Octavia Admisión part1


                                            1.
                                            
                                                Be Octavia, Ponyville’s premier cellist, a mare of poise and precision, but right now, you’re a seething storm of frustration, exhaustion, and—Celestia forgive you—more frustration

                                            2.

                                            3.
                                            
                                                The stallions in the orchestra have been unbearable these past months, their egos bloated like overripe fruit, demanding perfection while your patience unravels thread by thread

                                            4.

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                                                Meanwhile, your fellow mares—Lyra, Bon Bon, that bubbly flutist—strut around radiant, giggling like schoolfillies, their coats gleaming as if they’ve discovered some forbidden elixir of joy

                                            6.

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                                                You’re half-tempted to wish a yoke would crash on their heads—no, a piano is too noble for such pettiness; let it be a yunke, something crude and fitting for your sour mood

                                            8.

                                            9.
                                            
                                                “Tavi, you okay?” Vinyl Scratch’s voice pierces your haze, her crimson eyes narrowing as she leans in from across your shared apartment’s cluttered living room

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                                            11.
                                            
                                                You catch your reflection—wild eyes, a smile that’s more feral than refined—and force yourself to compose, banishing the dark thoughts with a shake of your head

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                                            13.
                                            
                                                “Ahem, Tavi?” Vinyl presses, tilting her head, her white coat paling under your lingering grin, a look that once sent Sol Harmony scrambling like a frightened colt

                                            14.

                                            15.
                                            
                                                “We don’t speak of that idiot here,” you say, your voice a silky purr, the wide, toothy smile you flash making Vinyl’s ears flatten, her shades slipping down her nose

                                            16.

                                            17.
                                            
                                                Okay, maybe you are spiraling—Vinyl’s coat is already white, so for her to look paler means you’re radiating enough menace to unsettle even a DJ who thrives on chaos

                                            18.

                                            19.
                                            
                                                You take a deep breath, inhaling sharply through your nose, then exhale slowly, the tension easing as you ground yourself

                                            20.

                                            21.
                                            
                                                But then—sniff—the air thickens with your own scent, the hormone suppressor you took failing under the stress, a musky, floral heat betraying your frustration

                                            22.

                                            23.
                                            
                                                Celestia’s mane! You slap your hooves over your face, cheeks burning scarlet, the blush so vivid it rivals a stage spotlight, mortified as the aroma fills the room

                                            24.

                                            25.
                                            
                                                Before you can spiral further, Vinyl’s at your side, her hooves lifting you into a warm, steady hug, her voice soft but firm. “Tavi, I get it. It hurts, doesn’t it? Not feeling that touch... from the opposite side.”

                                            26.

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                                                Her words hit like a bowstring snap, and you melt into the embrace, the unspoken ache of loneliness shared between you

                                            28.

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                                                She pulls back, her grin returning with a mischievous glint. “C’mon, let’s fix this. Get dolled up—best you can manage.”

                                            30.

                                            31.
                                            
                                                Confused but trusting, you obey, primping your mane, adjusting your bowtie and collar until you look every inch the elegant musician

                                            32.

                                            33.
                                            
                                                But Vinyl shakes her head at your ensemble. “Nah, lose the extras. The bowtie and collar are plenty—trust me.”

                                            34.

                                            35.
                                            
                                                You blink, but comply, shedding the layers until you’re bare but for the simple accents, feeling exposed yet oddly liberated

                                            36.

                                            37.
                                            
                                                As night falls, Vinyl drags you through Ponyville’s streets to the... human commerce district? A bustling zone built just a few years ago to accommodate the influx of humans to Equestria, filled with odd shops and unfamiliar scents

                                            38.

                                            39.
                                            
                                                She hauls you into a comic store, of all places, the bell jingling as a portly human behind the counter looks up, his white tank top and denim shorts paired with blue socks and sneakers giving him a casual, unassuming air

                                            40.

                                            41.
                                            
                                                “Ah, Miss Vinyl! We’ve been expecting you—and I see you’ve brought a guest?” His voice is jovial, but his eyes sharpen with curiosity

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                                                “Good evening, Hilton. This is Octavia, my roommate. I want to sponsor her as a VIP referral.”

                                            44.

                                            45.
                                            
                                                The human nods, his expression turning serious as he presses a hidden button—the windows and door seal shut with a metallic clunk, shutters rolling down like a fortress locking in

                                            46.

                                            47.
                                            
                                                “Right, a new member. If you’d kindly take a seat on the stool, Miss Octavia, the interview will be brief—but we need complete honesty.”

                                            48.

                                            49.
                                            
                                                You perch on the stool, heart pounding, as the next 20 minutes unfold in a barrage of questions—personal, intimate, delving into desires you’ve barely whispered to yourself, each one stoking a fire in your core that leaves you squirming, your body heating up like a bow on overworked strings

                                            50.

                                            51.
                                            
                                                By the end, you’re flushed, your lower half throbbing with an insistent ache, the urge to leap at this human stallion nearly overwhelming—Celestia, compose yourself, you’re a mare of refinement!

                                            52.
                                            
                                                Hilton nods, satisfied, and hands you a silver card, your photo emblazoned on it alongside the phrase “Seguridad y Control!”

                                            53.

                                            54.
                                            
                                                “Tavi, take this,” Vinyl says, grinning. “It’ll get you in anytime, even without me. There’s a quarterly fee, but trust me—you’ll love it. My crowd’s waiting downstairs, so don’t take too long... for your own good.”

                                            55.

                                            56.
                                            
                                                She vanishes in a flash of teleportation magic, leaving you stunned—this isn’t her first time, clearly, her ease a dead giveaway

                                            57.

                                            58.
                                            
                                                You clutch the card, piecing it together—this “comic shop” is a front for one of those whispered-about establos, Ponyville’s secret dens where mares pay handsomely to be mounted, dominated, and tamed by willing partners

                                            59.

                                            60.
                                            
                                                Your body quivers, a cocktail of fear and desire churning in your gut, but the ache wins—you’re drawn to it, the promise of release too tempting to ignore

                                            61.

                                            62.
                                            
                                                Following Vinyl’s gesture, you enter a vast wardrobe room, racks upon racks of intimate apparel, from lace lingerie to leather harnesses, basic stockings to elaborate hoods and suits that encase the head

                                            63.

                                            64.
                                            
                                                Depraved, sinful, enticing—your hooves tremble as you select a pair of leather stockings, sliding them up your hind legs, the material hugging like a second skin, smooth and restrictive, sending shivers up your spine as it molds to your curves

                                            65.

                                            66.
                                            
                                                Next, a matching leather corset, its glossy surface creaking as you lace it tight, the pressure squeezing your barrel, accentuating every breath, every flutter of your heart, the constriction igniting a slow burn in your core that makes your knees weak

                                            67.

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                                                You add a collar of the same sleek leather, its weight settling around your neck like a promise, the buckle clicking shut with a finality that sends a rush of heat through you

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                                                By the time you’re done, you’re panting, your body alight, lower regions throbbing with anticipation—the outfit a sensual armor, transforming your elegant form into something primal, needy

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                                                For a final touch, you snag a nearby vial, uncorking it to inhale a lilac-scented oil, its floral musk intoxicating; without hesitation, you dab it on your torso and neck, the cool liquid warming against your skin, blending with your natural scent in a heady, seductive haze

                                            73.

                                            74.
                                            
                                                “Down the rabbit hole I go,” you murmur, steeling yourself with what little resolve remains, descending the stairs to the basement, each step a descent into the unknown thrill awaiting below

                                            75.

                                            76.
                                            
                                                Be Octavia, Ponyville’s refined cellist, heart hammering as you descend the dimly lit stairs into the sprawling basement of the comic shop, a secret stable pulsing with forbidden energy

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                                            78.
                                            
                                                The air hits you like a tidal wave, thick with the musky, intoxicating scent of countless mares in a frenzy, their coats slick with sweat, their breaths ragged as they chase ecstasy with their partners—humans, all of them, their presence a stark contrast to Equestria’s scarcity of stallions

                                            79.

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                                                Some mares pant, moaning with desperate need, their outfits bolder than yours—lace harnesses, leather straps, silken blindfolds covering their eyes, amplifying their surrender to the moment

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                                                Your leather stockings cling to your hind legs like a second skin, the corset’s glossy embrace squeezing your barrel, each breath a delicious struggle that stokes the fire in your core

                                            83.

                                            84.
                                            
                                                The collar around your neck feels heavier now, a symbol of your choice to step into this den, and the lilac-scented oil on your torso and neck mingles with your own heat, a heady perfume that makes your head swim

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                                                Your body betrays you, a rush of warmth spilling down, soaking the plush carpet beneath—no shame here, not when the air itself is a symphony of desire, an orgy of scents and sounds that could unravel even the strongest mare

                                            87.

                                            88.
                                            
                                                This stable—this hidden haven—thrives because mares like you, starved for touch, for passion, come here to be claimed, cherished, overwhelmed by pleasure in a world where stallions are rare

                                            89.

                                            90.
                                            
                                                “Easy, little one,” a voice cuts through, firm with authority, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts

                                            91.

                                            92.
                                            
                                                You turn to face a pink-coated earth pony mare, a few years your senior but radiant with youth, her red mane and tail cascading like fire, her sapphire eyes glinting with a mix of pity and command, her cutie mark a comb and scissors

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                                                “I’m Cheerie Star, matron of this stable,” she says, her voice steady but kind. “I oversee everything. Sniff—straight to it, then. You’ll be paired with a human to act as your stallion. He’ll take a potion to prevent pregnancy, no matter how... thoroughly he claims you. Do you agree to these terms? If you can’t speak, just nod.”

                                            95.

                                            96.
                                            
                                                Your throat tightens, words lost in the haze of your heat, but you manage a shaky nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear, anticipation, and raw need

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                                            98.
                                            
                                                Before you can brace yourself, Cheerie steps aside, and your face collides with the bare, sweat-slicked torso of a human, his scent—earthy, masculine, potent—flooding your senses

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                                                It’s a paradox: his presence soothes the frantic edge of your nerves but ignites an insatiable hunger, your core pulsing with a desperate ache that screams to be sated

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                                            102.
                                            
                                                You’re caught between the refined mare you are and the primal need driving you, your leather-clad body quivering as you stand on the edge of surrender, ready to plunge into the stable’s promise

                                            103.

                                            104.
                                            
                                                Be Octavia, Ponyville’s refined cellist, now a quivering wreck in the heart of the stable, the basement’s air a suffocating haze of primal heat, pulsing with the raw energy of mares lost in a frenzy of desire

                                            105.

                                            106.
                                            
                                                The cavernous space thrums with moans, gasps, and the heady musk of countless mares entwined with their human partners, their scents—sweaty, sweet, intoxicating—slamming into you like a tidal wave, unraveling what little composure you have left

                                            107.

                                            108.
                                            
                                                Some mares writhe, blindfolded in lace and leather, their outfits bolder than yours—straps biting into flanks, harnesses framing trembling bodies, their muffled cries of need echoing as they surrender to ecstasy

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                                            110.
                                            
                                                Your leather stockings cling to your hind legs like a possessive vow, the glossy corset squeezing your barrel so tightly each breath is a desperate gasp, the leather collar around your neck a heavy anchor that stokes the inferno in your core

                                            111.

                                            112.
                                            
                                                The lilac-scented oil you dabbed on your torso and neck blends with your own musky heat, a seductive haze that clouds your mind, your body trembling on the precipice of total surrender

                                            113.

                                            114.
                                            
                                                His hands—human, calloused, unrelenting—graze your lower flanks, and your body seizes, a sharp, searing ache erupting, a pulse of pain and pleasure so intense it’s like a bow dragged across frayed strings, setting every nerve ablaze

                                            115.

                                            116.
                                            
                                                You clutch his bare torso, hooves digging into his sweat-slicked skin, inhaling his scent—raw, masculine, a potent mix of earth and musk—that drowns you, a drug that strips away your restraint

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                                                Instinct takes over, your tongue lashing out, tasting the salt of his skin, a desperate, primal act that transmutes the ache into a roaring, insatiable hunger, your core throbbing with a need that screams for more, clawing at your soul

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                                            120.
                                            
                                                He pauses, and you snap your gaze to his—deep brown eyes, framed by jet-black hair, locking onto you with a predatory intensity that pins you in place, your heart pounding so hard it might shatter

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                                            122.
                                            
                                                His hand lifts, glistening with the slick evidence of your heat, and your breath hitches as he brings it to his lips, tasting you with a slow, deliberate hunger that sends a molten surge through your veins, your knees buckling under the weight of your desire

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                                            124.
                                            
                                                Then, with a roughness that sets your soul on fire, he seizes your mane, yanking you toward him with a force that’s both brutal and exhilarating, the sharp tug in your scalp a sensation you didn’t know you’d crave, pulling you into his orbit like a star caught in gravity

                                            125.

                                            126.
                                            
                                                His lips crash against yours, a kiss that’s a shockwave—demanding, consuming, almost forceful—but within seconds, it’s a fire you feed into, your tongue tangling with his in a frenzied dance, devouring the warm, heady taste of his saliva like it’s ambrosia from the heavens

                                            127.

                                            128.
                                            
                                                He breaks away, leaving you gasping, a thin thread of saliva stretching between you until it snaps, a fleeting tether to the moment that leaves you panting, your body a furnace of raw, desperate need

                                            129.

                                            130.
                                            
                                                No words come—just ragged, needy whimpers, your eyes burning with a plea that screams louder than any voice: Take me, claim me, break me!

                                            131.

                                            132.
                                            
                                                Your leather-clad limbs tremble, your core pulsing with an ache so fierce it’s almost pain, every inch of you begging to be his in this hidden den where mares surrender to their deepest, darkest desires