp and glowing.

 

They break for light lunches—fresh salads, fruit, cool juices—fed to her on the chaise while they stroke her belly and flanks, keeping her arousal simmering.

 

**Evenings** are intensity.

 

As the light outside turns golden and fades, they build her higher. Toys grow larger, positions more demanding. They take her together—one beneath, one above—filling mouth and cunt and tailhole until she’s stuffed full and babbling. They edge her mercilessly, bringing her to the brink again and again, denying release until tears streak her cheeks and she’s begging in that broken, desperate voice they love.

 

When they finally let her fall, it’s spectacular—body seizing, voice cracking on their names, squirting messily across sheets they’ll change later. They ride every aftershock, milking her dry, then clean her tenderly with warm cloths and soft mouths.

 

Dinner is simple, intimate: shared plates on the floor, the filly in one of their laps, being fed by hoof while the other idly circles her clit to keep her floating.

 

**Nights** are theirs entirely.

 

They bathe together in the sunken tub—scented water, steam thick, candles flickering. They wash her slowly, reverently, massaging shampoo into mane and tail, soaping every inch until she’s gleaming emerald again. Then back to bed.

 

This is when the tenderness peaks. They brush her for hours—mane, tail, coat—until she’s purring in their forelegs. They hold her close, bodies entwined, whispering praise that sinks deep: “You belong here, little one.” “No need for the outside world.” “Stay with your aunties forever.”

 

She always falls asleep between them, small hooves clutching their manes, face buried in soft pink chests.

 

And when she’s deeply asleep, Aloe and Lotus share a look over her head—quiet, possessive, utterly content.

 

Their perfect green filly.

 

Their secret.

 

Their everything.

 

Another day ends, and tomorrow will be the same.

 

They wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

===

 

Deep into the summer seclusion, long after the sun has set and the spa is silent, Aloe and Lotus carry their little green treasure to the wide bed in the back room.

 

She is already half-asleep, limp and glowing from the evening’s long, slow ruin. Her coat is still flushed, thighs trembling faintly, the scent of jasmine oil and her own slick release clinging to her like perfume. Lotus cradles her against her chest, Aloe supporting her hindquarters, and together they lay her down in the center of the nest of pillows and blankets that have become her true home.

 

The filly sighs, nuzzling into the sheets, small body curling instinctively. Aloe stretches out on one side, Lotus on the other. They sandwich her gently, larger pink bodies curving protectively around the small green one. Hooves begin to move—slow, soothing strokes down her back, along her barrel, through the black mane that spills like silk.

 

Lotus starts brushing first, the wide soft bristles gliding from crown to withers in long, rhythmic passes. Aloe joins with bare hooves, tracing idle circles over the blank flank, careful to avoid the oversensitive places for now. The filly melts further, a soft, contented whicker escaping her throat.

 

In the quiet, with only candle-flame flicker and the sound of the brush, the sisters’ eyes meet over her head.

 

Aloe smiles, slow and fond. “Remember the first time she said yes?” she whispers in their shared tongue, voice low so as not to disturb the dozing filly.

 

Lotus’s eyes soften, hoof pausing mid-stroke. “How could I forget? She was so stiff on the table that day. Trying so hard to pretend she vas just curious.”

 

They both remember it perfectly.

 

It had been an ordinary Tuesday. The little green one came in alone, ears pinned, tail flicking nervously. They had offered the special relief before and been refused, but that day her body betrayed her—tensing, flushing, breath catching when hooves lingered on inner thighs.

 

Lotus had asked again, soft as silk: “The special relief, little one? Just for you. Private. Soothing.”

 

The pause had been endless. Then the tiny, cracked “…yes.”

 

Aloe had dimmed the lights immediately. Curtains drawn. Door locked.

 

They started gentle—always gentle the first time. Warm oils, slow circles, mouths tasting her for the first time. She had whimpered, squirmed, tried to hide her face in the pillow as her hind legs spread wider despite herself.

 

Lotus remembers the moment they brought out the smallest crystal wand—slim, warmed, slick with lubricant. The filly’s eyes had gone wide behind the cucumber slices when she felt it press against her untouched entrance.

 

“Relax, sweet filly,” Aloe had murmured, kissing her neck while Lotus eased it in, slow, inexorable. “Ve take care of you.”

 

She had been so tight. Virgin in every sense this body allowed. The wand slid in inch by inch, her small walls fluttering around it, breath coming in sharp gasps. They praised her constantly—“good girl,” “so brave,” “taking it so perfectly”—while working her clit with gentle hoof circles.

 

When the thin barrier gave, she had cried out—a sharp, startled sound that turned into a long, shaking moan as the toy seated fully inside her. A trickle of virgin blood mixed with lubricant, faint pink on the crystal when Lotus drew it back to show her.

 

“Look vat you gave us,” Lotus had whispered, kissing away the tears on her cheeks. “Your first time, all for your aunties.”

 

They had not rushed after that. Slow thrusts, deeper each time, until she was rocking back against the toy, begging in broken whispers. They brought her to peak twice—once with the wand alone, once with Aloe’s tongue lapping while Lotus worked the crystal—before cleaning her tenderly and brushing her until she dozed in their forelegs, stunned and sated.

 

Back in the present, the filly shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to Aloe’s chest. Aloe kisses the top of her head, resuming the brushing.

 

“She vas so small then,” Aloe murmurs. “So unsure. And now…”

 

Lotus finishes the thought, hoof tracing the curve of the filly’s hip. “Now she comes to us every day. Begs for more. Sleeps only in our arms.”

 

They share a quiet, possessive smile.

 

The brushing continues long into the night, hooves caressing every inch of green coat, until the filly’s breathing is deep and even, lost in dreams they have shaped for her.

 

Their perfect little one.

 

Taken gently, broken beautifully, kept forever.

 

===

 

Another night in the endless summer sanctuary.

 

The candles are lower tonight, flames dancing long shadows across the walls. The air is thicker with musk and anticipation—Aloe and Lotus have been whispering plans all day, eyes glinting each time they glance at the new toys laid out on silk: two harnesses of soft black leather, each fitted with a smooth, thick crystal cock, ridged and curved just right for pony anatomy. They’ve used straps on you before, one at a time, but tonight they want more.

 

They want you between them.

 

You’re already floating from the evening’s warm-up—hours of teasing, plugs stretching you open, mouths and hooves bringing you to the edge and back until you’re a trembling, begging mess on the wide bed. They strip away the toys slowly, kissing every inch they expose, murmuring praise that makes your ears burn.

 

Aloe straps on first. The harness buckles snug around her hips, the crystal shaft gleaming with fresh lubricant, thick enough to make your breath catch when you see it. Lotus follows, matching toy bobbing as she adjusts the fit, smiling that soft, wicked smile.

 

They guide you onto your back first, legs spread wide. Aloe kneels between them, rubbing the blunt head against your slick entrance, teasing until you’re whining and trying to push down. “Patience, sweet filly,” she croons. “Ve take you together tonight.”

 

Lotus moves behind you, lifting your hips, positioning you on your side. She slicks her own strap generously, then presses the tip against your tailhole—already loosened from earlier play, but still tight enough to make you gasp when she eases in.

 

Slow. Always slow with them.

 

Inch by inch, Lotus fills your ass, the ridges dragging deliciously until she’s seated deep, harness flush against your flanks. You’re shaking already, stuffed from behind, small hooves scrabbling at the sheets.

 

Then Aloe shifts forward, guiding her cock to your dripping cunt. The pressure is intense—both holes claimed at once, stretching you to your limits. She pushes in steady, eyes locked on yours, watching every flutter of your expression as the two shafts slide alongside each other, separated only by that thin wall inside you.

 

You cry out when they bottom out together—full, impossibly full, the sensation overwhelming. They pause, letting you adjust, hooves stroking your barrel, your mane, whispering “good filly,” “so perfect,” “taking both aunties so well.”

 

Then they move.

 

Slow at first—coordinated thrusts, one pulling out as the other pushes in, keeping you constantly filled. The rhythm builds, faster, deeper, the wet sounds of lubricant and crystal on flesh filling the room. You’re lost in it—moaning brokenly, tears streaking your cheeks, hind legs kicking helplessly as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.

 

They sandwich you completely—Aloe pressed chest-to-chest, Lotus spooned tight against your back, mouths on your neck, your ears, kissing away tears. Their larger bodies cage you perfectly, warm and safe even as they fuck you senseless.

 

The climax hits like a storm—your whole body seizing, walls clenching around both cocks, vision whiting out as you scream into Aloe’s mane. They ride you through it, thrusts turning erratic, drawing out every spasm until you’re limp and sobbing.

 

Only then do they still.

 

Straps stay buried deep—they don’t pull out. Instead they shift carefully, arranging you between them on your side, Aloe in front, Lotus behind, the toys still inside, plugging you full. Blankets pulled up. Hooves entwined over your barrel.

 

They cuddle you close, kissing your damp forehead, stroking your trembling flanks.

 

“Stay just like this,” Lotus whispers against your ear. “Full of your aunties all night.”

 

Aloe nuzzles your cheek. “Our perfect little filly. So good for us.”

 

You drift in the haze—stuffed, held, wanted beyond words.

 

Sleep comes easy, safe in their warm sandwich.

 

Tomorrow they’ll do it again.

 

And you’ll beg for it.

 

===

 

Aloe and Lotus have always prided themselves on variety. Hooves, mouths, toys—every tool in their considerable arsenal serves a purpose. But the strap-ons… those are something special. Something they save for nights when their little green filly is particularly pliant, particularly needy, when her teal eyes go wide and glassy at the sight of the harnesses laid out like promises.

 

They love the way the leather feels against their own hips—snug, powerful, a rare reversal where they get to thrust instead of receive. The crystal cocks are custom: thick but not cruel, ridged in all the right places, curved to press exactly where a filly’s body begs for it most. They warm them first, always—slick with lubricant that smells faintly of vanilla and heat—so the first breach is smooth, welcoming.

 

Aloe prefers to take the front. She loves watching the filly’s face as she sinks in: those sharp teal eyes fluttering shut, muzzle parting on a broken gasp, small hooves clutching at her shoulders like she’s the only anchor in the world. There’s a moment—every single time—when the head pops past that tight ring and the filly’s whole body shudders, walls fluttering around the intrusion. Aloe lives for that moment. She’ll pause there, buried halfway, and lean down to kiss away the overwhelmed tears, murmuring, “That’s it, sweet girl. Take Auntie Aloe. You were made for this.”

 

Lotus favors the rear. She likes the control of it—hooves gripping narrow green hips, guiding the filly back onto her strap inch by deliberate inch. She loves the way the tailhole clenches at first, resistant even after weeks of training, then yields with a slick pop that makes the filly whine high in her throat. Lotus will lean over her back then, chest to spine, nipping at an ear while she seats herself fully. “So tight back here,” she’ll breathe. “Our perfect little secret hole. Only for us.”

 

But the true indulgence is when they take her together.

 

They position her carefully—on her side, one leg lifted, body cradled between them like something precious and breakable. Aloe enters first, slow and deep, letting the filly adjust to the stretch in front. Then Lotus from behind, pressing in alongside, the thin wall between letting them feel each other through her. The filly always sobs at that point—overwhelmed, stuffed beyond capacity, trembling between their larger bodies.

 

They move in counterpoint: one withdrawing as the other drives in, keeping her constantly, perfectly full. The rhythm is instinctive now, honed over countless nights. They watch each other over her shoulder, sharing smiles when she starts babbling pleas, when her small hooves scrabble for purchase on their coats.

 

The power of it thrills them both. Not just the physical act—though the friction against their own sensitive buttons is delicious—but the possession. With the straps on, they claim her completely. Front and back. Body and breath. Every cry belongs to them. Every tear. Every desperate clench.

 

Afterward, they never pull out right away. They stay buried deep, rolling onto their sides so she’s sandwiched tight—Aloe in front, Lotus spooned behind—hooves stroking belly and flanks, kissing sweat-damp temples. The straps keep her plugged, full of them even in the afterglow. They whisper praise until she dozes, small body twitching around the intrusions.

 

“She takes us so beautifully,” Aloe will murmur, nuzzling the filly’s mane.

 

“Like she was born for it,” Lotus agrees, pressing a kiss between her shoulders.

 

The strap-ons are more than toys.

 

They are ownership.

 

And their little green addict wears that ownership perfectly.

 

===

 

The candles have burned low, wax pooling like slow tears. You’re on your back in the center of the wide bed, legs already trembling from earlier play, slick and open and aching for more. Aloe looms above you tonight, harness buckled tight, the thick crystal cock jutting proud and glistening. She has chosen the front again—always the front when she wants to watch your face break open.

 

She lowers herself slowly, weight braced on one hoof beside your head, the blunt head of the strap nudging your entrance. You whine, hips trying to rise, but Lotus is behind you, holding your hind legs spread wide, keeping you still.

 

“Easy, little one,” Aloe murmurs, voice velvet and accented. She leans down, muzzle brushing yours, and kisses you—soft at first, almost tender, lips parting yours so her tongue can slide in, tasting the lingering sweetness of the honey cakes she fed you earlier. You melt into the kiss, small hooves clutching at her shoulders as she presses forward.

 

The stretch is slow, deliberate. The crystal cock slides in inch by thick inch, ridges dragging along your walls, filling you completely. You moan into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her tongue as she deepens the kiss—hungry now, claiming. Her hips settle flush against yours, buried to the hilt, and she holds there, letting you feel every bit of her inside you.

 

Only then does she start to move.

 

Long, deep thrusts—pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, the harness grinding against your clit with every stroke. She never breaks the kiss. Her mouth stays sealed to yours, swallowing every cry, every broken plea. Her tongue fucks your mouth in time with her hips, mirroring the rhythm below until your head spins. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes; she licks them away without pausing.

 

You come first with a muffled scream against her lips, walls clenching hard around the crystal cock, body arching off the bed. She rides you through it, thrusts turning sharp and punishing, drawing the climax out until you’re sobbing into the kiss, oversensitive and shaking.

 

She slows only when you go limp beneath her, kissing you softer now—gentle licks along your lips, your cheeks, your damp eyes. “Good filly,” she whispers against your mouth. “So perfect for Auntie Aloe.”

 

She pulls out slowly, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, and shifts aside.

 

Lotus is already waiting.

 

She rolls you onto your stomach without ceremony, lifting your hips until you’re on your knees, chest pressed to the sheets. The harness on her hips is identical—thick, ridged, slick and ready. She doesn’t kiss your mouth this time. She starts at the back of your neck, nipping softly, then drags her tongue down your spine while one hoof spreads your cheeks.

 

You’re still fluttering from Aloe’s fucking, loose and dripping, but the stretch when Lotus pushes in is different—deeper, more possessive. She takes your tailhole in one slow thrust, the crystal cock sliding home until her harness presses flush against your flanks. You cry out into the pillow, hooves scrabbling for purchase.

 

Lotus leans over you, chest to your back, weight pinning you deliciously. One hoof slides beneath to rub your clit in tight circles while she starts to move—hard, steady thrusts that jolt your whole body forward. No kisses on the mouth now; instead she mouths at your ears, your neck, biting gently when you clench around her.

 

“Greedy back here,” she growls softly, accent thick with arousal. “Always so tight for Auntie Lotus. Take it deeper.”

 

She sets a brutal pace—hips snapping, the ridges dragging in and out, filling your ass completely. Your face is buried in the sheets, muffled moans rising with every thrust. Aloe watches from the side, stroking herself slowly, eyes dark with satisfaction.

 

You come again hard, whole body seizing, tailhole clamping down on Lotus’s cock as pleasure crashes through you. She doesn’t stop—fucks you through it, growling praise against your ear until you’re limp and whimpering, utterly spent.

 

Only then does she ease out, gathering you up with Aloe to sandwich you between them once more—warm, sweat-slick bodies cradling your trembling one.

 

They kiss your temples, your mane, each other over your head.

 

Two aunties.

 

Two cocks.

 

One thoroughly claimed little green filly.

 

And tomorrow they’ll do it all again.

 

===

 

They have been saving this particular indulgence for a night when you are especially soft and pliant—deep into the summer, when resistance is only a distant memory and you beg with your eyes long before your voice.

 

The harnesses are the same black leather, but tonight the crystal cocks are different: hollow cores, connected to soft tubes that run to small reservoirs hidden against their barrels—syringes filled with warm, thick, pearlescent fluid. Custom-made. Enchanted to stay body-temperature. Designed to pump on command with a subtle flex of magic or pressure from their hips.

 

Aloe goes first again.

 

She has you on your back, legs hooked over her shoulders, small body folded nearly in half. The kiss starts gentle—her muzzle on yours, tongue teasing your lips apart, tasting the lingering sweetness of the treats she fed you earlier. You open for her without thinking, former human mind quieted to nothing but need.

 

The hollow cock presses in slow, ridges dragging, filling your cunt completely. She bottoms out with a sigh against your mouth, hips flush to yours, and holds there—kissing deeper, swallowing your whimpers as you adjust to the familiar stretch.

 

Then she begins to thrust.

 

Long, deliberate strokes at first, building rhythm while her tongue fucks your mouth in perfect sync. You’re already climbing when she triggers the first pump—a warm gush deep inside, thick and slick, coating your walls. Your eyes fly open against hers; she drinks in the shock, the dawning realization, and kisses you harder to muffle the broken moan.

 

Another thrust. Another pump. The fake semen floods you in rhythmic pulses, matching her pace, until you feel swollen and overflowing, the excess leaking around the shaft with every withdrawal. The sensation is obscene—hot, heavy, breeding you in a way this body was never meant for. Your former human mind reels at the wrongness; the filly body you’re trapped in just clenches harder, chasing more.

 

You come with a strangled cry into her mouth, walls milking the cock desperately as she pumps the last of the reservoir into you. She stays buried through the aftershocks, kissing you soft and slow until you’re limp and trembling.

 

She pulls out carefully, the wet sound loud in the quiet room. Warm fluid follows, dripping down your flanks onto the sheets. She smiles against your lips. “Good filly. So full of Auntie Aloe.”

 

Lotus doesn’t make you wait.

 

She flips you onto your stomach, hips lifted, face pressed to the pillows. No kisses on the mouth this time—just a possessive nip at the base of your tail as she lines up. The hollow cock at your tailhole is thicker, the stretch sharper. She pushes in steady, relentless, until her harness presses flush and you’re stuffed full again.

 

Her pace is harder from the start—hips snapping, ridges dragging in and out of your ass with wet, obscene sounds. One hoof slides beneath to rub your oversensitive clit while she leans over your back, breath hot against your ear.

 

“Feel it coming, little one?” she growls.

 

The first pump hits deeper than Aloe’s—thick spurts flooding your rear, warm and heavy, making you feel claimed from the inside out. You sob into the pillow, hooves kicking helplessly as she fucks the fluid deeper, alternating thrusts with deliberate squeezes of the syringe until you’re bloated and leaking from both holes.

 

The second climax wrecks you—harder than the first, body seizing around the invading cock, mind blanking to pure sensation. Lotus rides it out, pumping the last of her load with a final deep thrust, then stills.

 

They don’t pull out.

 

They roll you carefully between them—Aloe in front, Lotus behind—harnesses still seated deep, the hollow shafts plugging every drop inside. Warm, full, bred.

 

Hooves stroke your belly, your flanks, your mane. Soft kisses on your damp cheeks.

 

“Stay full all night,” Aloe whispers.

 

“Ours,” Lotus adds, nuzzling your neck.

 

You drift in the haze—former human shame drowned completely beneath the weight of their claim.

 

The fake semen stays warm inside you, a constant reminder.

 

And you already know you’ll beg them to do it again tomorrow.

 

===

 

Dinner time comes slow and indulgent, the way everything does in this endless summer.

 

You’re still impaled—Lotus’s choice tonight. She took your tailhole last, the thick hollow crystal cock buried deep, the reservoir spent but the shaft left in place to keep you plugged and full of her warm release. You’re in her lap on the wide chaise, back against her soft pink chest, hind legs splayed wide over her thighs so the harness stays seated flush. Every small shift sends a jolt through you—oversensitive walls fluttering around the intrusion, the fake semen sloshing faintly inside.

 

Aloe kneels in front of you both, a tray balanced on one hoof: fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate, small honey cakes, slices of mango glistening with juice. She selects a strawberry first, holding it to your lips.

 

“Open, sweet filly.”

 

You do, obedient now without thinking. The fruit is cool, sweet, bursting on your tongue as you bite. Juice runs down your chin; Aloe leans in to lick it away, slow and deliberate, her tongue tracing your muzzle before she kisses you softly, sharing the taste.

 

Lotus’s hooves stay on your hips, holding you steady. Every time you swallow, your body clenches involuntarily around the cock inside you, drawing a low hum from her throat. “Good girl,” she murmurs against your ear, nuzzling the black mane. “Stay still for Auntie Lotus. Keep me deep.”

 

Another bite—this time a piece of honey cake. Aloe feeds it to you crumb by crumb, letting you suck the sweetness from her hoof between bites. When you lick too eagerly, chasing the flavor, she chuckles and presses the hoof deeper into your mouth, letting you nurse at it like a foal while Lotus rocks her hips just enough to remind you you’re stuffed full.

 

Mango next. The slice is juicy, dripping. Aloe holds it above your muzzle, letting the nectar trickle onto your tongue before feeding you the flesh. Some drips lower, sliding down your barrel to where you’re joined to Lotus. Lotus gathers it with a hoof, brings it to your lips. “Taste yourself mixed with fruit,” she whispers.

 

You do, cheeks burning even in the haze.

 

They take their time. No rush. Bite by bite, lick by lick, until the tray is empty and your belly is warm and full, matching the heavy fullness lower down. You’re floating—fed, claimed, held between them like something precious and utterly owned.

 

When the last strawberry is gone, Aloe leans in to kiss you properly—deep and slow, sharing the lingering chocolate on your tongues. Lotus nuzzles your neck from behind, hooves stroking your swollen belly.

 

“Such a good little filly,” Aloe praises, voice soft.

 

“Stays so full for her aunties,” Lotus adds, giving a tiny thrust that makes you whimper.

 

You sag between them, impaled and sated, drifting toward sleep with the taste of fruit and them still on your lips.

 

They’ll keep you like this all night.

 

Just the way you need.

 

===

 

Weeks deep into the stolen summer, Aloe and Lotus lie awake in the dim candle-glow while you sleep between them—small green body curled tight, mane spilling across their chests, soft breaths warm against Aloe’s coat. The harnesses are unbuckled and set aside for the night, but the scent of lubricant and spent release still lingers in the air. Their hooves stroke you idly, possessively, tracing the curve of your blank flank, the line of your spine.

 

They do not speak at first. They simply watch you, the way a collector watches a priceless artifact finally secured.

 

Then Lotus breaks the silence, voice barely above a whisper in their shared tongue.

 

“The camp excuse ends soon. The princess vill expect her back.”

 

Aloe’s hoof tightens slightly on your hip. “Ve know.”

 

A pause. The brush lies nearby; Lotus picks it up, begins slow strokes through your black tail even though you’re asleep. The rhythm is soothing—to you, to them.

 

“Ve cannot let her go,” Aloe says. Not a question. A fact.

 

Lotus nods against your mane. “She is ours now. Look at her. She sleeps only here. Eats only from our hooves. Comes only for us.”

 

They have watched the changes carefully, catalogued them like experts.

 

How you stopped mentioning Twilight after the first week. How your eyes glaze when they mention the outside world. How you whine and cling when they pretend to leave the room. How your body responds to the slightest touch now—hips rocking instinctively, seeking fullness even in half-sleep.

 

They have made you addicted. Deliberately. Thoroughly.

 

The plan has been forming in quiet moments like this, piece by careful piece.

 

First: extend the lie. A forged letter from “camp counselors”—Lotus’s elegant script mimicking Cheerilee’s—claiming an “extended wilderness expedition” for talented fillies showing “exceptional promise in self-reliance.” Twilight is busy. Distracted. Proud of your “growth.” She will believe.

 

Second: deepen the dependency. They have already started introducing mild enchantments into the oils—subtle calming spells, bonding charms woven into the lubricants that make separation ache physically. Nothing detectable. Nothing harmful. Just enough to make the thought of leaving feel like withdrawal.

 

Third: the final step. When the extended excuse runs dry, they will stage a disappearance. A note in your hoofwriting—practiced now under their gentle guidance—saying you’ve found your calling in the woods, that you need space, that you’re grateful but must follow your own path. Vague. Mature-sounding. Twilight will search, of course. But Ponyville is near the Everfree. Foals run away sometimes. Hearts break, but life continues.

 

And you will be here. Hidden in the expanded back wing they’ve already begun soundproofing. A cozy nest. Toys. Brushes. Endless touch.

 

They will keep you small forever. Feed you by hoof. Bathe you. Breed you with their straps until the very idea of the outside world fades. Your blank flank will stay blank—no cutie mark hunt needed when your only purpose is to be theirs.

 

Lotus leans down, kisses the top of your head as you stir faintly in sleep.

 

“She vill not vant to leave,” she whispers. “Not after ve are done.”

 

Aloe smiles in the dark, hoof sliding lower to cup between your legs possessively.

 

“No. She vill beg to stay.”

 

They resume the brushing, twin rhythms lulling you deeper.

 

The plan is simple.

 

They will keep their perfect green filly.

 

Forever.

 

And you will thank them for it.

 

===

 

The letters worked.

 

The forged note about your “extended expedition” bought weeks. The final one—the careful, mature-sounding goodbye you dictated through tears of overwhelmed pleasure while impaled on both their straps—sealed it. Twilight searched, of course. The town whispered. But the trail went cold near the Everfree, just as planned.

 

You never left the spa.

 

And now, months later, the day they’ve waited for arrives: the day they declare you theirs forever, no more excuses, no more pretending.

 

They wake you gently, as always—mouths and hooves teasing you from sleep into your first climax before the sun fully rises. But today is different. The harnesses are already buckled when you open your eyes, crystal cocks gleaming thick and ready.

 

“Today ve celebrate, little one,” Aloe whispers, kissing your muzzle soft and deep. “You stay forever now. No more leaving. Our perfect filly.”

 

Lotus nuzzles your neck from behind, already nudging the slick head against your tailhole. “Good girl for choosing us. Ve vill show you how proud ve are—all day.”

 

They take you slow at first.

 

Aloe in front, sliding into your cunt with long, claiming thrusts while she kisses you breathless, swallowing every moan. Lotus in back, filling your ass completely, hips rocking steady. They move together, sandwiching you on the bed, cooing endless praise.

 

“Such a good filly staying with her aunties.”

 

“So obedient. So needy. Forever ours.”

 

You come twice before breakfast, body shaking between them, walls clenching desperately around both cocks as they pump you full of warm fluid from the reservoirs.

 

They don’t pull out.

 

Breakfast is in Aloe’s lap, Lotus spooned behind—both straps still buried deep. They feed you fruit and pastries hoof-to-mouth, rocking gently every time you swallow, drawing small aftershocks that make you whimper around the bites.

 

“Eat up, sweet treasure,” Aloe murmurs, licking juice from your chin. “Need your strength. Ve have all day to love you properly.”

 

Mid-morning brings variety.

 

They bend you over the massage table, taking turns—slow, deep strokes while the other brushes your mane and whispers how perfect you are for staying, how you belong here, how no one else will ever touch you again. They switch holes, switch positions, keeping you constantly full, constantly praised.

 

“Good girl taking both aunties again.”

 

“Look how beautifully you open for us.”

 

“Forever, little one. Say it.”

 

You do, voice hoarse and broken between moans.

 

Afternoon is intensity.

 

Suspended gently in silk ropes, legs spread wide, they fuck you together for hours—thrusts alternating, then syncing, pumping load after load until you’re dripping, bloated, mind blank. They kiss away your tears, coo over every sob of overwhelm.

 

“Our brave filly.”

 

“So pretty when you come undone.”

 

“You chose this. You stay. Good, good girl.”

 

Evening slows again.

 

On the wide bed, face-to-face with Aloe while Lotus takes you from behind, movements lazy now, savoring. They keep you impaled through dinner—feeding you in their laps, rocking slow, drawing out one last long, shattering climax as the candles burn low.

 

When it’s over, they stay inside, cuddling you close between their warm bodies, hooves stroking belly and flanks and mane.

 

“Forever,” Aloe whispers against your lips.

 

“Forever,” Lotus echoes, kissing your neck.

 

You drift off stuffed full, praised into silence, the last scraps of the outside world finally gone.

 

Their perfect green filly.

 

Kept.

 

Claimed.

 

Celebrated.

 

And you have never felt more wanted.

 

===

 

Time loses all meaning when you never leave the back wing.

 

The front of the spa has been dark for months now. The sign flipped to CLOSED permanently. Regular clients stopped coming after the polite notices, the vague excuses about “renovations” and “family obligations.” Aloe and Lotus no longer care about bits from hooficures and aromatherapy. They have you. They have everything.

 

But bits still matter for food, for oils, for new toys, for the little luxuries they spoil you with. So they adapt.

 

The long-time members—the ones who knew the old Saturday-night phrases, the discreet regulars who tipped well and never asked questions—are invited back. Select ones. Trusted ones. A very small circle of mares (and the occasional stallion) who have proven they understand discretion.

 

They pay handsomely for a night with the spa’s most exclusive offering: you.

 

Always under supervision, of course.

 

Aloe and Lotus never leave you alone with them. They orchestrate everything.

 

The room is prepared like a ritual. Candles lowered to intimate glow. Sheets fresh and soft. You bathed and oiled until your green coat gleams, mane and tail brushed to silk. Sometimes they leave you blank and waiting on the bed. Sometimes they keep a strap on themselves, or a plug inside you, so you stay open and ready.

 

The guest arrives through the back door, greeted softly by Lotus. Payment exchanged upfront—generous piles of bits that disappear into a locked box. Rules recited: gentle only, no marks, no talking about the outside, everything guided by the sisters.

 

You are presented like a treasure.

 

“This is our perfect little filly,” Aloe will say, hoof stroking your flank possessively while you kneel or lie displayed. “So sweet. So obedient. She stays with us forever now.”

 

The guest’s eyes always hunger. You feel it on your skin, the weight of their gaze. Part of you—the last flickering ember of the human you were—flinches in shame. But the rest of you, the part they’ve carefully reshaped, thrums with conditioned heat. You’ve learned to arch into touches. To spread without being asked. To whimper prettily when hooves explore you.

 

They take you under watchful eyes.

 

Aloe or Lotus always participates—holding your hooves, kissing your muzzle to quiet your cries, murmuring praise even as another pony sinks into you. “Good girl. Take our guest so nicely. Show them how perfect you are for us.”

 

Sometimes both sisters join, turning it into a tangle of bodies—you filled from every angle, mouths on your teats, hooves everywhere, the guest encouraged to thrust deeper while Aloe and Lotus coo approval.

 

You come often. Hard. Messily. They’ve trained your body too well for anything else.

 

Afterward, the guest is escorted out with polite thanks and a reminder of silence. The bits are counted. You are cleaned gently, held between your true owners, praised for being so good, so generous, so utterly theirs.

 

“See how many ponies want you?” Lotus whispers, brushing your mane while you drift in afterglow. “But you only belong to us.”

 

Aloe kisses your tears—whether from overwhelm or the faint, buried shame, they never ask. “Forever our treasure. Forever kept.”

 

The spa is closed to the world.

 

But for you, the nights are always open.

 

And you take every one of them.

 

Because this is home now.

 

Because you don’t remember how to want anything else.

 

===

 

You know the routine by heart now.

 

The candles are lit low, amber light flickering across the expanded back room that has become your entire world. Aloe and Lotus have prepared you carefully—bathed in scented water, oiled until your green coat shines like wet jade, mane and tail brushed to silk. They leave you on the wide bed, knees tucked under, blank flank presented, a small plug seated deep to keep you open and ready. Your heart flutters with that familiar mix: dread, shame, and the deeper, traitorous heat that pools low in your belly at the thought of being used again.

 

The back door opens and closes softly. Hoofsteps—heavier than the sisters’. A stallion.

 

Aloe greets him at the threshold, voice warm and professional. “Welcome back, darling. Payment first, as always.”

 

Bits clink. Lotus leads him in.

 

He’s big—earth pony, deep chestnut coat, mane cropped short, eyes already dark with hunger when they land on you. You don’t know his name. You never do. Aloe and Lotus keep that barrier; you’re just the treasure, the offering.

 

Lotus strokes your mane as she guides him closer. “Our perfect little filly,” she coos, loud enough for him to hear. “So sweet tonight. Ready for you.”

 

Aloe circles to your other side, hoof tracing your flank possessively. “Gentle at first. She likes to feel wanted.”

 

The stallion nods, voice rough. “She’s even prettier than last time.”

 

You tremble when he climbs onto the bed behind you. His weight dips the mattress. Large hooves settle on your hips—careful, but firm. Aloe kneels in front of you, lifting your chin so you meet her eyes. “Good girl. Open for our guest.”

 

Lotus removes the plug slowly, the stretch making you whimper. Cool air kisses your exposed holes; then his blunt, flared head presses against your cunt—hot, already slick with pre. He pushes in steady, inexorable, the sheer size of him forcing your walls to yield inch by thick inch. You gasp, small hooves clutching the sheets, former human mind reeling at how full a stallion makes you feel, how different from the sisters’ straps.

 

Aloe kisses you through it—deep, silencing, tongue stroking yours while he seats himself fully, heavy balls flush against your thighs. “That’s it,” she murmurs against your lips. “Take every bit. Show him how good you are for us.”

 

He starts slow—long, deep thrusts that drag his flare along every sensitive spot inside you. Each withdrawal leaves you empty and aching; each return fills you to bursting. Lotus watches from the side, hoof between her own legs, eyes hooded. “Look how beautifully she stretches,” she praises. “Our perfect little hole.”

 

The pace builds. His hips slap against your flanks, wet sounds filling the room. You moan into Aloe’s mouth, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. She breaks the kiss only to lick them away, whispering, “Cry for us, sweet filly. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

 

Lotus moves behind you now, beside the stallion. She guides his hoof to your clit, shows him the rhythm you like—firm circles that make your hind legs kick helplessly. “There,” she encourages. “Make her come on you. She clenches so pretty.”

 

You do—hard, sudden, walls spasming around his thick shaft as pleasure crashes through you. He groans, thrusts turning erratic, and then he’s coming too—hot pulses deep inside, thicker and more copious than the sisters’ fake loads, flooding you until it leaks down your thighs.

 

He stays buried through the aftershocks, breathing hard. Aloe and Lotus stroke your mane, your back, cooing endless praise.

 

“Good filly.”

 

“Took him so well.”

 

“Our treasure.”

 

When he finally pulls out, the gush of seed follows, warm and obscene. They clean you gently with warm cloths, Lotus lapping softly between your legs while Aloe holds you close.

 

The stallion dresses quietly, thanks them politely, leaves the bits on the table.

 

The door closes.

 

You’re gathered between your true owners again, trembling and sated, their hooves and mouths soothing every ache.

 

“Just us now,” Aloe whispers, kissing your damp forehead.

 

“Forever ours,” Lotus adds.

 

You nuzzle into their warmth, the shame fading under the weight of their touch.

 

Another night.

 

Another guest.

 

Another piece of you given away.

 

And you let it happen.

 

Because this is all you know now.

 

Because you need it.

 

===

 

The night Rarity first comes to you is one you will never forget—etched into your skin, your shame, your traitorous pleasure.

 

You’re curled on the wide bed in the candlelit back room, body still humming from the afternoon’s slow, thorough session with Aloe and Lotus. They’ve left you loosely tied—silk ropes around your forehooves, anchored to the headboard so you stay presented, flanks raised, plug seated deep to keep you open and dripping. The air smells of jasmine and your own slick. You’re half-dozing, mind quiet the way it only gets after hours of being used and praised.

 

The back door opens. Soft hoofsteps. A familiar, elegant clip-clop that snaps your eyes wide.

 

Rarity.

 

You haven’t seen her in… months? A year? Time blurs here. But you’d know that pristine white coat, that perfectly styled purple mane anywhere. She steps into the glow of the candles, dressed in a dark cloak for discretion, eyes sparkling with anticipation—until they land on you.

 

Her muzzle parts. The color drains from her face.

 

“Anon…?”

 

You try to curl in on yourself, but the ropes and cuffs hold you displayed. Shame burns hotter than anything the sisters have ever done to you. Your name—your old filly name—hits like a slap. You jerk against the ropes, heart slamming into your ribs. Shame floods you, hot and nauseating. Rarity knows you. She’s met you at Twilight’s castle, at parties, at school events. She’s the one who once tried to design you a “darling little outfit” to “bring out your eyes.” She knows you’re supposed to be at camp, or missing, or something.

 

Aloe and Lotus move smoothly into place—Lotus at Rarity’s side, guiding her deeper into the room with a gentle hoof on her withers. Aloe kneels beside you, stroking your mane possessively, voice calm and warm.

 

“Welcome, darling Rarity. Our most exclusive guest tonight. Ve thought you would appreciate the surprise.”

 

Rarity’s eyes dart from your bound, oiled body to the sisters and back. Her voice cracks. “What… what is this? What have you done to her?”

 

You try to speak—try to explain, to beg, to hide—but your throat closes. All that comes out is a small, broken whine. Your tail tries to tuck, but the position won’t allow it. You’re exposed. Leaking. Used. And Rarity is seeing all of it.

 

Lotus’s accent is soothing, practiced. “She stays with us now. Chose to. Ve take such good care of her. She is happy here. Aren’t you, sweet filly?”

 

Aloe’s hoof slides between your thighs, circling your clit lightly—enough to make your hips jerk, a fresh gush of slick betraying you. You sob, tears burning your eyes.

 

Rarity’s horn flickers—magic flaring as if to teleport away—but Lotus’s own gentle hooves wraps around her, easing her forward. “No harm,” Lotus murmurs. “Only pleasure. She needs this.”

 

Rarity’s gaze drops to where Aloe’s hoof works you, to the plug glistening in your tailhole, to the faint bruises of love bites on your thighs. Her shock twists—slowly, horrifyingly—into something else. Curiosity. Hunger. The same look every guest gets eventually.

 

You see it happen. You feel it like a knife.

 

“Please…” you finally manage, voice tiny. “Rarity… don’t…”

 

But she doesn’t leave.

 

Aloe unties your forehooves, guides you onto your back, legs spread wide. Rarity’s cloak falls to the floor. Her eyes are dark now, fixed on you.

 

“She’s so small,” Rarity whispers, almost to herself. “So… beautiful like this.”

 

They guide her closer. Aloe and Lotus flank you, holding your legs open, murmuring encouragement.

 

“Go on, darling,” Aloe says. “Taste her. She’s been waiting all day.”

 

Rarity hesitates one last moment—then lowers her elegant muzzle.

 

The first touch of her tongue is tentative, almost reverent, tracing your outer lips. You jerk against the restraints, a sob catching in your throat. She tastes you slowly at first, exploring, learning the flavor of your shame. Then hunger takes over—her tongue delving deeper, lapping inside you, circling your clit with perfect, practiced precision.

 

You’ve been edged all evening; you come almost immediately—hard, humiliating, body arching as pleasure rips through you. Rarity moans against your cunt, drinking you down, horn glowing as subtle magic joins her tongue—gentle vibrations that prolong the climax until you’re crying openly.

 

The sisters praise you both.

 

“Good filly.”

 

“Such a generous mare.”

 

Rarity pulls back only when you’re limp and oversensitive, lips glistening, eyes dark with lust. Aloe buckles a strap onto her—a sleek, elegant crystal cock in pale blue to match her magic aura. Rarity’s breath hitches as it settles against her.

 

Lotus positions you on your side, one leg lifted. Aloe guides Rarity behind you.

 

“Slow at first,” Aloe instructs. “She loves to feel every inch.”

 

Rarity presses in.

 

The stretch is different from the sisters—her magic makes the cock warm and pulsing, ridges shifting subtly to hit every spot. She sinks deep in one long thrust, groaning at your tightness. You sob into the pillow, former human mind screaming at the wrongness of Rarity—prim, proper Rarity—fucking you while the sisters watch and touch themselves.

 

She starts slow, hips rolling, but soon loses control—thrusts turning sharp and deep, her chest pressed to your back, muzzle at your ear whispering, “Oh, darling… you’re exquisite… so tight… so perfect…”

 

Lotus kneels in front, taking your muzzle in a deep kiss to muffle your cries. Aloe’s hoof works your clit in time with Rarity’s thrusts.

You come again—harder, walls clenching around Rarity’s magical cock until she follows, magic pulsing hot release inside you in waves that feel almost real.

 

She doesn’t pull out immediately. Stays buried, trembling, kissing your neck with soft apologies and praises tangled together.

 

The night continues.

 

They move you to all fours—Rarity taking your mouth this time, elegant hooves in your mane while Aloe and Lotus take turns behind. Then suspended in silk, Rarity beneath you riding your cunt while the sisters fill your mouth and tailhole.

 

Hours of it. Climax after climax until you’re hoarse and boneless.

 

Finally, near dawn, they settle you between them—Rarity curled against your front, sisters at your back and sides, all touching, stroking, whispering.

 

Rarity’s voice is soft, shaken. “I… I didn’t know… you’re so beautiful like this…”

 

You cry quietly.

 

She kisses your tears.

 

The door will close soon.

 

She will leave.

 

But you know, deep down, she’ll return.

 

They always do.

 

===

 

Rarity stumbled out into the pre-dawn chill of Ponyville’s back alleys, cloak pulled tight around her trembling frame, the taste of the little green filly still lingering on her tongue like forbidden silk.

 

The door clicked shut behind her. The night was over. But the images—the sounds, the feel of the filly’s small, bound body arching under her mouth, the broken whimpers when Rarity finally strapped on and took her deep—burned behind her eyelids with crystalline clarity.

 

She made it three streets before the nausea hit.

 

She ducked into a shadowed doorway, horn glowing faintly to steady herself against the wall as her stomach churned. Not from disgust—no, that would be too clean. From the sick, twisting realization of what she had done.

 

Twilight’s adopted daughter.

 

The little green filly everypony had searched for. The one whose disappearance had broken Twilight’s heart in ways Rarity had only glimpsed through tearful letters and desperate searches. The one Rarity herself had mourned, designing a memorial scarf in emerald and black that Twilight still wore on bad days.

 

And Rarity had spent the night fucking her.

 

Using her.

 

Tasting her tears and praising her for how sweetly she came.

 

The shame crashed over her in waves. She pressed a hoof to her mouth to stifle a sob. Her thighs were still slick—evidence she hadn’t been able to bear cleaning away in the spa’s dim light, not with Aloe and Lotus watching so possessively. She could still feel the phantom heat of the filly’s small body clenching around the strap, the desperate whines when Rarity whispered, “Such a darling little thing… so responsive…”

 

She should go to Twilight. Right now. Confess everything. Demand the Guard storm the spa. Free the filly.

 

But the thought froze her colder than the night air.

 

Because confessing meant admitting she had known it was the filly—known the moment she saw those teal eyes wide with recognition—and stayed anyway. Meant admitting she had let Aloe guide her muzzle between the filly’s legs. Meant admitting she had come harder than she had in years while buried inside Twilight’s lost child, while the sisters cooed approval.

 

Twilight would never forgive her.

 

The Element of Generosity, defiling the missing filly she had once offered to mentor.

 

Her reputation—her boutique—her friendships—all ash.

 

And worse: the dark, ugly truth coiled in her belly.

 

She wanted to go back.

 

Already.

 

The memory of the filly’s taste, her surrender, the way she trembled when Rarity called her beautiful… it was addictive. Forbidden. Perfect.

 

Rarity straightened slowly, wiping her eyes with a shaking hoof. The cloak hid the evidence on her coat. Nopony saw her slip through the quiet streets to her empty boutique.

 

Inside, she locked the door. Lit no lamps. Collapsed onto her chaise in the dark.

 

Her horn glowed faintly as she touched herself—slow, guilty circles—replaying every moment. The filly’s sobs. Her climax around the strap. The sisters’ soft praise in her ears while Rarity took her deeper.

 

She came with the filly’s name on her lips, muffled against a pillow soaked with tears.

 

Afterward, she lay staring at the ceiling, chest heaving.

 

She would keep the secret.

 

She had to.

 

Because telling meant losing everything.

 

And because some traitorous part of her—the part still throbbing between her thighs—already knew she would pay the bits again.

 

Soon.

 

To taste the filly one more time.

 

The generous mare buried her face in her hooves and wept.

 

But the weeping didn’t last long.

 

The wanting did.

 

===

 

The nights with Rarity become a new kind of torment.

 

She returns sooner than you expect—three nights after the first, then twice a week, then nearly every other evening. Always cloaked, always paying generous piles of bits that Aloe and Lotus accept with serene smiles. She tells herself—and sometimes murmurs to you in the afterglow—that she’s only coming to help. To provide for your “care.” To check that you’re… safe. Fed. Content.

 

You hear the lie in her voice every time.

 

Because the moment the door closes, her eyes devour you.

 

They prepare you the same: oiled, open, presented on the bed like a gift. Rarity’s composure cracks the instant she sees you—cloak discarded, mane slightly mussed, breath already quickening. She kneels between your spread legs first, elegant muzzle burying itself in you with a hunger that belies her excuses. Her tongue is precise, magical—vibrations from her horn making you come fast and hard while she moans like she’s the one being pleasured.

 

But the strap is what she craves most.

 

Aloe buckles it on her—always the pale blue crystal cock that pulses with her magic aura. Rarity positions you on your back or side, legs wrapped around her barrel, and sinks in slow, eyes locked on yours. The stretch is familiar now, but her magic makes it feel alive—throbbing, shifting ridges to hit every spot that makes you sob.

 

And when you plead—when the words bubble up despite everything—“Rarity… please… stop… this is wrong…”—she silences you with her mouth.

 

Deep, consuming kisses.

 

Her lips seal over yours, tongue sliding in to claim every protest, swallowing your whimpers as her hips start to move. She kisses you like she’s starving—soft at first, then desperate, muffling your cries while she thrusts deeper. You taste yourself on her from earlier, taste her guilt and desire mingled. Her hooves cradle your face or pin your forehooves, keeping you from pushing away even if you had the strength left.

 

You feel the former human in you screaming—trapped in this small, traitorous body that arches into her despite everything. The shame of coming around Rarity’s magical cock while she kisses your pleas into silence is sharper than any climax.

 

She always apologizes in whispers between kisses.

 

“I’m sorry, darling… I just… I need to make sure you’re all right…”

 

“I’m helping… providing for you… you need this…”

 

But her thrusts never slow. Her magic pulses hotter inside you. She comes with you—shuddering, groaning into your mouth, flooding you with warm, illusory release that leaks down your thighs.

 

After, she holds you close—kissing your tears, stroking your mane, murmuring how beautiful you are, how she’ll take care of you. The sisters watch approvingly, sometimes joining to sandwich you between all three warm bodies.

 

You stop pleading eventually.

 

Not because you want it.

 

Because her kisses take even that from you.

 

And because some broken part of you—the part they’ve all shaped—starts to crave the way she makes you feel wanted.

 

Even if it’s built on lies.

 

Rarity leaves before dawn, cloak tight, bits lighter, conscience heavier.

 

But she always comes back.

 

To “help.”

 

To check on you.

 

To kiss away whatever’s left of your resistance.

 

===

 

Rarity told herself it was charity.

 

The first return visit was meant to be reconnaissance—to confirm the filly was not being harmed, to slip her a message spell, to plan a rescue. She arrived cloaked, bits heavy in her saddlebag, heart pounding with righteous intent.

 

But the moment she saw the little green body waiting—oiled, open, teal eyes glazed with conditioned need—her noble plan dissolved. Aloe and Lotus greeted her like a favored regular. The bits changed hooves. The door locked.

 

She knelt between those spread legs again, telling herself it was to comfort, to check for injury. Her tongue found the filly slick and ready, and the taste—sweet, shameful, addictive—flooded her senses. She lingered far longer than necessary, drawing out climax after climax until the child sobbed into a pillow.

 

The strap came next. She buckled it on with trembling hooves, whispering apologies even as she pressed in. The filly’s pleas—“Rarity… please… this is wrong…”—were silenced by deep, desperate kisses. Rarity poured every ounce of her guilt and desire into those kisses, tongue stroking away protests, swallowing whimpers while her hips rolled slow and deep. The magical cock pulsed inside that impossibly tight heat, ridges shifting to find every sensitive place until the filly came apart beneath her, clenching hard enough to drag Rarity over the edge with her.

 

Afterward she held the trembling body close, stroking the black mane, murmuring, “I’m helping you, darling. Providing for your care. Making sure you’re… safe.”

 

The lie tasted better than the truth.

 

The visits multiplied.

 

Twice a week became three times, then four. She arrived with ever-larger pouches of bits—“for your comfort, sweet thing”—and excuses polished to perfection in her mirror at home. She was monitoring. Contributing. Ensuring the filly was fed, groomed, content.

 

In the candlelit room, those excuses crumbled.

 

She learned the filly’s body like a new fabric—where magic made her kick, where a slow twist of the strap drew the sweetest cries. She kissed away every plea, deeper each time, until the child stopped pleading altogether. She came to crave the moment the small muzzle opened under hers, the way those teal eyes fluttered shut in surrender.

 

She experimented—positions, intensities, toys the sisters offered. Always with the strap eventually, always kissing through the climax, drinking in the broken moans like fine wine. The magical release she pumped inside felt like marking territory.

 

After each night she held the filly longest—stroking, whispering how generous she was being, how this was all for her well-being. The sisters approved, sometimes joining to sandwich the small body between three warm, possessive forms.

 

At home, in the dark of her boutique, Rarity touched herself to the memories—guilt and pleasure inextricably entwined. She wept sometimes, promising it would be the last visit.

 

But the bits were always ready.

 

The cloak always packed.

 

The wanting never diminished.

 

She was helping, she insisted to the empty air.

 

Providing.

 

Caring.

 

And if her thrusts grew harder, her kisses more desperate, her magical loads deeper—if she came harder than ever in her life while buried inside Twilight’s lost daughter—it was only because she needed to be thorough.

 

Thorough in her generosity.

 

The lie held.

 

Night after night.

 

And Rarity kept coming back.

 

===

 

One night Rarity comes alone—no sisters tonight, just her, cloaked and trembling with something new in her eyes.

 

She pays double. Whispers to Aloe and Lotus that she wants privacy, just the two of you. They exchange a knowing glance, smile, and withdraw, leaving the wide bed and flickering candles to the two of you.

 

You’re already oiled and open on the sheets, body conditioned to expect touch the moment anypony enters. Rarity sheds her cloak slowly, mane perfect even in the dim light, but her breath is ragged. She climbs onto the bed, hooves shaking as she straddles your small frame, eyes locked on yours.

 

“Darling,” she whispers, voice cracking, “I… I can’t stop thinking about you. About being closer. Deeper.”

 

Her horn ignites—brilliant sapphire glow that bathes your green coat in blue light. The magic coils down her body, concentrating between her thighs. You watch, wide-eyed, as flesh shifts and forms—smooth, flared, thick, growing from her own body, pulsing with her heartbeat, unmistakably real.

 

A real cock.

 

Rarity gasps at the sensation, hips jerking involuntarily as it hardens fully, pre already beading at the tip. The magic makes it sensitive—hers, alive, part of her.

 

She lowers herself, rubbing the hot length along your slick entrance, coating herself in you. “I need to feel you around me,” she breathes. “Really feel you.”

 

You whimper—former human mind reeling at the impossibility, the wrongness, the intimacy of Rarity, elegant perfect Rarity, about to take you with her own flesh.

 

She pushes in.

 

Slow at first, eyes fluttering shut as your walls stretch around her new cock—hot, throbbing, alive in a way no strap ever was. The flare pops past your ring and she moans your name—your filly name, low and broken. “Anon…”

 

You cry out, small hooves clutching at her shoulders, body arching to take her deeper. She bottoms out with a shudder, buried to the hilt, her balls—magic-formed, heavy—pressed against your flanks.

 

Then she starts to move.

 

Long, deep thrusts that drag her flare along every ridge inside you. Her magic pulses through the cock itself—warm surges that make it swell slightly with each stroke, hitting spots that make your vision spark. She leans down, kissing you desperately, tongue stroking yours in time with her hips.

 

The kisses turn sloppy, frantic. She loses the rhythm of her elegance—thrusts turning hard, needy, hips snapping as she chases the new sensation of fucking you with her own body.

 

You lose yourself too.

 

The shame, the human part screaming—this is Rarity, this is wrong—drowns under the pleasure. Your legs wrap around her barrel, pulling her deeper, small body rocking to meet every thrust.

 

Names spill between kisses.

 

“Rarity—”

 

“Anon—oh, darling—Anon—”

 

She moans your name like a prayer, over and over, voice breaking higher each time her cock throbs inside you. You moan hers back, hoarse and desperate, tears streaking your cheeks as climax builds.

 

She comes first—sudden, overwhelming, magic surging as hot seed floods you in thick pulses, real and warm and endless. The sensation tips you over; you clench hard around her, sobbing her name into her mouth as you come, walls milking every drop.

 

She doesn’t stop.

 

Keeps thrusting through both climaxes, drawing them out until you’re both shaking, oversensitive, babbling each other’s names like lifelines.

 

Only when you’re limp and gasping does she still, cock still buried deep, pulsing faintly with aftershocks. She collapses onto you, kissing your tears, your muzzle, your neck.

 

“Anon,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “My sweet, perfect Anon.”

 

You cling to her, mind blank, body full of her.

 

The night stretches on—round after round, her magic sustaining her, filling you again and again until you’re leaking, bloated, marked inside and out.

 

By dawn she’s curled around you, cock softened but still inside, holding you like something precious and broken.

 

She leaves with kisses and promises to return.

 

You lie in the cooling sheets, full of her seed, her name still on your lips.

 

And you know you’ll whisper it back next time.

 

Because you’re lost too.

 

===

 

One night Rarity comes alone again, eyes brighter than usual, magic already crackling faintly around her horn. The sisters have withdrawn at her request—and her extra bits—leaving the candlelit room to just the two of you.

 

You’re on the bed, body oiled and ready as always, small frame trembling in anticipation you hate yourself for. Rarity sheds her cloak with deliberate slowness, mane perfect, but her breath comes quick and shallow. She climbs onto the bed, straddling nothing yet, horn glowing sapphire as the magic coils between her thighs.

 

The cock forms—thicker tonight, longer, flared and veined, pulsing into existence with a wet shimmer of magic. It stands proud from her body, hot and alive, pre already beading at the tip. She gasps at the sensation, hips twitching as if testing its sensitivity.

 

“Tonight, darling,” she whispers, voice husky, “I want to feel you completely. Every inch. Every movement.”

 

Her magic wraps around you—gentle at first, warm azure bands lifting you from the sheets like weightless silk. You float upward, small body suspended in her glow, limbs spread wide, helpless. The former human in you panics at the loss of control, but the conditioned filly just aches, slick dripping down your thighs in anticipation.

 

Rarity positions you above her—facing her, legs forced apart, your slick entrance hovering just over the flared head of her magical cock. Her eyes lock on yours, dark with possession.

 

“Perfect,” she breathes.

 

Then she lowers you.

 

Slow, inexorable—her magic guiding you down onto her cock inch by thick inch. The stretch burns deliciously; the flare pops past your ring and you cry out, small hooves kicking uselessly in the air. She moans your name—“Anon…”—voice breaking as your walls clench around her new, living flesh.

 

Once you’re fully seated—impaled to the hilt, her balls pressed against your flanks—she doesn’t thrust with her hips. She uses her magic.

 

You become her living toy.

 

Her horn glows brighter, and you’re lifted—slowly, deliberately—up the length of her cock until only the flare remains inside, stretching you open. Then down again, hard and deep, slamming you flush against her. Up. Down. The rhythm builds—faster, controlled entirely by her magic, your body bouncing helplessly on her shaft like a doll.

 

Every descent forces a broken moan from your throat; every ascent leaves you empty and whining. Her cock throbs inside you, magic making it swell and pulse, ridges dragging perfectly along your walls. Pre and your own slick coat her length, dripping down to her balls with wet sounds.

 

Rarity watches you the entire time—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, one hoof between her own legs rubbing her clit while the magic does the work. “Look at you,” she gasps. “My perfect little toy. Taking me so beautifully. Up… and down…”

 

You lose track of time—suspended, used, filled and emptied in perfect, merciless rhythm. Climaxes crash through you without warning—one from the deep slams hitting that spot inside, another from her magic teasing your clit in mid-air, a third when she angles you to grind against her barrel on every downstroke.

 

Tears streak your cheeks. You sob her name—“Rarity… Rarity…”—voice wrecked, former human dignity shattered completely.

 

She comes with a cry—magic surging, cock swelling as hot seed floods you in thick, endless pulses, real and warm and overflowing. The sensation tips you into one final, shattering climax, walls milking her desperately as you scream into the empty room.

 

Only then does the magic ease.

 

She lowers you gently, still impaled, until you’re straddling her lap, her cock softening but plugged deep inside. Her forelegs wrap around you, pulling you close, kissing your damp face, your muzzle, your tears.

 

“My sweet Anon,” she whispers, voice trembling with aftershocks. “My perfect toy. All mine tonight.”

 

You cling to her, body shaking, full of her seed, her magic, her lies.

 

And you don’t fight it anymore.

 

Because this is what you’ve become.

 

Her living toy.

 

And some broken part of you loves it.

 

===

 

You remember the day you forged the camp letter like it was yesterday.

 

You told yourself it was just for the summer. Just eight weeks. Just long enough to drown in the sisters’ touch without Twilight’s worried eyes watching. You wrote the words in careful hoofwriting—excited, innocent, eager to “find herself in nature.” You even added a little doodle of a tent. Twilight signed without hesitation. She was proud. You felt a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—but it was already too late. The itch under your coat was louder than any conscience.

 

You never meant for it to become forever.

 

But the sisters made it easy. Forged extensions. Forged final goodbyes. And you… you never said no.

 

Not when they suggested one more week.

Not when they whispered how happy you were here.

Not when they brushed your mane for hours and told you the outside world would only hurt you again.

 

Your body said yes long before your mind gave up. Every touch rewired you. Every climax carved deeper grooves of need. You stopped fighting because fighting meant emptiness, and emptiness was worse than shame.

 

Now the spa is closed to the public. The bits come from the members—from nights when strangers use you under the sisters’ watchful eyes. You tell yourself it’s practical. The money buys the oils that make your coat gleam, the toys that stretch you just right, the honey cakes they feed you in bed. It buys the endless nights sandwiched between Aloe and Lotus, their hooves stroking you to sleep while they murmur how perfect you are, how you belong.

 

You hate how much you believe them.

 

You hate how your hips lift when a guest enters the room. How you spread without being asked. How you come hard and loud for ponies who don’t even know your real name. The former human in you screams—this is prostitution, this is exploitation, this is a child’s body being sold—but the scream is distant, muffled under layers of conditioned pleasure. The filly you’ve become just wants the praise afterward. Wants the sisters to clean you gently and tell you you were good, that you earned your pampering.

 

And then there’s Rarity.

 

She was supposed to be safe. A mare who knew you from the castle, who would have helped Twilight search if things had gone differently. A guardian figure in a world that took everything else from you.

 

Now she’s worse than the strangers.

 

She comes cloaked, bits heavy in her pouch, excuses polished to a shine. “I’m only checking on you, darling.” “I’m providing for your care.” “Somepony has to make sure you’re… comfortable.”

 

But her eyes are always hungry. Her magical cock is always thicker than last time. She levitates you now—uses you like a toy, bouncing you on her shaft while she moans your name like a prayer. She kisses you until you can’t breathe, until your pleas dissolve on her tongue. She comes inside you with real, hot seed and holds you after, whispering how generous she is, how this is all for you.

 

You see the addiction in her—the same one that keeps you here. She’s trapped too. She weeps sometimes, promises it’s the last visit, but she always returns. Always pays more. Always takes you harder.

 

You could have told her no the first night. Could have begged her to get help. But you didn’t. Because her mouth felt good. Because her praise filled the hollow places the sisters left aching. Because when she calls you beautiful, some broken part of you believes it.

 

You’re complicit.

 

You forged the lie that started this.

You never said stop.

You spread for the guests so the pampering continues.

You let Rarity fall because her touch feels like love, even when it’s destruction.

 

The human you were is still in there somewhere—horrified, raging, grieving. But he’s small now. Drowned in oils and seed and endless, perfect touch.

 

Most days you don’t even look for him anymore.

 

You just arch into the next hoof that reaches for you.

 

And wait for the praise that follows.

 

===

 

Rarity’s nights with the little green filly have become a private hell of exquisite design—one she builds herself, brick by brick of guilt and pleasure.

 

She arrives cloaked, bits already counted twice, excuses rehearsed in the mirror until they sound like truth. The spa’s back door closes behind her with the soft finality of a confessional. Aloe and Lotus withdraw with knowing smiles, leaving her alone with the child who was once Twilight’s ward.

 

The filly is waiting—oiled, open, teal eyes glazed with that terrible, conditioned surrender. Rarity’s heart twists even as heat pools low in her belly. She tells herself this is the last time. Always the last time.

 

She starts gentle, as if gentleness could absolve her.

 

Kneeling between those small thighs, muzzle lowering to taste what she has no right to taste. The filly is slick already—trained to readiness—and the first lap draws a broken whimper that spears Rarity’s chest. Guilt surges: This is Twilight’s daughter. The one we searched for. The one I mourned.

 

But the taste—sweet, shameful, uniquely hers—floods Rarity’s senses, and the guilt sharpens the pleasure to a knife’s edge. Every sob the filly muffles into a pillow is a lash across Rarity’s conscience, and every lash makes her tongue work harder, more desperately. She tells herself she’s checking for harm, ensuring comfort, but her magic vibrates against the child’s clit with deliberate cruelty, forcing climax after climax until tears streak that green face.

 

The guilt intensifies everything.

 

When she forms the cock—sapphire magic coiling, flesh growing hot and real between her thighs—the shame is a living thing. She presses in slowly, watching those teal eyes widen, hearing the cracked “Rarity…” that is half plea, half surrender. She kisses it away—deep, consuming kisses that silence protests and drink in the child’s broken moans.

 

I should stop, Rarity thinks, even as her hips roll forward, burying herself to the hilt. I should confess. Free her. Tell Twilight everything.

 

But the tight, clenching heat around her new cock is perfect—too perfect—and the thought of confession, of losing this, of facing Twilight’s devastation, freezes her. The guilt becomes fuel. Every thrust is penance and reward at once. Every time the filly comes around her—walls fluttering, small body arching—Rarity’s own climax builds higher on the knowledge that she is complicit, that she is choosing this, that she is defiling something sacred.

 

She uses the filly like a toy—levitating her, bouncing her on the magical shaft, angling her for deeper penetration—because control quiets the screaming in her mind. If she orchestrates every cry, every tear, then perhaps she can pretend it’s care. Generosity. Love, even.

 

She comes inside with real seed, pulse after pulse, marking what she has no right to mark. The filly sobs her name—“Rarity… Rarity…”—and the sound is devastation and absolution. Rarity kisses the tears, whispering lies: “I’m helping you, darling.” “This is for your comfort.” “I’ll take care of you.”

 

The guilt should stop her.

 

Instead it makes the pleasure unbearable, exquisite, addictive.

 

Afterward she holds the trembling body close, stroking the black mane, inhaling the scent of their mingled release. She weeps sometimes—silent tears into green fur—promising herself this truly is the last visit.

 

But the wanting always wins.

 

Because telling Twilight would destroy everything—her friendships, her reputation, her fragile self-image as the Element of Generosity.

 

And because the guilt—the knowledge that she is irredeemably complicit—has become the darkest, sweetest spice to her pleasure.

 

She will return.

 

She always does.

 

And the filly—broken, conditioned, waiting—will take her again.

 

Because both of them are trapped now.

 

In guilt.

 

In pleasure.

 

In each other.