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>Be Vinyl Scratch, hottest DJ from here to Las Pegasus, white coat, electric-blue mane, shades that never come off.
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>Just got back from a month-long tour.
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>My heat decided to **sync** with every mare in the damn city the week I left.
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>By the time the train rolled into Ponyville I was a walking, talking **hormone bomb**.
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I tried to play it cool.
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I really did.
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No coolers (those things make the rebound heat feel like a dragon breathing on your clit).
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Just me, my headphones, and a death grip on my dignity.
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Didn’t last twenty minutes.
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Human commerce district, noon, blazing sun.
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Construction crew on lunch break.
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Fifteen human stallions (different builds, different skin tones), all peeling off sweat-soaked shirts like it’s the sexiest striptease in Equestria.
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I **stopped dead**.
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Muscles slick with sweat.
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Almost no body hair (just smooth, glistening skin).
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That **smell**—salt, sun, raw masculinity—slammed into me like a bass drop at 180 BPM.
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My tail **shot** up on its own.
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My panties (yeah, I wear them on bad heat days) were suddenly **drenched**.
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I swear I heard my own heartbeat in my ears.
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Then a sharp tug on my ear.
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> “Vinyl Scratch, you put that tail **down** right now.”
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Nurse Redheart (pre-pregnancy, white coat, pink mane in a tight bun, eyes like sterile scalpels).
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She literally **dragged** me into the nearest alley by my ear.
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I tried to play it off.
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> “What? I wasn’t the only mare staring—”
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She **sniffed** (one loud, deliberate inhale right against my neck).
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I froze.
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> “True,” she said, voice low and dangerous.
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> “But none of them are in full-blown heat and **fantasizing** about dragging one of those boys into a dark corner and riding him until he forgets his own name.”
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My ears burned hotter than the pavement.
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She sighed, expression shifting from scolding to something almost… **pitying**.
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> “Come with me.
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> Before you do something you can’t walk back from.”
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She led me three blocks, past the comic shop, to a plain black door.
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Pressed a small **purple card** into my hoof.
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> “One night.
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> No commitment.
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> Just… let them take care of you **properly**.
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> Trust me.”
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I stared at the card.
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Then at the door.
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Then at the wet spot cooling between my thighs.
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I didn’t even ask questions.
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I walked in.
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And that was the night I met **him** (my human).
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The night I stopped pretending I could ever share.
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Because from the first time he pinned me against the wall,
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hands in my mane,
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voice low and rough in my ear,
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I **knew**.
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He was **mine**.
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And I would burn the world before I let another mare **touch** what I’d claimed.
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…except now Octavia’s heat came early,
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and I pushed her straight into the Stables’ arms
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because my jealousy is a greedy, ugly thing.
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And I still don’t know how to fix what I broke.
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- - - - - - -
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>Be Vinyl Scratch, white coat flushed hot under the low amber lights, electric-blue mane sticking to my neck with nervous sweat.
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>The comic shop was almost empty—just one unicorn nerd batting her lashes at the clerk like a broken record.
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>He ignored her completely, eyes lighting up the second I flashed the **purple card**.
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> “Your special order’s ready, Miss Scratch.
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> Privacy guaranteed—no one will know what you picked up tonight.”
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>The nerd mare sighed like a deflating balloon and slunk out.
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>I followed him behind the counter, heart pounding harder than any bass drop I’ve ever mixed.
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>The backroom door clicked shut.
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>And then… **holy Celestia**.
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The space opened into a cavernous wardrobe (bigger than my entire apartment).
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Rows upon rows of garments hanging like forbidden fruit: silk, lace, leather, satin, latex, chains, bells, everything designed for one purpose only.
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The air was thick with the scent of new fabric, warm oil, and that unmistakable undercurrent of **heat**.
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My rear legs trembled.
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My tail flicked involuntarily.
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The lace panties I’d thrown on this morning were already **soaked**.
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> “Take your time, miss,” the clerk said, voice professional but kind.
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> “When you’re ready, someone will come for you.”
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He left.
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Door sealed.
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Just me and the ocean of temptation.
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I’m not like other mares.
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Most would dive in, grab the sluttiest thing and strut out ready to be claimed.
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Me?
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I freeze.
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Always have.
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My instincts scream **yes**, but my brain slams the brakes.
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That’s why I’ve never let anyone close… until **him**.
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I wander the racks, hooves shaking.
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I skip the heavy leather harnesses (too aggressive).
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Skip the full latex suits (too anonymous).
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Skip the bells and chains (too loud).
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My eyes land on something **soft**.
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**Timid**.
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But still… **dangerous**.
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- **Sheer black silk stockings**, thigh-high, with delicate lace tops that cling like a whisper.
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- **Matching black silk panties**, high-cut, barely there, the fabric so thin it’s almost transparent when wet (and I’m already wet).
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- **A soft black velvet collar**, wide enough to feel like a hug, narrow enough to remind me I’m surrendering.
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- **Red satin ribbon** to tie my mane back, baring my neck completely.
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- A single drop of **rose-musk oil** behind each ear and at the hollow of my throat.
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I dress slowly, every piece a confession.
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The stockings slide up my legs like cool water, lace tops gripping just below my cutie mark.
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The panties settle against my swollen folds, silk instantly damp, clinging to every curve.
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The collar buckles with a soft *click*—my breath catches at the gentle pressure on my throat.
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The ribbon pulls my mane into a high ponytail, exposing my neck, my ears, my **vulnerability**.
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I face the mirror.
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The mare looking back is **me**… but stripped bare.
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No shades.
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No bravado.
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Just flushed cheeks, dilated crimson eyes, and a body that **begs** to be touched.
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My tail lifts on its own.
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A soft, needy whimper escapes.
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I’m terrified.
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I’m **starving**.
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The door opens.
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- - - - - - -
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>Be Vinyl Scratch, white coat burning under the low amber lights, electric-blue mane plastered to my neck with sweat and shame.
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>The purple card is gone—handed over at the counter—and now I’m standing in a narrow corridor that smells of ink, old paper, and something **primal** seeping from below.
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The door opens.
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Cheerie Star steps through—pink coat glowing like neon, fiery red mane pinned in an elegant twist, sapphire eyes locking on me with the calm of someone who’s seen every kind of desperate mare walk this path.
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She **sniffs** once—sharp, deliberate.
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Her ears flatten.
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> “You’re a skipper,” she says, voice low but not unkind.
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> “Six days without relief.
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> That’s… dangerous.”
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My ears burn hotter than the spot between my thighs.
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I try to play it cool, but my tail flicks, betraying me.
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> “Tour synced me with Las Pegasus.
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> Came home like this.
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> Didn’t want coolers—rebound’s a bitch.”
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Cheerie’s gaze softens—just a fraction.
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> “Then you need the express tour.
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> No time for gentle.”
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She gestures, and we descend a spiral staircase of black glass.
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With every step, the air thickens—warm, heavy, **sweet**.
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A cloying blend of feminine musk, leather, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of **release**.
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My knees wobble.
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My panties (black silk, already soaked) cling like a second, shameless skin.
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We reach the public level.
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The chamber is endless—torchlight flickering across velvet cushions, leather harnesses, and hundreds of mares in every stage of surrender.
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Some sprawled, legs spread, humans buried between their thighs, cries echoing like a live remix.
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Others on their knees, begging in cracked voices: *“Don’t stop… please… use me longer…”*
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A few clinging to their stallions like lifelines, tears streaking muzzles, whispering *“Don’t leave me tonight.”*
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The scent slams into me—**hundreds** of mares in ecstasy, their heat a living thing that crawls under my coat and **ignites**.
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My core **clenches**; slick heat spills down my thighs in a fresh rush.
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Envy and desire twist in my gut like a bass drop I can’t control.
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I want it.
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I **need** it.
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Cheerie’s voice cuts through the haze.
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> “This is the public level.
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> Raw.
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> No privacy.
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> No names.
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> Just need met.”
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She steps behind me.
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A satin-and-leather mask slips over my eyes—cool, smooth, **final**.
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The buckle clicks.
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Darkness swallows everything but sound and scent.
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> “Enjoy it, skipper,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear.
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> “Tonight, you’re not Vinyl Scratch.
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> You’re just a mare who finally stopped running.”
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Hands find me—multiple, calloused, **hungry**.
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The last thing I hear before the mask seals is Cheerie’s soft laugh fading into the roar of moans.
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Then the world becomes **touch**, **scent**, **sound**, and **surrender**.
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- - - - - - - - - - - - -
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>Be Vinyl Scratch, white coat slick with sweat, electric-blue mane a tangled mess, body **shattered** in the best possible way.
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>The room spins slow, velvet walls pulsing like a heartbeat, the air thick with lavender-orange oil, leather, and the raw, salty scent of **us**.
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They started with six.
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Six humans (different hands, different mouths, different rhythms), all reverent, all **hungry**.
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They worshipped me like I was the only track in the world worth spinning.
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One licked slow, teasing circles around my clit until I **whined** into the pillow.
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Two more took my nipples, teeth grazing, tongues swirling, sending lightning straight to my core.
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Another pair lifted my hind legs, spreading me wide, fingers sliding through my slick folds, stretching me, preparing me.
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The sixth buried himself in my mouth, thick and hot, letting me set the pace while I **moaned** around him.
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I lost count of the orgasms.
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They rolled through me like bass drops (sharp, endless, **shaking** my bones).
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My body **clenched**, **flooded**, **screamed**.
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Each climax left me gasping, trembling, **begging** for more.
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But one by one, they faltered.
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Five collapsed around me (spent, breathless, smiling in exhausted bliss).
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Their hands still stroked my coat, their lips still kissed my thighs, but they were **done**.
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Only **he** remained.
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Red hair dark with sweat, storm-gray eyes locked on mine, body still hard, still **moving**.
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He flipped me onto my back (slow, deliberate), slid back inside with a single, deep thrust that made my vision **white-out**.
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His hands pinned my forelegs above my head, his weight a delicious cage, his cock filling me **completely**, every ridge dragging against my walls in perfect rhythm.
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I **wrapped** my hind legs around his hips, heels digging into his back, refusing to let him pull away.
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My inner muscles **clenched** around him, milking, **claiming**.
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He growled my name (low, possessive), hips snapping faster, deeper, until the world narrowed to the wet *slap* of skin, the creak of the bed, the **throb** of him inside me.
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I came **again** (harder, longer, **shattering**), my body convulsing, walls fluttering wildly, pulling him deeper as he **spilled** (hot, endless waves that flooded me, marked me, **owned** me).
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I didn’t let go.
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Even when he softened, I kept him inside, my legs locked, my core **refusing** to release.
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Now I’m draped over him, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
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His spend still fills me, warm and thick, my lips **clenching** around him in lazy aftershocks.
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My hoof traces possessive circles on his chest.
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> “You’re **mine**,” I whisper, voice hoarse from screaming.
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> “All mine.”
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He chuckles (low, exhausted, **happy**), fingers threading through my mane.
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> “Yeah, Vinyl.
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> All yours.”
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The other five sleep around us, spent and smiling.
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But in this moment, the room is only us.
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I close my eyes.
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For the first time in my life,
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the beat is **perfect**.
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- - - - - - - -
by AT_123
by AT_123
by AT_123
by AT_123
by AT_123