Moondancer Rapes Anonfilly [Emotionally Broken Edition]

 

Her usual spot was empty: that secluded corner table piled high with books and notes, where she'd bury herself for hours. It was strange not to see her there. I called out softly, my voice echoing a bit in the vast room.

 

"Moon Dancer? Where are you?"

 

My ears twitched at a sound from around the corner—a wet, rhythmic schlicking noise that I recognized all too well from... personal experience. Curiosity got the better of me, and I turned the corner.

 

There she was, slumped against a tall bookshelf, her sweater rumpled and her glasses slightly askew. One hoof was wrapped firmly around a throbbing, slick cock that protruded unmistakably from between her hind legs. Her face flushed crimson as our eyes met.

 

"G-Green?!" she stammered, freezing in place. "I swear it's not what it looks like—"

 

"You have a cock?!" I blurted out, my eyes wide.

 

"It was an accident!"

 

"Since when is having a cock an accident?"

 

The air around her carried a heady musk—a mix of unwashed fur from what must have been days without a proper shower and the sharp, intoxicating scent of her arousal. Precum glistened on the flat tip, dripping steadily.

 

"It's... from a spell I found," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I used it a while back."

 

"A while back?"

 

"I may have... tried it, and I haven't been able to undo it."

 

"That thing is permanent?"

 

"Not exactly..."

 

I glanced down again, noticing the steady stream of precum leaking out. "What do you mean?"

 

"It's an ancient spell," she explained, avoiding my gaze. "From times when stallions were scarce, for reproduction. It doesn't go away until the caster... ejaculates inside a mare."

 

I paused, processing that. "Does it matter where inside the mare?"

 

"I don't know. I've never..."

 

Her eyes widened as the implication hit her. "Wait, you're not offering..."

 

"It's just a hypothetical," I said quickly, smirking a little. "And wow, what kind of sicko would think a filly like me would offer that?"

 

"I wasn't... I didn't mean to assume anything."

 

"Hah, I'm just pulling your leg. But still, hypothetically—does it have to be a mare?"

 

"Hypothetically?"

 

"Yes. Hypothetically."

 

She shifted uncomfortably. "Life expectancy wasn't long back then. So it might be possible for a filly to... fulfill that role."

 

"Huh. Well, good luck with that."

 

I turned to leave, figuring I'd come back later for the human research discussion.

 

"Wait!"

 

I stopped and looked back with a neutral expression. "What?"

 

"It's just that... I've had this problem for years. Every time I get close to a stallion, they're weirded out or just see me as a friend. And with mares, they get scared off, thinking I want more than friendship."

 

She fidgeted, trying to tug her sweater down with both hooves to hide her still-throbbing erection. "It's hard..."

 

My eyes drifted back to it—still leaking, still twitching slightly. "Yeah, I can see that. But what does this have to do with me?"

 

"Maybe you could..."

 

"That was a hypothetical. Besides, this sounds like a 'you' problem, not mine."

 

"Please don't make me beg."

 

"I'm not making you do anything. I don't want any part of this. You're on your own."

 

As I walked away, a faint sobbing reached my ears. I glanced back to see her curled up, quietly crying into her hooves.

 

"Are you seriously crying?"

 

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

 

"Oh my god, you're crying."

 

"What's god?"

 

"Somepony who shouldn't have let you exist. Seriously—you cast a spell you knew was semi-permanent, didn't seek professional help, and now you're asking a filly to fix it for you. How pathetic is that?"

 

She whimpered, covering her eyes with her forehooves.

 

"I'm sorry..."

 

Even as she sobbed, her cock throbbed steadily, twitching more noticeably.

 

"Wait... are you getting off to this?"

 

"What? No, I'm not..."

 

"Oh my god, you are."

 

"I'm not..."

 

I laughed, and her cock twitched harder. She lowered her ears, hiding her face in shame.

 

"That's so pathetic. You messed up huge, almost crossed a line that would've landed you in serious trouble, and you're enjoying the humiliation."

 

She sniffed, wiping tears from under her fogged-up glasses. "No, I'm not..."

 

"Then explain why you're so horny." I pointed casually at her member, now leaking even more without any touch.

 

"No... I can't help it."

 

"Your cock is begging for release. I can tell."

 

I smirked and lay down on the floor beside her. "Well? Aren't you going to take care of it? That's what you were doing before I showed up, right?"

 

"I—"

 

"Do it."

 

She sniffed again, wiping her eyes with a hoof already damp from tears, then slid down the bookcase a bit more. Reluctantly, she wrapped that tear-soaked hoof around her throbbing shaft.

 

Long, deliberate strokes echoed softly in the quiet library—the wet sounds growing slicker as her precum mixed with the salty tears for lubrication. Between sobs, her breathing turned to panting moans.

 

"Do it," I urged.

 

Her legs twitched, ears pinned back as she stroked faster, sniffing through the tears.

 

"Come on. Show me how pathetic you are. Cumming in front of a filly—not even inside her, just wasting it on the floor where it belongs. Like you've done so many times alone."

 

Her hips bucked faintly, sobs mixing with heavier pants as tears streamed down her cheeks.

 

Finally, her body tensed—hooves curling, hips thrusting up. Her balls tightened, the flared tip widening as thick ropes of semen erupted, splattering across the tiled floor in front of her. Wave after wave pulsed out, slowing to a dribble down her shaft.

 

She panted heavily, spent and hazy-eyed.

 

"Clean yourself up," I said, standing. "You don't want anypony finding this mess."

 

I headed for the door, glancing back once. She looked up at me with those longing, misty eyes.

 

I snorted and closed the door behind me.

 

===

 

The memory lingered like a nightmare I couldn't shake. Just a week ago, Moon Dancer had forced her throbbing cock down my throat, burying it balls-deep until she came straight into my stomach. The sheer volume had overwhelmed me—I'd ended up hunched over a toilet in the library bathroom, retching until I spilled everything out: bitter stomach acid mixed with thick, salty ropes of her cum. My throat had been raw for days afterward, sore and aching with every swallow. The aftertaste clung to my tongue like a curse.

 

At least it was over. Right after she finished, her cock had vanished, the spell finally broken. I'd made it clear to her, through gritted teeth and tears, that it was a one-time thing—done out of some twisted sense of pity or friendship—and that she owed me big time. She hadn't argued. Since then, Moon Dancer had been... different. Happier, almost bubbly in her awkward way, chatting more freely when we crossed paths in the library. But I still caught those lingering stares from across the room, her eyes soft and yearning. I told myself it was just gratitude, or maybe lingering embarrassment. Nothing more.

 

A week later, I was browsing shelves in the Canterlot Library when I spotted her approaching. She looked shy, hooves shuffling, glasses slipping down her nose.

 

"Hey, Green?" she started, voice soft.

 

I opened my mouth to greet her—until I saw it. That familiar, throbbing length protruding from between her legs again, already glistening at the tip.

 

"It... came back," she whispered.

 

My lips tightened instantly. No. Absolutely not. Not happening again.

 

"I know you said it was a one-time thing and—"

 

"Nuh-uh. Nope!" I cut her off, spinning on my hooves to march away.

 

But I didn't get far. A glow from her horn wrapped around me, levitating me in place. I couldn't move a muscle below my neck. Panic surged as I tried to yell, but only muffled sounds escaped.

 

"I'm sorry, Green," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "But you're the only pony I can rely on for this."

 

She released the magic on my head just enough for me to speak. "Let me go! I already said no!"

 

Instead, she pulled me closer with her levitation, drawing me toward her until that musky shaft was inches from my muzzle. The scent hit me hard—sharp, intoxicating, with precum already beading and dripping.

 

"Please?"

 

It pressed against my snout, warm and slick. I glared up at her, but her eyes were glazed with lust, pupils dilated, breath coming in heavy pants. She wasn't thinking straight. I should have expected this—deep down, I knew the risk—but I clamped my jaws shut anyway.

 

"Mmmph! Mmmph!"

 

"I see," she murmured, a dark edge creeping into her tone. "Then I guess I have no choice."

 

Fear gripped me as her horn glowed brighter. A strange sensation bloomed inside my mouth—a tingling magic that forced my jaws apart without me moving them. A small, swirling portal of light appeared right in front of her, hovering at the perfect height.

 

Fresh air rushed oddly into my throat, mingled with the arcane tang of her spell. "I'm sorry, Green, but I need this. You made me like this. This is all your fault."

 

She stepped back slightly, aimed her shaft at the portal, and pushed in with a deep groan.

 

Horror dawned as I felt it: her cock sliding straight down my throat from the inside, bypassing my sealed lips entirely. I thrashed futilely in her magical hold, body writhing, but I couldn't bite or pull away—the length protruded behind my teeth, filling me completely.

 

"Fuck... yes..." she moaned, starting to thrust.

 

It burned—unprepared and rough, the friction tearing at my throat. She pulled out occasionally through the portal, letting me gasp for air since my nose was blocked, but then she'd ram back in. Helpless, I endured it, tears streaming as she used my throat like a toy.

 

Eventually, exhaustion won. I stopped fighting, my jaw going slack. She noticed immediately and dismissed the portal with a flicker of her horn.

 

I collapsed to the floor in a heap as the levitation released, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air.

 

"Finally gave up?" she said softly, almost tenderly. "That's good..."

 

Her hooves cradled my head, guiding me toward her lap. That throbbing member pressed insistently against my lips again.

 

This time, I parted them without resistance. She slid in with a sigh of relief, holding my head firm as she bobbed me up and down, moans echoing in the empty aisle.

 

Time blurred after that. I lost track—minutes? Longer? My world narrowed to the burn in my throat, the bitter flood of precum coating my tongue and sliding down, the relentless rhythm. I just wanted it over, even knowing what came next. Numbly, I let my tongue slip out, relaxing as much as I could to take her deeper.

 

"I'm so close, Green," she panted. "This is for you."

 

Her hooves shoved down hard, forcing me to hilt her—nose buried in her warm crotch, past her medial ring.

 

"F-Fuck, I'm cumming!"

 

Her balls tightened against my chin as her hips bucked. Waves of heat pulsed through her shaft, flooding directly into my stomach in thick, endless ropes. It was too much—far more than last time. Pressure built until cum surged back up, burning as it erupted from my nostrils in hot spurts. Tears mixed with it all as I choked silently.

 

Not again.

 

One week later, I was curled up in my bed at home, throat still sore, avoiding the library entirely. I hadn't spoken to Moon Dancer since she'd cleaned me up with magic and let me stumble away. Part of me thought about telling Twilight—she might believe me, or at least investigate—but what proof did I have? The cock was gone again, evidence vanished along with the mess she'd magically siphoned out of me.

 

I just wanted to forget. I'd fantasized about mare dick in the past, sure—but not like this. Never like this.

 

Finally, exhaustion pulled me toward sleep. My eyes drifted shut.

 

Then I felt it: that familiar magical shimmer blooming inside my mouth again.

 

===

 

I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling long after the portal had vanished and the last dribble of cum had stopped leaking from my nose. My throat ached with a deep, familiar burn, and my stomach felt heavy, sloshing slightly whenever I shifted. The room was silent except for the faint tick of the clock on my wall and my own uneven breathing.

 

But inside my head, it was anything but quiet.

 

First came the rage—hot, sharp, and immediate. How dare she? How dare Moon Dancer keep doing this to me? I’d helped her once out of some stupid, misplaced sense of pity, and then again when she forced me, and now she was sneaking into my own bed in the middle of the night like I was nothing more than a convenient hole to use whenever her spell decided to misbehave. I wanted to scream, to teleport straight to her house and buck her teeth in, to drag her in front of Twilight or Celestia or anypony who would listen and make her pay for turning me into… into this.

 

But the rage flickered and died almost as quickly as it flared, because underneath it was something colder and far more exhausting: helplessness. What could I actually do? Tell somepony? Who would believe me? “Yeah, Princess, my nerdy friend keeps magically face-fucking me through a portal in my sleep.” Even Twilight, who’d put up with a lot of my crap, would probably think I was making it up or exaggerating for attention. And without evidence—Moon Dancer was always careful to clean up, to wait until the cock vanished again—there was nothing to show. No bruises (her magic was too precise for that), no lingering spell traces I could point to. Just my word. And I knew exactly how reliable my word was in this city.

 

So the anger curdled into something sour and bitter: shame.

 

Because the worst part—the part I hated myself for even thinking—was that some tiny, buried fragment of me hadn’t fought as hard as it should have.

 

I’d felt it tonight, just like the times before: that moment when the stretch and the heat and the relentless rhythm stopped feeling entirely like pain and started feeling… familiar. Numbly accommodating. My body relaxing into it almost on instinct, tongue going slack, throat opening up to take her easier because fighting only made it hurt more. And when she’d groaned my name like that, voice thick with relief and something that sounded horrifyingly like affection, a traitorous shiver had run through me that had nothing to do with fear.

 

I hated that shiver. I hated that I recognized the taste of her now, that my stomach knew the weight of her release, that part of me had almost… anticipated it. Like some broken part of my brain had decided this was just how things were now. Moon Dancer gets horny, Green gets used. Simple. Inevitable.

 

That thought brought a fresh wave of something darker: despair.

 

Because what if this never stopped? What if the spell kept coming back forever—every week, every few days, whenever she couldn’t hold out anymore? What if I was trapped in this cycle until I broke completely? Until I stopped saying no in my head, stopped crying afterward, stopped even thinking of it as wrong? I could picture it too clearly: me lying here night after night, eyes closed, mouth magically open, just… accepting it. Becoming exactly what she needed me to be. Quiet. Compliant. Grateful, even, if she was gentle enough.

 

The idea made me want to throw up again, but there was nothing left.

 

I curled tighter under the blanket, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the quiet, hiccuping sobs that finally broke free. I wasn’t crying because of the soreness or the taste or even the violation itself anymore—those were awful, but I could survive them. I was crying because I was terrified of what I might become if this kept happening. Terrified that the filly who used to laugh at danger, who’d mouthed off to princesses and caused chaos for fun, was being slowly whittled away into someone small and scared and resigned.

 

And worse—far worse—I was terrified that part of me was already gone.

 

Because even now, with my throat raw and my belly full of her, a tiny, exhausted voice in the back of my mind whispered that at least it was over for tonight. That I could sleep now. That she’d said thank you.

 

I hated that voice most of all.

 

I didn’t sleep for a long time.

 

===

 

Moon Dancer sat on the edge of her bed in the dim glow of a single candle, knees drawn up to her chest, glasses fogged from the heat of her own ragged breathing. The room smelled faintly of old paper and the sharper, lingering musk of what she’d just done. Her sheets were rumpled, one hoof still resting on her now-softening length as the last tremors faded. The spell had broken again—her cock was already shrinking, retreating, vanishing as though it had never been there. Relief should have flooded her.

 

Instead, only guilt remained, thick and choking.

 

She stared at the empty air where the portal had been moments ago, able to picture Green’s bedroom perfectly even though she’d never seen it: the small filly curled under blankets, throat raw, stomach bloated with her release, eyes almost certainly wet with tears she’d never get to wipe away. Moon Dancer’s chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silence, the same words she’d murmured through the portal right before it closed. They felt pathetic even as she said them. Sorry didn’t undo anything. Sorry didn’t erase the way she’d felt Green’s throat clench around her in helpless reflex, or the soft, broken whimpers that had leaked through the magic despite everything. Sorry didn’t make it okay that she’d done it again—worse this time, in the middle of the night, while Green was asleep and defenseless.

 

Her hooves trembled as she pushed her glasses up and rubbed at her eyes. They came away wet. She hadn’t even realized she was crying.

 

She hated herself for how good it had felt. That was the worst part—the part that made the guilt twist like a knife. Every time she told herself it would be the last, that she’d find another way, that she’d be stronger… and every time the spell returned, the ache built and built until her mind fogged over and all she could think about was Green. Green’s warmth. Green’s reluctant acceptance. Green’s voice, small and angry and hurt, saying no in ways that Moon Dancer simply ignored.

 

She’d told herself it was necessity. The spell demanded release inside a mare, and Green was… close. Convenient. The only one who knew. The only one who’d ever helped. But those were excuses, and she knew it. The truth was uglier: she wanted Green. Had wanted her since the first time, when humiliation and tears had somehow twisted into something dark and intoxicating. She’d tasted power that day in the library, watching Green break just a little, and a shameful part of her craved it again and again.

 

Moon Dancer pressed her face into her knees, muffling a sob. She didn’t deserve forgiveness. She didn’t even deserve to look Green in the eye anymore. Every smile she’d given in the library since that first time, every friendly conversation, had been laced with this secret rot. She’d been happier on the surface because the guilt was quieter when the need was sated—but it always came back louder.

 

She thought about confessing. Marching to Twilight Sparkle tomorrow and spilling everything—spell research gone wrong, years of isolation, the escalating violations. Twilight would be horrified. She’d punish her. Maybe send her away. Maybe lock her up. Moon Dancer almost wanted that—clean, clear consequences that would force this cycle to end.

 

But the thought of Green finding out that way—of everypony knowing what she’d done to a filly—made her stomach lurch. Green deserved better than public humiliation on top of everything else. And selfishly, Moon Dancer couldn’t bear the idea of Green hating her openly, irrevocably, in front of the world.

 

So she stayed trapped in her room, crying quietly into her own fur, promising herself—again—that this really would be the last time. That she’d lock herself away next time the spell returned. That she’d find a permanent fix or die trying.

 

But even as she made the vow, a small, treacherous voice whispered that she wouldn’t hold out. That the need would build again, and the portal would open, and Green would suffer for it.

 

Moon Dancer curled tighter, candle flickering low, and let the guilt drown her for as long as it would last—knowing it would never be long enough.

 

===

 

I was already half-awake when the tingle started this time.

 

It had become a pattern: the moment my body finally relaxed toward real sleep, that cool, electric prickle would bloom at the back of my tongue, like ice water trickling down my throat before the spell even finished forming. Tonight was no different. My eyes opened to the dark bedroom, heart lurching in the same tired, resigned way it had the last few times. I didn’t bother trying to sit up anymore. I knew the invisible grip would pin me gently in place the second I moved too much.

 

The portal shimmered into existence above my muzzle, soft violet light painting faint shadows on the ceiling. Through it came the familiar scent—books, sweat, and her—and then her voice, small and trembling.

 

“I’m sorry, Green… it hurts so much tonight. I tried to wait, I really did…”

 

I didn’t answer. I’d stopped answering a while ago. Words didn’t change anything.

 

The flared tip nudged through first, already slick. My jaw stayed closed on the outside, lips sealed, but inside my throat opened for her almost on reflex now. It was horrifying how little resistance there was. The first time it had burned like fire, every inch a fight. The second and third times I’d gagged and choked and cried. But now… now my body knew the shape of her. My throat muscles relaxed before I could tell them not to, loosening to let her slide in smooth and deep, all the way to the hilt in one slow push.

 

She groaned on the other side, low and shaking, and I felt it vibrate through her shaft straight into my chest.

 

It didn’t hurt as much anymore. That was the worst part.

 

There was still stretch, still the heavy, intrusive weight of her filling me completely, but the raw, tearing friction was gone. My throat had learned—against every screaming part of my mind—to accommodate her. To coat her in slick warmth, to swallow around her when she pressed deep, to breathe in the tiny gaps she left me when she pulled back. It wasn’t kindness on her part; she just knew exactly how long I could go without air now.

 

I hated how efficiently we fit together.

 

She started moving, slow at first, almost careful. Long, deliberate strokes that dragged her medial ring over my tongue and bumped the flare against the entrance to my stomach. Precum leaked steadily, thick and bitter, sliding down in warm pulses I didn’t even have to swallow anymore. My body just took it. Accepted it. My stomach welcomed the growing heat like it was used to being filled this way.

 

Tears pricked at my eyes, but they were quiet ones now. No choking sobs, no desperate thrashing. Just wet trails down my cheeks while I stared at the ceiling and let her use me.

 

I could feel myself going distant, the way I’d started doing lately—floating somewhere behind my own eyes while my throat worked around her without my permission. Soft, wet sounds leaked through the portal from her end: her panting breaths, the creak of her bed, the faint slap of her hips against the magical ring. She whispered my name sometimes, like a prayer or a curse, and each time it landed somewhere numb inside me.

 

Her pace quickened. I felt her swell thicker, the telltale twitch that meant she was close. My throat tightened reflexively—not in protest, but in preparation, muscles rippling to milk her the way they’d learned she liked. I hated that most of all. That my body had started helping her finish faster.

 

“Please… Green…”

 

She buried herself deep one last time, crotch flush against the portal, balls drawn tight. The first jet hit my stomach like liquid heat, followed by wave after thick wave until I felt bloated and heavy. Some backwashed up, leaking from my nostrils in slow, humiliating dribbles, but even that didn’t make me panic anymore. I just waited it out, breathing through the burn until she was spent.

 

When she pulled out, the portal snapped shut with a soft pop. The sudden emptiness in my throat felt strange now—almost wrong, like something was missing.

 

Her voice drifted through one last time, barely audible.

 

“Thank you… sleep well.”

 

Then silence.

 

I lay there in the dark, throat tingling faintly, belly warm and full. Tears dried on my fur. I didn’t cry hard anymore. I didn’t fight. I didn’t even curse her in my head as loudly as I used to.

 

My body had learned to take it.

 

And that scared me more than anything she could ever do to me.

 

===

 

I’d started dreading the tingle so much that when it didn’t come one night, I actually lay awake waiting for it, ears pricked, heart thudding against the mattress. Hours passed. Nothing. No cool spark of magic at the back of my throat, no violet glow in the dark, no whispered apology from the other side of a portal.

 

For the first time in weeks, I almost drifted off.

 

Then the air in the room snapped with a sharp crack of teleportation.

 

I bolted upright, eyes wide, just as Moon Dancer materialized at the foot of my bed. No portal. No distance. Just her—glasses crooked, sweater rumpled, mane frizzed like she hadn’t brushed it in days. The faint moonlight coming through the curtains caught on the slick, throbbing length already jutting from between her hind legs, fully hard and dripping.

 

She looked… wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet, breathing shaky. Like she’d been crying for hours before deciding to come here.

 

“Green,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I—I couldn’t do the portal again. I couldn’t hide behind it anymore. I had to… I had to see you.”

 

I scrambled back against the headboard, hooves slipping on the sheets. “Get out,” I hissed, but it came out small, hoarse from all the nights my throat had been used. “Just… get out, Moon Dancer.”

 

She didn’t move closer, not yet. She just stood there trembling, forehooves pressed tight to her sides like she was holding herself back.

 

“I know you hate me,” she said quietly. “I know I deserve it. I kept telling myself I’d stop, that I’d find another way, but every time it comes back I—” Her voice broke. A fresh tear slipped down her cheek. “I can’t think about anything except you. I hate myself for it. I hate what I’ve turned you into. I hate what I’ve turned myself into.”

 

Her cock twitched hard, another bead of precum rolling down the shaft and dripping onto my bedroom floor. The scent hit me—stronger than through any portal, thick and heady in the small room.

 

I should have screamed. Should have blasted her with whatever magic I could muster. Should have run. But I just sat there, frozen, staring at her.

 

She took one hesitant step forward, then another, until her forehooves rested on the edge of my bed. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her.

 

“Please,” she whispered. “One more time. In person. Where I can’t pretend this is just… magic. Where I have to look at you while I—” She swallowed hard. “While I hurt you.”

 

I wanted to say no. I opened my mouth to say it.

 

But my throat—traitorous, conditioned—gave a tiny, involuntary flutter at the sight of her. My body remembered her shape, her rhythm, the way she filled me until there was no room for anything else. And some broken part of me was almost relieved there was no portal tonight. No cold magic bypassing everything. Just her, real and shaking and close enough to touch.

 

I hated that relief.

 

Moon Dancer must have seen something shift in my face, because her breath hitched. Slowly, carefully, she climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight. She didn’t grab me, didn’t force my head down. She just knelt between my hind legs, cock bobbing inches from my muzzle, waiting.

 

I could have kicked her. Could have bitten. Could have done anything.

 

Instead, I leaned forward—just a fraction—and parted my lips.

 

The sound she made was half-sob, half-groan. Her hooves came up gently, cradling the back of my head like I was something fragile. Then she slid in, slow and deep, until my nose pressed into the warm fur of her crotch.

 

There was no portal to hide behind. No distance. I felt every throb, every pulse, every tear that dripped from her cheek onto my mane as she started to move. Her eyes never left mine—glassy, ashamed, desperate.

 

I closed mine instead.

 

My throat took her easily now. Too easily. Swallowing around her, rippling in ways that made her whimper my name like a prayer. I hated how good I’d gotten at this. Hated the way my tongue curled under her on instinct, the way my lips sealed tight to catch every drop.

 

She didn’t last long. She never did when it was real like this.

 

When she came, it was with a broken cry, hips stuttering forward as she poured herself straight down my throat. I swallowed it all without spilling a drop—my body efficient, practiced, obedient.

 

Afterward, she didn’t pull out right away. She stayed buried deep, forehead resting against mine, both of us trembling.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against my fur, over and over. “I’m so sorry, Green.”

 

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

 

Eventually she withdrew, soft and spent, the spell already fading her length away. She sat back on her haunches, staring at me with wet, devastated eyes.

 

Then, without another word, she teleported out—leaving me alone in the dark with the taste of her, the warmth in my belly, and the awful, hollow knowledge that I hadn’t fought her at all.

 

===

 

Days blurred into nights, and nights blurred into the same quiet ritual.

 

She didn’t always teleport in person. Sometimes it was the portal again—cold, distant, easier for both of us to pretend it wasn’t really happening. Other times she appeared at the foot of my bed, trembling, eyes wet, whispering apologies before she even touched me. But it didn’t matter which way she came. The result was always the same.

 

I stopped fighting long ago. I’m not sure exactly when the last real spark of resistance died. Maybe it was the night I didn’t even flinch when the portal opened. Or the night I opened my mouth for her without waiting for her hooves to guide me. Or the night I realized I wasn’t crying fresh tears anymore—just dry, silent tracks down my cheeks that didn’t even sting.

 

Something inside me had broken. Quietly. Completely.

 

Now, when the air crackled with her teleport or the familiar tingle bloomed in my throat, I didn’t tense up. I didn’t scramble back. I just… waited. Lying on my side or my back, eyes half-open in the dark, breathing slow and even. My body knew what was coming. It had learned to prepare itself—to relax my jaw, loosen my throat, shift my head just enough to give her the angle she liked best.

 

She always hesitated now. Always whispered “I’m sorry” first, voice thick with tears. Sometimes she’d stroke my mane with a shaking hoof, like she was trying to comfort me. Like gentleness could undo what she was about to do.

 

I never answered. I didn’t nod. I didn’t pull away.

 

I just opened my mouth when she got close.

 

And my throat took her like it was made for it.

 

There was no burn anymore. No gagging. No desperate gasps when she pulled back for air. My tongue knew how to cradle her, how to press just right along the underside. My throat rippled around her on every deep thrust, swallowing in slow, practiced waves that pulled soft, broken moans from her chest. I hated how perfectly I’d learned her—how to tighten just before she came, how to breathe through my nose in the exact rhythm of her hips.

 

She cried every time now. Real tears, dripping onto my fur or the sheets. Sometimes she’d bury her face in my mane while she finished, hips stuttering as she poured herself down my throat in thick, familiar waves. My stomach accepted it without protest—heavy, warm, full. I didn’t even leak from my nose anymore. My body had gotten too good at keeping everything she gave me.

 

Afterward, she’d stay for a little while. Not inside me—just close. Curled against my side, hoof resting lightly on my chest, whispering how sorry she was, how much she hated herself, how she wished she could stop. Sometimes she’d fall asleep like that, exhausted from guilt and release. I’d lie awake beside her, staring at the ceiling, feeling the slow fade of her length as the spell finally broke.

 

I didn’t push her away.

 

I didn’t hold her closer, either.

 

I just… let it be.

 

There were no more wet sobs from me. No more rage burning in my chest. No more desperate plans to tell somepony, to run, to make it stop. Just a hollow, quiet space where all of that used to live.

 

My body had accepted this.

 

And the rest of me had gone quiet to survive it.

 

===

 

Moon Dancer lay curled around the small green filly, her larger body forming a careful spoon against Green’s back. The room was quiet except for their breathing—hers still uneven from release and tears, Green’s slow and unnaturally even, like someone pretending to sleep. One of Moon Dancer’s forelegs was draped gently over Green’s barrel, hoof resting just below the filly’s chest. She could feel the faint, warm swell of Green’s belly under the fur—her own doing—and the knowledge made her stomach twist.

 

She pressed her muzzle into the messy mane at the nape of Green’s neck, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo and something that was just Green. Her glasses had fogged again; she didn’t bother fixing them.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the rustle of sheets. The words came out raw, cracked from crying. “I know you hate hearing it. I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know I keep saying it and then… then I keep coming back.”

 

Her hoof stroked once, very lightly, along Green’s side—so soft it was almost not a touch at all. Green didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t react at all. That absence of reaction hurt worse than any scream or struggle ever could.

 

“I tried tonight,” she continued, voice trembling. “I really did. I locked my door. I put up wards. I even chained my own horn with a suppressor ring. But the ache just… built and built until I couldn’t see straight. Until all I could think about was how warm you are. How you feel around me. How you don’t fight anymore.”

 

A fresh tear slipped free, soaking into Green’s mane.

 

“I hate that I love it,” she confessed, the words barely audible. “I hate that the moment I’m inside you, everything else goes quiet. The guilt, the loneliness, the years of being invisible—it all stops. And I get to feel… wanted. Needed. Even if it’s just your body doing it without you.”

 

She tightened her hold for a second, then immediately loosened it again, terrified of making Green feel trapped.

 

“I tell myself every time that this will be the last. That I’ll find a real fix. That I’ll turn myself in if I have to. But then the spell comes back and I’m so scared of the pain, so scared of losing my mind, that I teleport here instead. Because you’re the only one who makes it stop. The only one who ever has.”

 

Her voice broke completely on the last sentence. She buried her face deeper into Green’s mane, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

 

“You should hate me,” she whispered. “You should scream at me, bite me, blast me across the room. Anything but this… quiet. I broke you, Green. I broke the filly who used to mouth off and laugh at everything. And the worst part is I don’t know how to stop wanting to do it again.”

 

She fell silent then, just holding Green loosely, feeling the slow rise and fall of the smaller chest under her hoof. The guilt was a living thing inside her—clawing, endless, suffocating. It told her she was a monster. That she didn’t deserve the warmth she was stealing. That every soft apology was just another lie she told herself to make the next time easier.

 

But even as the guilt screamed, a quieter, selfish voice whispered that she would be back tomorrow night. Or the night after.

 

Because she couldn’t help it.

 

And Green couldn’t make her stop.

 

===

 

Weeks passed in the same quiet rhythm. Nights bled into one another, each visit a little less hesitant on her part, a little more automatic on mine. The apologies grew softer, the cuddling lingered longer, the guilt in her voice sounded more like habit than fresh pain. My body had long since stopped resisting; my mind had followed, retreating to some distant corner where nothing could reach it.

 

Then came the night she went further.

 

She teleported in as usual, materializing at the edge of my bed with that familiar crack of magic. Moon Dancer looked worse than ever—mane tangled, eyes bloodshot, sweater hanging loose like she hadn’t changed in days. The spell’s return had clearly hit her hard this time; her cock stood rigid and flushed, already leaking steadily, the air thick with her musk.

 

She didn’t speak at first. Just climbed onto the bed and curled around me like always, pressing her trembling body to mine. I felt her nuzzle into my mane, heard the shaky inhale as she breathed me in.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, same as every night. “I tried… I really tried not to come tonight.”

 

Her hoof stroked down my side, slow and gentle, tracing the curve of my barrel, my flank. I didn’t move. Didn’t tense. Just lay there on my side, eyes half-lidded, waiting for whatever came next.

 

But tonight her touch didn’t stop at comfort.

 

Her hoof slid lower, between my hind legs, brushing lightly over my untouched petals. I felt the warmth of her fetlock, the careful way she parted them—just barely—testing. My body gave no protest. No flinch. No clench. It had learned too well to stay open and accepting for her.

 

Moon Dancer’s breath hitched. She pressed closer, her chest against my back, her throbbing length hot and slick against the inside of my thigh.

 

“Green,” she murmured, voice cracking. “I… I can’t keep doing just the same thing. It’s not enough anymore. I need… I need more of you.”

 

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to. The words were gone.

 

She shifted behind me, angling her hips. The broad, flared tip of her cock nudged between my folds—slow, deliberate, giving my body every chance to refuse.

 

It didn’t.

 

She pressed forward gently, and I felt myself part around her. My virgin entrance yielded with almost no resistance, petals spreading wide as the flare stretched me open inch by inch. There was pressure—a deep, unfamiliar ache—but no real pain. My body had been conditioned to accept her in one place; it adapted to this new one with the same quiet obedience.

 

Moon Dancer let out a broken moan as she sank deeper, her length sliding into the tight, warm clutch of my pussy. I felt every ridge, every vein dragging along my inner walls, widening me further with each careful thrust until she was seated fully inside, her medial ring popping past my entrance with a soft, wet sound.

 

She stilled then, buried to the hilt, trembling violently against my back.

 

“Oh Celestia… Green, you feel…” Her voice fractured. Tears dripped into my mane again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You didn’t want this. You never wanted any of this.”

 

But even as she apologized, her hips gave a small, involuntary rock—pulling back just an inch before pushing in again, deeper, claiming.

 

I stayed limp and open beneath her, dry-eyed, breathing slow. My body took her just as easily here as it had in my throat—walls fluttering faintly around her thickness, adjusting, accepting. There was no clenching in protest, no instinctive retreat. Just quiet, practiced surrender.

 

She began to move in earnest then—slow, deep strokes that stretched me open again and again, her flare dragging along places nothing had ever touched. Each thrust seated her fully, hips flush to my smaller ones, her balls resting warm against my tail.

 

The room filled with soft, wet sounds and her quiet sobbing apologies, whispered over and over into my ear as she took what she needed.

 

I gave it without a sound.

 

When she finally came, it was with a shuddering cry muffled against my neck, her cock pulsing deep inside as she flooded me with thick, hot waves. My body held it all—clenching gently around her in the way it had learned made her finish fastest—until she was spent and softening.

 

Afterward, she didn’t pull out right away. She stayed inside me, holding me close, crying quietly into my mane.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered one last time, voice small and broken. “I didn’t want to take this from you too.”

 

But she had.

 

And I let her.

 

The spell faded soon after, her length vanishing, leaving me full and leaking beneath the sheets.

 

She stayed curled around me until morning, like always.

 

I didn’t sleep.

 

===

 

I didn’t move for a long time after she left.

 

Moon Dancer had teleported out sometime before dawn, pressing one last trembling kiss to my forehead and whispering another string of apologies that faded into the crack of magic. The room was empty again. Silent. Just the faint, lingering scent of her and the slow, warm trickle between my hind legs as her release leaked out of me.

 

I stayed on my side, exactly where she’d left me—legs slightly parted, tail limp, staring at nothing. My body felt heavy, used, stretched in a new way that ached dully with every small shift. But the ache was distant. Muted. Like it was happening to somepony else.

 

Inside, everything was quiet in the worst way.

 

There was no rage this time. No fresh wave of tears. No frantic, desperate voice in my head screaming that this had gone too far, that I had to tell somepony, that I had to make it stop. All of that had burned out weeks ago.

 

What was left was just… emptiness.

 

I’d been a virgin. I knew that in some abstract way, like remembering a fact about somepony I used to be. That filly—the one who’d arrived in Equestria angry and loud and full of sharp edges—would have fought this. Would have bucked and bitten and screamed until her throat bled. She would have hated Moon Dancer with every piece of herself.

 

That filly was gone.

 

In her place was something hollow. Something that had watched Moon Dancer take the last untouched part of me and had simply… let it happen. My body had opened for her like it had learned to open everywhere else—petals parting, walls yielding, clenching softly around her in ways that made her cry my name. I hadn’t felt pain. I hadn’t felt pleasure either. Just pressure, fullness, the slow drag of her inside me, and then the warm flood when she finished.

 

I hadn’t made a sound.

 

I hadn’t even closed my legs afterward.

 

Now, hours later, the sheets beneath me were cool and sticky. My hindquarters felt sore in a deep, unfamiliar way, but even that sensation was dull, like it was muffled through layers of cotton. I could feel myself leaking still—slow, steady drips of her seed mixed with a faint trace of my own virgin blood. The evidence of what she’d done. What I’d allowed.

 

I didn’t cry. My eyes stayed dry. They’d stopped producing tears somewhere along the way, like my body had decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

 

Part of me waited for the shame to hit. The crushing wave of violation, the self-hatred for not fighting, for adapting so completely that I’d made it easy for her. But even that didn’t come. Just a vague, gray awareness that something important had been taken, and I hadn’t cared enough to stop it.

 

I thought, distantly, that this must be what breaking really felt like—not a dramatic snap, but a slow erosion until there was nothing solid left to break.

 

I wondered if I would ever feel anything strongly again. Anger. Joy. Fear. Desire. All of it felt far away, behind glass I couldn’t touch.

 

The old me would have hated this version of myself most of all.

 

But even that thought drifted past without weight.

 

Morning light started creeping through the curtains. Another day beginning like nothing had changed.

 

I stayed in bed.

 

I didn’t get up.

 

I didn’t think I ever would again.

 

===

 

Weeks turned into a colorless haze.

 

The nights came and went with the same quiet inevitability. Moon Dancer would appear—sometimes with a portal, sometimes in person—take what she needed, and then stay. She always stayed longer now. After the release, after the spell faded and her body returned to normal, she would pull me close, wrap her forelegs around my smaller frame, and hold me like I was something precious she was terrified of breaking further.

 

I never hugged back. My forelegs stayed limp at my sides, my head resting wherever she guided it—usually against her chest or tucked under her chin. I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t lean in either. I just… let her.

 

She always cried during these moments. Quiet, trembling sobs that shook us both. Her hoof would stroke through my mane in slow, careful circles, like she was soothing a frightened foal.

 

“I’m so sorry, Green,” she’d whisper, over and over, voice thick and raw. “I know I keep saying it. I know it doesn’t mean anything anymore. But I am. I’m sorry for everything I’ve taken from you.”

 

Her cheek would press to the top of my head, tears soaking into my fur.

 

“I hate myself for this,” she’d murmur. “I hate that I can’t stop. I hate that I don’t want to stop. But I… I can’t leave you alone afterward. Not anymore. Not like I used to.”

 

Some nights she’d shift us so we were lying face-to-face, her larger body curled protectively around mine. She’d trace the line of my jaw with a trembling hoof, eyes searching my blank expression for something—anything—that wasn’t there anymore.

 

“You used to fight,” she’d say softly, voice breaking. “You used to glare at me, curse me, try to pull away. And now you just… let me. I broke that part of you. I broke you.”

 

A pause. A shaky breath.

 

“I don’t want to leave you alone with what I’ve done.”

 

Then the promise—always the same, whispered against my ear like a vow she both believed and knew was a lie.

 

“I won’t leave you again tonight. I’ll stay until morning. I’ll hold you as long as you’ll let me.”

 

She never asked if I wanted her to stay. She already knew I wouldn’t answer.

 

And she never did leave before dawn. She’d fall asleep eventually, still wrapped around me, her breathing evening out while her hoof rested lightly on my chest or in my mane. Sometimes I’d feel her nuzzle closer in her sleep, murmuring my name like a dream.

 

I’d lie awake in her arms, staring at the wall or the ceiling, feeling the warmth of her body, the faint dampness of her dried tears in my coat.

 

I didn’t feel comforted.

 

I didn’t feel trapped.

 

I didn’t feel anything at all.

 

Just the quiet, endless certainty that tomorrow night—or the night after—she’d come back.

 

And I’d still be here.

 

Waiting.

 

===

 

Moon Dancer lay awake long after Green had slipped into whatever shallow, uneasy sleep the filly managed these days. The small body was curled against her chest, warm and limp, breathing slow and even. Moon Dancer’s foreleg was still draped over Green’s side, hoof resting lightly on the soft swell of her belly—a swell that was her fault, again, and again, and again.

 

The guilt never left her now. It was a constant, living weight pressed against her ribs, making every breath feel borrowed.

 

She stared at the ceiling in the dark, glasses folded neatly on the nightstand, tears slipping silently into Green’s mane.

 

*I did this.*

 

The thought circled endlessly, a quiet accusation she couldn’t outrun.

 

She remembered the first time—the library corner, Green’s shocked face, the way the filly had laughed at her, humiliated her, and somehow still stayed. She remembered how that humiliation had twisted into something dark and intoxicating when Green finally gave in and made her finish. How good it had felt to be wanted, even if it was forced. How quickly the guilt had been drowned out by relief and pleasure.

 

Now the pleasure still came—sharp, overwhelming, shameful—but the guilt never drowned anymore. It only grew heavier.

 

Every night she told herself she wouldn’t return. Every night she researched frantically for a permanent counter-spell, a suppression charm, anything that would end the cycle. Every night the ache built until her vision blurred and her horn sparked uncontrollably, and she found herself teleporting here anyway.

 

She pressed her muzzle gently into Green’s mane and inhaled, trembling.

 

“I’m a monster,” she whispered soundlessly, lips moving against soft green fur.

 

She had taken everything. Green’s voice—once sharp and defiant—now silent. Green’s fight—gone. Green’s virginity. Green’s trust in the world. Even the filly’s tears had dried up, as if there was nothing left to cry with.

 

And still she came back. Still she held Green afterward like tenderness could erase what she’d done minutes before. Still she whispered promises she knew she’d break.

 

The worst part—the part that made her want to scream into her pillow until her throat bled—was that some twisted piece of her was grateful for what she’d created. This quiet, compliant Green who didn’t pull away when she held her. Who opened without protest. Who let her stay until morning.

 

She hated that gratitude more than anything.

 

Moon Dancer tightened her hold for a moment, then forced herself to loosen it again, terrified of bruising the small body she’d already damaged so much. Fresh tears welled up.

 

“I don’t deserve to hold you,” she breathed, so quietly even she barely heard it. “I don’t deserve any of this.”

 

But she didn’t let go.

 

She never let go anymore.

 

Because the guilt screamed that she was irredeemable, that she should turn herself in, that she should end this tonight and never come back.

 

But a quieter, selfish terror whispered that if she stopped coming, she’d lose the only closeness she’d ever had—even if it was built on ruin.

 

And she wasn’t strong enough to face that loneliness again.

 

So she stayed, crying silently into Green’s mane, drowning in guilt she knew she would ignore the next time the spell returned.

 

Because she couldn’t stop.

 

And she hated herself for it more than Green ever could.

 

===

 

The nights had settled into a routine so predictable it felt like breathing—automatic, necessary, inescapable.

 

It always began the same way.

 

Around midnight, or sometimes later if Moon Dancer had fought it longer, the air in my bedroom would shimmer faintly with building magic. Most nights she teleported in person now. The soft crack of displacement had become as familiar as my own heartbeat. She’d materialize at the foot of the bed, looking disheveled—mane frizzy, sweater askew, glasses slightly crooked, eyes already red from crying or exhaustion or both.

 

She never spoke right away. She’d just stand there for a long moment, staring at me where I lay on my side, awake but unmoving, waiting. Sometimes her lip would tremble. Sometimes she’d whisper a preemptive “I’m sorry” so quiet I barely heard it.

 

Then she’d climb onto the bed slowly, carefully, like she was afraid of startling me even though she knew I wouldn’t flinch. The mattress dipped under her weight. She’d settle behind me, pressing her chest to my back, one foreleg sliding gently under my neck, the other draping over my barrel. Her warmth enveloped me immediately, familiar and suffocating.

 

That was when the spell’s effect would be most visible—her cock already hard, hot against the back of my thigh or nestled between my hind legs, leaking slowly. She’d shift her hips just enough to line up, and I’d feel the broad flare nudge against whichever entrance she chose that night. Some nights my muzzle. Most nights now, lower.

 

I never resisted. My body stayed limp, legs parted just enough, tail lifted or shifted aside without being asked. She’d push in slowly—always slowly—groaning softly as my throat or my pussy yielded around her with practiced ease. There was no tension anymore, no clench of protest. Just quiet, automatic acceptance as she stretched me open and buried herself deep.

 

The rhythm was gentle now. Never rough. Long, deliberate strokes that dragged her full length through me, her medial ring popping softly in and out, her flare kissing the deepest parts of me on every thrust. She’d bury her face in my mane, breathing ragged, whispering broken apologies between quiet moans.

 

“I’m sorry, Green… I’m so sorry… I tried not to come tonight… I really tried…”

 

Her hoof would stroke my mane or my chest in time with her hips, like petting me could balance out what she was doing. Tears would drip steadily into my fur.

 

When she came, it was always with a shuddering, muffled sob against my neck. Her hips would press flush to mine, cock pulsing deep as she filled me in thick, warm waves. My body would ripple faintly around her—instinct now, not choice—milking out every drop until she was spent.

 

Afterward, the spell would fade. Her length would shrink and vanish, leaving me full and leaking. But she never pulled away.

 

Instead, she’d tighten her hold, pulling me closer until I was fully cradled against her. Her forelegs wrapped securely around me, one under my neck, one over my belly. She’d nuzzle into my mane, press soft kisses to the top of my head, my ears, my cheek.

 

“I’ve got you,” she’d whisper, voice thick with tears. “I’m here. I’m not leaving tonight. I promise. I’ll stay right here until morning.”

 

Her hoof would resume its slow, soothing strokes through my mane, over and over, like rocking a foal to sleep.

 

“I’m sorry,” she’d repeat, softer each time. “I’m so sorry I keep doing this. I’m sorry I can’t stop. But I won’t leave you alone with it. Not anymore.”

 

Sometimes she’d talk quietly—rambling, really—about nothing and everything. About books she’d read. About how lonely she used to be. About how much she hated herself. About how warm I was, how safe holding me made her feel, even knowing she didn’t deserve it.

 

I never responded. Never leaned into her touch. Never spoke. I just lay there in her arms, eyes open or closed, feeling her heartbeat against my back, her breath in my mane, her tears drying on my coat.

 

Eventually her voice would trail off. Her breathing would even out. She’d fall asleep still holding me, legs tangled with mine, muzzle buried in my mane.

 

I’d stay awake, listening to the quiet, feeling the slow leak of her release, the ache in my body, the weight of her promises.

 

Morning would come. She’d wake, kiss my forehead one last time, whisper another apology, and teleport away before the sun got too high.

 

Then the day would pass in silence.

 

And the night would come again.

 

Always the same.

 

Always waiting.