Nocturne Glide's Precious Green Apple

 

You wake every morning in a body that isn’t yours: small, green, earth-pony filly, mid-twenties in human years but forever frozen in the awkward stretch between foal and mare. Black mane falls across teal eyes that still remember the weight of a man’s stare. No cutie mark brands your flank—just blank green hide, a permanent reminder that this world has no idea what to do with you. Twilight Sparkle, ever the enthusiastic rescuer, filed the adoption papers before you could even finish cursing in a voice too high to carry real venom. Now you live in her crystal castle, sleep in a guest room painted pastel purple, and attend Miss Cheerilee’s class with foals half your mental age.

 

You don’t talk about Earth. Nopony would believe you, and even if they did, what could they do? Magic can’t unmake whatever cruel joke dumped you here. So you keep your mouth shut, nod when spoken to, and watch friendships bloom and wilt around you like cheap flowers. You know how this ends. Humans promise forever and vanish by twenty-five. Ponies just do it with more hugging.

 

School is a daily exercise in restraint. The Cutie Mark Crusaders orbit you with relentless optimism, offering sleepovers, crusades, adventures. You decline with shrugs and half-smiles. Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon learned quickly that your sarcasm bites harder than theirs ever could. Even Cheerilee has stopped trying to pair you for group projects.

 

One overcast afternoon you’re trudging home, hooves clipping against cobblestone, when a crumpled flyer snags on your fetlock. You peel it off and read:

 

⚠ PUBLIC NOTICE ⚠

Citizens of Ponyville are advised to secure all windows after dusk and remove ripe apples from outdoor baskets. Reports confirm nocturnal batpony activity has increased. These visitors have been observed consuming and excessively licking items they perceive as “sweet.”

Do not confront. Do not leave candy, fruit, or other temptations unattended.

— Ponyville Night Watch

 

You snort. Batponies. Of course Equestria has batponies. Probably just thestral guards on leave, drunk on zap-apple cider and looking for snacks. You crumple the flyer and flick it into a gutter. Twilight will lock the castle tighter than a dragon’s hoard anyway; she’s read three books on nocturnal pony folklore since breakfast.

 

That night you leave your bedroom window cracked.

 

Not out of rebellion—well, maybe a little—but mostly because the castle is stifling. The air smells like lavender and old parchment and Twilight’s relentless cheer. You want the night breeze, cool and honest. You lie on the bed fully clothed in nothing but your coat, staring at the ceiling, counting the crystal facets like you once counted ceiling tiles in a cubicle.

 

Hours pass. Moonlight slides across the floor.

 

Then you hear it: the soft creak of wings folding, the faint click of hooves on the windowsill.

 

A batpony slips inside—sleek, charcoal coat, tufted ears, slitted gold eyes reflecting the moonlight like spilled honey. Her mane is wild silver, fangs just barely visible when she smiles. She’s small, maybe your size, lean and quiet as smoke.

 

She smells you before she sees you.

 

“Sweet,” she whispers, voice husky, delighted.

 

You don’t move. Part of you—the old human part—calculates escape routes, assesses threat. The rest of you is tired. So very tired of pretending to care about warnings and rules and friendship lessons.

 

The batpony pads closer, wings half-spread for balance. Her tongue flicks out, tasting the air. “Green apple,” she murmurs. “With a little... something sharper underneath.”

 

You finally speak. “If you’re here to suck blood, you’re out of luck. I’m not the fruity vampire type.”

 

She laughs—soft, surprised. “Blood’s boring. Too metallic.” She leans in, nostrils flaring. “You left the window open. Invitation accepted.”

 

You should yell for Twilight. You should buck her in the face. Instead you stay still while she presses her nose to your neck, inhales deeply, then drags a slow, deliberate lick along your coat.

 

It tickles. It’s warm. It’s the first honest touch you’ve felt since arriving in this saccharine prison.

 

She hums approval. “Definitely sweet. Tart on the surface, bitter deep down. My favorite.”

 

You swallow. “Get it over with.”

 

“Oh, no rush,” she says, circling to your other side. “Night’s long. And you... you taste like someone who stopped believing in happy endings a long time ago.”

 

Another lick—this one along your flank, right over the blank spot where a cutie mark should be. Her tongue is softer than you expected, careful, almost reverent.

 

You hate how it doesn’t feel terrible.

 

Minutes stretch. She explores slowly—shoulder, mane, the sensitive spot behind your ear—murmuring little observations between tastes. You stay rigid at first, then gradually relax, because fighting seems pointless and pretending to be outraged would be a lie.

 

Eventually she settles beside you on the bed, wings draped like a blanket.

 

“I’m Nocturne Glide,” she says.

 

“Anon,” you mutter.

 

“Short for Anonymous?” She grins at your sharp glance. “We night folk notice things. You don’t smell like anypony from here. You don’t act like it either.”

 

You tense.

 

“Relax,” she says. “I don’t care where you came from. I just care how you taste.”

 

She licks your cheek once more, gentle. “You should lock your window tomorrow. Or don’t. Up to you.”

 

Then she’s gone—silent flap of wings, shadow slipping back into moonlight.

 

You lie there long after, coat still damp in places, heart beating too fast.

 

Friendship is a lie. You know that. Humans proved it. Ponies will too, eventually.

 

But maybe there’s something else in the dark that doesn’t ask you to believe in forever. Something that just wants a taste and leaves before the sun exposes everything.

 

You don’t close the window.

 

===

 

You leave the window cracked again the next night. And the night after that. And the one after that.

 

You tell yourself it’s just for the breeze. You tell yourself you don’t care if she comes back. You tell yourself a lot of things, but your heart hammers against your ribs every time the moon climbs high enough to silver the curtains.

 

She always comes.

 

Nocturne Glide slips through the opening like smoke, silent, wings folding tight against her sides. Her golden eyes find you immediately, even when you pretend to be asleep. She never speaks first anymore. She just pads across the crystal floor, climbs onto the bed, and starts tasting.

 

She begins at your neck, your ears, the hollow beneath your jaw—slow, deliberate licks that leave warm trails cooling in the night air. She murmurs little praises against your coat: “Still tart,” “Still bitter,” “Still mine tonight.”

 

You don’t stop her. You stopped pretending to protest after the second visit.

 

Tonight she’s bolder. Hungrier. Her nose drifts lower, skimming your barrel, your belly. She pauses there, inhaling deep, wings trembling.

 

“Here,” she whispers, voice rough with wonder. “Right here. You smell sweetest between your thighs.”

 

Your breath catches. Heat floods your face, your ears, places lower. You shift your hind legs without thinking—closing them or opening them, you’re not sure which instinct wins.

 

Glide doesn’t ask permission. She never does. She just nudges your knees apart with her muzzle, gentle but insistent, and settles between them like she belongs there.

 

The first lick is feather-light, exploratory, right along the seam where green coat meets sensitive skin. You jolt, a small, involuntary sound escaping your throat.

 

She hums, pleased. “Knew it. Sweeter than apples. Sweeter than anything.”

 

Then she really begins.

 

Her tongue is warm, soft, relentless. Long, slow strokes that part you, taste you, savor you. She licks inside, outside, everywhere the scent is strongest, everywhere you’re suddenly, achingly wet. Fangs graze but never break skin—just a reminder of what she is, what she could do if she wanted.

 

You grip the sheets with your hooves. Your back arches. You bite your lip until it hurts, because if you make too much noise Twilight might hear, might come running, might ruin this fragile, secret thing.

 

Glide doesn’t care about noise. She drinks you in like you’re the only sweet thing in a world gone sour. She laps and sucks and circles until your thighs tremble, until your hips buck helplessly against her mouth.

 

When you come, it’s sudden and shattering. You bury your face in the pillow to muffle the cry, body shaking, vision whiting out behind closed eyes.

 

She doesn’t stop until the last aftershock fades. Then she crawls up your body, licks a final stripe across your lips so you taste yourself on her, and curls against your side, wing draped over you like a living blanket.

 

“Still don’t believe in forever?” she murmurs into your mane.

 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your chest is too tight, your thoughts too scattered.

 

She leaves before dawn, as always.

 

You lie there in the cooling damp between your legs, staring at the ceiling again.

 

Friendship is a lie. Love is worse.

 

But this—this raw, wordless hunger in the dark—this might be honest enough to survive the morning light.

 

You still don’t close the window.

 

===

 

The window stays open every night now. You don’t even pretend it’s for the air anymore.

 

Nocturne Glide arrives later this time, just as the castle falls completely silent. She lands without a sound, folds her wings, and crawls straight onto the bed like she owns it. Her golden eyes gleam in the dark, fixed on you—already waiting, already bare, already aching from the moment you heard the faint rustle of membrane against stone.

 

She doesn’t speak. She just lowers her head and starts at your chest.

 

Her warm tongue circles one small, pert teat slowly, deliberately, tracing the sensitive bud until it stiffens under her attention. You gasp, back arching off the mattress. She hums approval and switches to the other, laving it with the flat of her tongue, then catching the peak gently between her lips and sucking—soft pulls that shoot sparks straight down your belly.

 

Your hind legs spread without being asked. You hate how automatic it’s become. You hate even more that you don’t want it to stop.

 

Glide’s muzzle trails lower, nosing along your barrel, your stomach, until she’s settled between your thighs again. She inhales deeply, wings shivering.

 

“Still the sweetest spot,” she murmurs, voice rough. “Let’s see how long I can make you wait tonight.”

 

She starts with teasing.

 

The tip of her tongue flicks over your clit—light, quick, maddening little touches that make your hips jerk. She circles it, never quite giving pressure, just tracing the swollen hood until you’re panting, until your hooves scrabble at the sheets. When you try to push up against her mouth, she pins your hips with her forelegs and pulls back entirely, letting the cool air hit your soaked folds.

 

You whine—actually whine—and she chuckles, low and dark.

 

“Impatient little apple.”

 

Then she dives in.

 

Her tongue parts you fully, long and strong, dragging from entrance to clit in one slow, filthy stroke. She does it again. And again. Building a rhythm that has you trembling in minutes. She laps at your clit with focused, relentless strokes—side to side, circles, quick flicks—until your thighs clamp around her ears.

 

She slides lower, tongue pushing inside you, curling, tasting deep. You feel her fangs graze your inner lips, a deliberate reminder, and the danger only makes you wetter. She drinks you down, humming at every fresh rush of slick, wings flaring wide as if your taste is the only thing keeping her grounded.

 

When she returns to your clit, she seals her lips around it and sucks—steady, pulsing pulls while her tongue flicks mercilessly. Your whole body locks up. The climax hits hard, rolling through you in waves that leave you shaking, keening into the pillow so Twilight doesn’t hear.

 

Glide doesn’t stop until you’re limp, oversensitive, twitching with aftershocks. Only then does she crawl up, lick a stripe across your lips so you taste yourself again, and settle half on top of you, one wing draped possessively over your barrel.

 

“Still think nothing lasts?” she whispers against your ear.

 

You don’t answer. You just turn your face into her neck and breathe in moonlight and leather and the faint copper of night air.

 

She leaves before dawn, as always.

 

You lie there sticky and spent, teats still tingling, clit still throbbing.

 

Friendship is still a lie. Forever is still impossible.

 

But these nights—raw, greedy, wordless—are starting to feel like something you might miss when they inevitably end.

 

You still don’t close the window.

 

===

 

The nights blur together now, one bleeding into the next like ink on wet parchment. You no longer count how many times the window has stayed open. You just wait—heart pounding, thighs already slick before she even arrives—because you know she will.

 

Nocturne Glide doesn’t land quietly anymore. She crashes through the opening with barely restrained hunger, wings flaring, eyes wild and gold and fixed on you like you’re the only thing keeping her alive. She doesn’t waste time on your neck or teats tonight. She goes straight for the source.

 

She shoves your hind legs apart with her shoulders, buries her muzzle between your thighs, and groans—like a pony dying of thirst finally finding water.

 

“Celestia fuck, green apple,” she rasps against your soaked folds, voice trembling. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Dreaming about it. Your taste—it’s in my head, on my tongue, everywhere.”

 

The nickname started two nights ago, after she’d licked you clean for the third time and still couldn’t stop. “You’re my little green apple,” she’d murmured, fangs grazing your clit. “Tart skin, sweet juice. I could drink you forever.”

 

Now she’s addicted.

 

She laps at you desperately—long, greedy strokes that gather every drop of your arousal, swallowing it down like it’s nectar. Her tongue pushes deep inside, curling, fucking you with it while she moans at the taste. “So sweet,” she whimpers between licks. “Sweeter every time. Like you’re making it just for me.”

 

You’re dripping for her constantly now. The moment you hear wings, your body responds—pussy clenching, leaking that sweetness she craves. She drinks it all: slow, savoring laps when she’s teasing; frantic, sloppy gulps when the addiction takes over.

 

Tonight she’s ravenous.

 

She seals her mouth over your entrance and sucks—hard—drawing out every gush of slick with obscene, wet sounds that echo in the quiet room. Her fangs prick lightly at your sensitive lips, never breaking skin, just reminding you how easily she could. Her tongue flicks your clit in rapid, ruthless circles while she drinks, and you come fast, hips bucking against her face, flooding her mouth with another rush of that addictive sweetness.

 

She doesn’t stop.

 

She keeps licking, keeps swallowing, keeps moaning your nickname like a prayer—“green apple, green apple, fuck, don’t ever run dry”—until you’re oversensitive and shaking, until you have to push weakly at her head with trembling hooves.

 

Only then does she pull back, face shiny with you, eyes glazed, lips swollen. She crawls up your body and kisses you deep, letting you taste how obsessed she’s become.

 

“I need this,” she whispers against your mouth, voice raw. “Need you. Every night. Your pussy’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever had, and I’m never giving it up.”

 

You don’t tell her that you’re starting to need it too.

 

You just pull her closer, let her curl around you, wings cocooning you both in warm leather and moonlight.

 

She leaves before dawn, as always—but later each time, like she’s fighting the sunrise just for one more taste.

 

You lie there soaked and trembling, pussy still pulsing with aftershocks, the nickname echoing in your head.

 

Green apple.

 

Friendship is still a lie. Forever is still a joke.

 

But addiction—this desperate, consuming hunger—might be the most honest thing you’ve ever felt.

 

You still don’t close the window.

 

===

 

One night she doesn’t even let your hooves touch the floor.

 

Glide slips through the window, eyes already blown wide with that familiar, frantic hunger. She doesn’t speak—just scoops you up in her forelegs, wings flaring for balance, and launches upward. You feel the rush of air, the sudden lurch as her powerful tail coils around a crystal chandelier bar high in the bedroom ceiling. She flips upside down in one smooth motion, hanging by that prehensile tail like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

You’re cradled against her, rightside up, chest to chest—her batwings folding around your barrel and forelegs, wrapping you tight, possessive, inescapable. Your hind legs dangle free; your pussy is positioned directly above her waiting mouth.

 

Blood rushes to your head from the height and the heat. Then gravity rushes the blood back down.

 

She inhales once, deep and shuddering. “My favorite green apple,” she growls, voice inverted and thick with need. “Look at you—already dripping for me.”

 

You are. You always are now. The first fat drop of slick falls the moment she has you suspended, landing on her outstretched tongue with a soft, wet sound. She moans like it’s the finest wine, fangs glinting in the moonlight.

 

Then she starts feasting.

 

Every slow, deliberate lick catches the next drops before they fall, but she lets some gather first—teasing your folds with the tip of her tongue, spreading you open so more arousal beads and trickles down into her greedy mouth. Gravity feeds her steadily; your position makes you leak constantly, helplessly. She drinks it all—lapping upward against the pull of the world, sucking gently at your entrance, swirling around your clit until your hips jerk in her wing-bound grip.

 

You can’t brace yourself. You can’t push back. You can only hang there, cradled and claimed, while she devours every drop that falls. Her wings tighten whenever you squirm, pinning your barrel to her inverted chest, her heartbeat thundering against your own.

 

“Perfect,” she rasps between long, filthy licks. “Just hang there and give me everything, green apple. Every sweet drop. All mine.”

 

The angle is maddening—blood pounding in your ears, pleasure building in slow, dizzy waves. When you come, it’s with a strangled cry muffled against her neck fur; your pussy clenches hard, releasing a fresh gush that she catches eagerly, swallowing noisily, moaning your nickname like a prayer.

 

She doesn’t set you down until she’s licked you clean, until the last tremor fades and you’re limp in her wings. Only then does her tail uncoil, lowering you both gently to the bed in a tangle of limbs and leather wings.

 

She curls around you immediately, still upside-down drunk on your taste, nosing at your damp thighs like she’s already planning tomorrow night’s variation.

 

You lie there, head spinning, body humming, pussy still tingling from the relentless pull of gravity and her tongue.

 

Addiction goes both ways now.

 

You still don’t close the window.

 

===

 

You try closing the window once.

 

Just once.

 

You slide the latch shut with trembling hooves after dinner, telling yourself it’s for Twilight’s sake, for the castle’s security, for some shred of control. You even wedge a chair under the handle for good measure. Then you lie in bed, staring at the locked pane, heart already racing with the lie that you want her to stay out.

 

She arrives anyway.

 

You hear the faint scrape of metal on metal—a thin card sliding between frame and sash, flicking the latch open with practiced ease. The window swings wide. Moonlight spills in, followed by the soft beat of wings.

 

Glide doesn’t speak. She never asks anymore. Permission became irrelevant weeks ago.

 

You sit up, mouth opening to protest, forehooves already pushing at her shoulders as she lands on the bed. “Glide, wait—”

 

She ignores you completely.

 

Her muzzle dives straight between your thighs, wings snapping out to pin your barrel down. One precise flick of her tongue against your clit—quick, sharp, perfect—and your forelegs buckle instantly. Another flick, and your hind legs go limp, spreading wide without your consent. The strength drains out of you like water through a sieve, leaving you trembling, open, helpless.

 

She hums satisfaction against your soaked folds, fangs grazing just enough to remind you who’s in charge. “Good green apple,” she murmurs, voice low and possessive. “No more pretending.”

 

You can’t push her away now even if you wanted to. Your hooves scrabble weakly at the sheets, at her mane, but she doesn’t budge. She just licks—slow, thorough, greedy—gathering every drop of the sweetness she’s addicted to, swallowing it down like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

 

Every time you try to close your legs, she flicks your clit again—sharp little snaps of pleasure that turn your muscles to jelly. Every time you try to roll away, her wings tighten, cradling you in warm leather, holding you exactly where she wants you.

 

You’re at her complete mercy.

 

She feasts until you’re sobbing into the pillow, coming again and again, body betraying you with every fresh rush of slick that she drinks greedily. Only when you’re limp, oversensitive, mind blank does she finally crawl up your body and curl around you, wing draped possessively over your shaking form.

 

“Mine,” she whispers into your ear, fangs grazing the shell. “Every night. Every drop. Doesn’t matter if the window’s closed. Doesn’t matter if you fight. You taste too good to let go.”

 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is raw, your pussy still pulsing with aftershocks, your mind caught somewhere between terror and relief.

 

Because the truth—the sharp, humiliating truth—is that you don’t know if you want her to stop anymore.

 

You don't know if you'll be able to close the window again.

 

===

 

Tonight the window is closed again. Latched. Chair wedged beneath the handle like a foal’s barricade.

 

Glide doesn’t even pause.

 

The card slides, the latch clicks, the window sighs open. She flows inside on silent wings, moonlight catching on the wet sheen already glistening at the corners of her mouth—she’s been drooling the whole flight over, thinking about you.

 

You’re curled on the bed, facing away, pretending to sleep. Shoulders tense. Tail tucked tight between your legs like that will hide the scent she’s already drowning in.

 

She lands soft as breath. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

 

You feel the mattress dip behind you. Feel the warm leather of her wings settle over your barrel before you can roll away. One foreleg hooks under your belly, pulling you back against her chest; the other slides between your thighs from behind, cupping your already-swollen pussy possessively.

 

A single, deliberate flick against your clit.

 

Your whole body jerks. A weak, half-hearted push of a hind hoof against her shin—more reflex than fight. She feels it, savors it, and answers with another flick. Then another. Precise. Merciless. Each one strips another layer of strength from your legs until they fall open on their own.

 

Your breath hitches. A tiny, broken sound escapes—part protest, part plea.

 

Glide’s lips brush your ear, fangs grazing the rim. “There it is,” she whispers, voice husky with triumph. “Last little spark. Watch me put it out.”

 

She doesn’t dive in yet. She teases. Slow circles around your clit with the pad of one hoof, spreading your slick, painting it over your folds until you’re shining. Every time your hips twitch away, her wing tightens, pulling you back. Every time you try to close your thighs, that hoof flicks again—sharp, perfect, melting.

 

You stop pushing after the fifth flick.

 

By the tenth, your hind legs are splayed wide, trembling, offering.

 

By the fifteenth, you’re pushing back against her touch, chasing it.

 

She feels the exact moment the resistance dies: the way your body goes soft and heavy in her wings, the way your breath turns into needy little whimpers, the way fresh slick gushes over her hoof in surrender.

 

Glide groans, low and feral, and finally—finally—buries her muzzle between your thighs from behind. Tongue plunging deep, drinking the flood you’ve just given her. Lapping in long, greedy pulls that empty you and fill her at the same time.

 

“Perfect,” she rasps against your dripping pussy between swallows. “My precious green apple. All mine now. No more games.”

 

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too busy coming undone on her tongue, hips rocking helplessly, every muscle singing her victory.

 

She drinks until you’re shaking, until your whimpers turn to soft, defeated sobs of pleasure, until the last phantom twitch of defiance is licked away.

 

Only then does she crawl up your body, wings folding around you both, and press a long, wet kiss to the corner of your mouth so you taste how thoroughly you’ve lost.

 

“Sleep, green apple,” she murmurs, nuzzling your damp mane. “Tomorrow night I won’t even need the card.”

 

You don’t argue.

 

You just curl into her warmth and let the darkness take you.

 

The window stays open forever now.

 

===

 

One night the window opens and she doesn’t wait for you to wake.

 

Strong wings fold around you before you can scream, a soft cloth pressed to your muzzle—something sweet and herbal that drags you under in seconds. The last thing you feel is her tongue licking a possessive stripe across your cheek as she whispers, “Time to come home, green apple.”

 

You wake in a different bed.

 

The room is small, cozy, moonlit through gauze curtains: a cottage deep in the Whitetail Woods, far from Ponyville’s lights. The air smells of pine and night-blooming flowers and her. Soft furs cover the mattress. A single iron ring is bolted to the headboard.

 

Glide is already there, eyes glowing gold, smiling like she’s been waiting forever.

 

You try to bolt. Your legs kick, your voice rises in a sharp “What the fuck—” but she’s faster. She pins you gently, inexorably, wings blanketing you, and buckles a soft leather collar around your throat. The click of the buckle is loud in the quiet room. A leash follows—short, sturdy, clipped to the collar and tied to that iron ring. Not tight enough to choke. Just enough that you can’t reach the door.

 

“Shh, precious,” she croons, nuzzling your ear. “You’re safe. You’re mine. No more pretending, no more castle, no more dawn goodbyes.”

 

You snarl, jerk against the leash, call her every name you have left. She listens patiently, stroking your mane, then lowers her head and gives your clit one slow, deliberate lick.

 

Your words fracture into a gasp. Your hind legs splay open without permission.

 

She does it again. And again. Precise, perfect flicks that turn fury into trembling, resistance into slick need. Every time you gather breath for another protest, her tongue finds that spot and your voice breaks on a moan.

 

When the fight ebbs, she kisses you—deep, claiming, letting you taste your own surrender on her lips. Then she reaches for a bowl of thin apple slices on the bedside table. She takes one between her teeth, leans in, and feeds it to you mouth-to-mouth. You try to turn away; she licks your clit once—sharp—and your mouth opens on instinct. The slice slides onto your tongue, sweet and crisp, followed by her lips sealing over yours until you swallow.

 

“Good pet,” she murmurs, feeding you another. And another. Each refusal earns a lick that makes your hips buck helplessly toward her muzzle. Each acceptance earns soft praise and gentle nuzzles.

 

She fusses over you for hours.

 

Bathes your coat with a warm cloth when you sweat from struggling. Brushes your black mane until it shines. Feeds you more apples, bits of moonberry, sips of cool water from a cup she holds to your lips. Every need attended to—except the need to leave.

 

Whenever the old anger flares, whenever you tug at the collar and spit venom, she simply spreads your thighs and licks until your body betrays you again. Until your pussy clenches and gushes that sweetness she’s addicted to. Until your pleas dissolve into whimpers and your hips lift to meet her tongue.

 

Your mind still protests sometimes—weak, distant words about Twilight, about freedom, about this being wrong.

 

Your body has already learned the new rules.

 

When she says “come here, green apple,” your hooves move before you can stop them. When she pats the bed, you crawl into her wings. When she lowers her head between your legs, you spread wide and drip for her before she even touches you.

 

You are her precious pet now.

 

Collared. Leashed. Fed from her mouth. Licked into obedience.

 

And the worst part—the part that makes you hide your face in her neck fur—is how safe it feels when she curls around you at dawn, wings cocooning you both, whispering, “Sleep, my sweet girl. I’ll take care of everything.”

 

The leash stays on.

 

The window here has no latch at all.

 

===

 

Days and nights lose their edges in the cottage. Time is measured only in the slow arc of the moon across the skylight and the steady rhythm of her hunger.

 

Every evening, when the forest outside goes quiet, Glide brings the apples.

 

They’re small, deep red with faint silver veins—moon apples, she calls them, grown in a hidden grove where night-blooming vines drink starlight. She slices them thin, arranges them on a little porcelain plate, and feeds them to you one by one from her own mouth.

 

You try to resist the first few times. You turn your head, clamp your jaws, tug at the collar until the leather creaks. She never forces. She just waits, patient, golden eyes soft with adoration, then lowers her head between your thighs and licks—slow, reverent circles around your clit until your hind legs fall open and your mouth parts on a helpless gasp. The moment you accept the slice, sweet juice bursting across your tongue, she hums approval and kisses you deep, sharing the flavor.

 

By the end of the first week your body craves the apples as much as she does.

 

The effect is immediate and devastating.

 

Within minutes of swallowing the last slice, heat blooms low in your belly. Your pussy grows slicker, heavier, the arousal thicker and sweeter on your folds. When she finally spreads you open and tastes, her moan is ragged, almost pained.

 

“Celestia above, green apple,” she breathes against your dripping entrance, voice shaking. “You’re perfect. Sweeter every night. Like distilled honey and tart summer.”

 

Then the harvesting begins.

 

She never rushes it.

 

Some nights she lays you on your back, leash looped loosely around the headboard, and kneels between your thighs for hours—long, slow licks from entrance to clit, gathering every fresh gush into her mouth, swallowing noisily, wings trembling with restraint. Other nights she flips you onto your belly, haunches raised, and drinks from behind while you bury your face in the pillows and sob from overstimulation. Sometimes she hangs you again—tail coiled around a ceiling beam, your body cradled upside down in her wings, gravity feeding her a steady stream of that moon-sweetened slick while she groans your nickname like a prayer.

 

She harvests without fail.

 

Every drop.

 

When you come—and you always come, multiple times, body trained to respond to the mere brush of her tongue—she seals her lips over your entrance and drinks the flood, fangs grazing sensitive flesh, eyes rolling back in bliss. Nothing is wasted. If a bead escapes down your thigh, she chases it with her tongue. If it drips onto the sheets, she licks the fabric clean later, humming contentedly.

 

Afterward she grooms you meticulously—warm cloth on your coat, gentle brushing of your mane and tail, soft kisses pressed to every trembling muscle. She curls around you, wing draped heavy and possessive, and whispers praise into your ear until you drift off.

 

“Such a good pet. So sweet for me. My perfect green apple.”

 

Your mind still flickers sometimes with distant memories of Ponyville, of Twilight’s worried searches you’ll never see, of a life before the collar. But the thoughts are faint, muffled, easily drowned by the next apple slice sliding across your tongue and the next slow, worshipful lick between your legs.

 

You produce more every night. Sweeter. Thicker. Addictive.

 

And she harvests it all.

 

Without fail.

 

===

 

Tonight the moon apples hit harder than usual.

 

You feel it the moment the last slice dissolves on your tongue—warmth spreading outward from your belly like liquid starlight, pooling heavy and sweet between your thighs. Your pussy throbs, already leaking thick, honeyed slick that drips slow and steady down your inner legs. Glide watches you with hooded eyes, fangs glinting, wings trembling as the scent fills the small cottage.

 

She doesn’t speak. She just moves.

 

Strong forelegs flip you onto your belly in one smooth motion, leash tugging gently at your collar to keep you centered on the bed. Her hooves hook under your hips and lift—haunches raised high, tail flicked aside, everything exposed and offered to the cool night air. You feel the damp spot you’ve already left on the sheets beneath you, shameful and undeniable.

 

“Perfect,” she breathes against your flank, voice rough with reverence. “My sweet green apple, ripe and dripping. Hold still for me.”

 

You try to brace yourself, hooves scrabbling at the pillows, but the first touch of her tongue undoes you.

 

She starts slow—broad, flat licks from your clit all the way up, gathering the rivulets that have escaped down your thighs. Each stroke ends with her muzzle pressing firmly between your inner folds, lips sealing, sucking gently to draw out more. You whimper into the pillow, biting down on soft fabric as heat coils tighter.

 

Then she enters you.

 

Her tongue pushes inside—warm, strong, impossibly dexterous—curling and twisting between your slick inner walls, harvesting every drop that clings there. She fucks you with it slowly at first, long deliberate thrusts that reach deep, lapping at places no mouth should reach, drinking the thick sweetness that gushes fresh with every push. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room—slurps and swallows and your own muffled sobs as overstimulation starts to burn.

 

You lose count of how many times she pulls out only to plunge back in, tongue swirling, scooping, devouring. Every withdrawal leaves you clenching emptily; every return fills you with that perfect pressure and drags another helpless flood across her tongue. She moans constantly, vibrations humming through your core, wings mantled wide as if the pleasure is too much for her too.

 

Your mind begins to fracture.

 

Thoughts scatter like startled birds: Twilight’s face, Ponyville lights, the old human anger—all of it blurring under wave after wave of too-much pleasure. Your hips rock back without permission, chasing her tongue even as you sob harder into the pillow, tears soaking the fabric. Every nerve is on fire. Every drop she takes feels like it pulls another piece of your resistance with it.

 

She shifts angle slightly—tongue curling upward to stroke that spot inside that makes your vision white out—and you come with a broken wail, pussy spasming hard, gushing thick ropes of moon-sweetened slick straight into her waiting mouth. She drinks greedily, swallowing in audible gulps, fangs grazing your folds as she holds you steady through the convulsions.

 

But she doesn’t stop.

 

She never stops.

 

She keeps licking, keeps entering, keeps harvesting long after the climax fades into aching sensitivity. Your sobs turn raw, throat hoarse, body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure edges into something almost painful—yet still, still you leak for her. Still your inner walls flutter around her tongue, offering more.

 

By the time she finally pulls back, face shining with you, your mind is quiet. Empty. Blissfully blank.

 

She lowers your haunches gently, crawls up your trembling body, and curls around you—wings folding heavy and warm, leash slack between you. Her tongue—still tasting of you—licks soothingly at the tears on your cheeks.

 

“Good pet,” she whispers, nuzzling your damp mane. “So sweet. So perfect. All mine.”

 

You don’t answer. You just press your face into her neck and let the darkness take what’s left.

 

===

 

Glide is gone longer than usual—out in the moonlit grove, gathering fresh apples, leaving you alone in the quiet cottage for the first time in days.

 

The leash is short, tethered high to a thick ceiling beam that runs across the bedroom. The knot is solid, professional, far above your reaching hooves even when you rear up and stretch until your shoulders burn. You jump, scrabble at the smooth wood, tail lashing for balance, but your forelegs only brush empty air. There is no stool, no chair tall enough, nothing Glide would ever need with her wings. The realization settles cold in your gut: she planned this. Every detail.

 

You keep trying anyway—pacing the small circle the leash allows, tugging until the collar bites your throat, whispering curses that echo weakly off the walls. Exhaustion wins eventually. You collapse onto the bed, curling into yourself, leash slack but ever-present, a constant reminder around your neck.

 

The door opens softly.

 

Glide steps in, wings folding, a basket of gleaming moon apples balanced on her back. Her golden eyes find you immediately—curled small, ears flat, teal eyes wet with frustration and fear.

 

You sit up fast. Words tumble out before she can speak.

 

“Please,” you beg, voice cracking. “Glide, let me go. I’ll be good—I swear I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you want. I won’t tell anypony, I promise. I’ll… I’ll keep coming back. Every night. Just—please untie me. Let me go home.”

 

She sets the basket down slowly, expression unreadable. Then she climbs onto the bed, looming over you, wings half-spread.

 

“No,” she says simply, softly. “I’m never letting you go, green apple. Not ever. You belong to me now.”

 

You lunge—hooves pushing at her chest, twisting against the leash, snarling through tears. “Let me go! You can’t—”

 

She catches your forelegs easily, pins them above your head with one hoof. The other slides between your thighs, finds your clit with terrible accuracy, and starts rubbing—slow, firm circles that make your hips jerk involuntarily.

 

Your protest dies in a broken gasp.

 

She leans in, mouth full of chewed apple pulp—sweet, warm, sticky—and seals her lips over yours. The pulp slides into your mouth, shared in a deep, messy kiss that tastes of moon apples and her. You try to turn away; she rubs harder, precise pressure that turns your spine to liquid. Your mouth opens on its own, accepting the kiss, swallowing the sweetness as your body betrays you again.

 

You mumble pleas against her lips—“please… stop… let me go…”—but the words slur, weaken, dissolve into whimpers as her hoof keeps working your clit in steady, relentless strokes.

 

She pulls back just enough to murmur, “Shh, precious. No more begging.”

 

Then she flips you onto your belly again—haunches lifted, leash tugged taut to hold you in place—and buries her muzzle between your thighs from behind.

 

The harvesting begins.

 

Her tongue plunges deep between your inner folds, curling and scooping every fresh gush of slick, drinking noisily as your body floods her mouth with moon-sweetened arousal. You sob into the pillow, hips rocking helplessly back against her face even as your mind screams.

 

“Twilight—” you choke out, voice raw. “Luna—Celestia—somepony, anypony, please—”

 

Glide just hums, vibrations thrumming through your core, and licks deeper, harvesting every drop with reverent greed. Her wing drapes over your back, pinning you gently, possessively.

 

“Nopony’s coming, sweet girl,” she coos between long, slow pulls of her tongue inside you. “You’re here forever now. Safe with me. No need to worry about anything else ever again. Just let go.”

 

Your pleas fade into broken whimpers as another climax builds, forced from you by her relentless tongue. Your mind fractures further—names of princesses and friends blurring, dissolving in the overwhelming pleasure and the taste of apples still lingering on your tongue.

 

She drinks it all.

 

Every drop.

 

Until you’re limp, empty, quiet.

 

Until the only thing left is her wings around you and the soft, constant weight of the collar.

 

===

 

Weeks bleed into one another, measured only in the rise of the moon and the weight of the collar.

 

The moon apples never stop coming. The harvesting never stops. Night after night, Glide feeds you the slices mouth-to-mouth, waits for the sweetness to bloom thick and heavy between your thighs, then takes you apart with her tongue until you’re sobbing, shaking, empty.

 

At first you still beg with full sentences.

 

“Please—Glide—too much. It’s too much every night. My mind… it’s breaking. Stop, please, or there’ll be nothing left of me.”

 

She always pauses then, golden eyes soft and fever-bright, muzzle still shining with your slick. She strokes your mane, kisses the tears from your cheeks, and whispers against your ear:

 

“Good. That’s exactly what I want, green apple. I want you to break. I want every last piece of you to shatter and reform around me. You’ll be mine completely—nothing left but sweetness and need and my name on your tongue.”

 

Then she starts again.

 

She flips you onto your belly, haunches lifted high, leash pulled just taut enough to arch your back. Her tongue plunges deep between your inner folds, curling, scooping, drinking the endless flood of moon-sweetened arousal in long, greedy pulls. You sob into the pillows, hips rocking helplessly back to meet every thrust of her tongue, even as your mind screams that this is the night it finally snaps.

 

But it doesn’t snap all at once.

 

It frays.

 

Slowly.

 

Night by night.

 

Your pleas grow shorter, more desperate. “Please—stop—too much—can’t think—” until they fracture into broken moans and whimpers. Words slip away like water through hooves. Sentences dissolve mid-thought. You try to say Twilight’s name one night and it comes out as a slurred, meaningless syllable. You try to remember Ponyville and only feel the wet heat of Glide’s tongue swirling inside you, harvesting another gush that she swallows with a moan of your nickname.

 

She never tires. Never hurries. She licks and sucks and fucks you with her tongue for hours, drawing out climax after climax until your body is a trembling, oversensitive ruin and your mind is soft static.

 

Eventually, even the broken pleas stop.

 

You lie there limp in her wings, eyes unfocused, mouth open, drooling a little onto the sheets as she drinks the last drops. Soft, incoherent mumbles spill out—wet, needy sounds with no shape. The only thing that still forms properly, the only word your tongue can shape anymore, is her name.

 

“Glide…”

 

You whisper it like a prayer when she enters you with her tongue.

 

“Glide…”

 

You moan it when you come, pussy clenching hard around her, flooding her mouth again.

 

“Glide…”

 

You sigh it when she finally curls around you, wings heavy and warm, licking your tears clean.

 

She presses her forehead to yours, eyes shining with possessive triumph.

 

“There she is,” she whispers. “My perfect, broken green apple. Nothing left but me.”

 

You nuzzle weakly into her neck, leash slack between you, and breathe her name one more time before sleep takes what little is left.

 

===

 

A month passes—or maybe more. Time has no edges here. Only the moon, the apples, the tongue.

 

You don’t count nights anymore. You don’t count anything.

 

You lie on the bed most hours, leash loose around your collar, eyes half-lidded and vacant. Your body drips slow and steady between your thighs, moon-sweetened slick pooling beneath you on the sheets because the apples never stop and the arousal never ebbs. When Glide enters the room your ears twitch, your tail lifts on its own, your hind legs spread wide before she even touches you. Muscle memory. Deeper than memory.

 

Words are gone.

 

The last coherent plea died weeks ago. Now there are only soft, wet mumbles—breathless sounds that rise and fall with her tongue inside you. The only shape your mouth still knows is her name.

 

“Glide…”

 

You sigh it when she feeds you apple slices, lips sticky with pulp.

 

“Glide…”

 

You whimper it when she flips you onto your belly and drinks deep from behind.

 

“Glide…”

 

You moan it when climax after climax rolls through your shattered mind, leaving nothing but white static and the wet heat of her harvesting every drop.

 

One night—though all nights are the same—she pauses.

 

Her tongue is buried deep between your inner folds, curling slow and reverent, swallowing another thick gush of your endless sweetness. You’re face-down in the pillows as always, haunches high, leash taut, drooling softly as you mumble her name like a heartbeat.

 

She pulls back with a wet sound. You feel cool air on your soaked pussy and whine at the loss.

 

Then her hoof brushes your flank—gentle, wondering.

 

“Look, green apple,” she whispers, voice trembling with awe. “Look what you finally earned.”

 

You don’t understand at first. You never understand anymore.

 

She guides you to the mirror across the room, leash in hoof, your legs wobbling as you follow on instinct. Moonlight spills over your blank green flank—no longer blank.

 

There it is.

 

A cutie mark.

 

Half an apple, sliced clean down the middle. The flesh pale green like your coat, seeds scattered in the exposed core. Thick juice drips from the center in slow, glistening trails—forever falling, forever wet.

 

It’s you.

 

Cored. Harvested. Dripping forever.

 

Glide presses her muzzle to it, licks the new mark once, reverently. You shudder, fresh slick spilling down your thighs in response.

 

“Perfect,” she breathes. “My perfect, broken pet. This world finally knows what you’re for.”

 

You stare at the reflection with empty teal eyes. The filly in the mirror is beautiful in her ruin—collar gleaming, flank marked, pussy shining with constant need.

 

You nuzzle weakly into Glide’s wing and mumble the only truth left.

 

“Glide…”

 

She leads you back to bed, spreads you open again, and resumes the harvest—tongue plunging deep, drinking the sweeter-than-ever flood that your new mark seems to promise will never end.

 

You drip forever now.

 

Empty-eyed.

 

Softly mumbling.

 

Hers completely.

 

===

 

Nocturne Glide perched on the windowsill of her cottage, moonlight silvering the membranes of her folded wings, golden eyes fixed on the small green form curled in the center of the bed.

 

Her pet. Her precious green apple. Her everything.

 

The collar gleamed softly around the filly’s throat, leash slack but ever-present, a gentle reminder that there was no leaving, no dawn escape, no world beyond these walls anymore. The cutie mark on that blank flank—once so stubbornly empty—now shone like a brand: half an apple, core exposed, juice forever dripping. Glide’s doing. The moon apples, the endless nights, the slow, deliberate shattering—she had sculpted it all.

 

She slipped inside without a sound, hooves silent on the fur rugs. The air was thick with the scent of her pet: warm green coat, black mane faintly scented with pine from the forest, and beneath it all the constant, heavy sweetness leaking between those thighs. It hit Glide like a drug. Her fangs ached. Her tongue twitched. Her wings trembled against her sides.

 

She had tasted many things in her long nocturnal life—ripe fruits stolen from orchards, honey from hidden hives, the fleeting salt of blood when hunger demanded it. Nothing compared to this. Nothing ever would.

 

Glide approached the bed slowly, savoring the way her pet’s ears flicked at the faint rustle of leather wings. Even shattered, even empty-eyed, the filly’s body knew her. Hind legs parted slightly in sleep, tail lifting just enough to offer. A single bead of slick glistened at the seam of those soft green folds, catching moonlight like a pearl.

 

Glide’s breath shuddered out.

 

She climbed onto the bed, careful not to wake her pet too quickly. First she nuzzled the new cutie mark, tongue tracing the dripping trails with reverent care. The filly sighed in her sleep—a soft, broken sound—and more sweetness welled up in response. Glide lapped it clean, humming low in her throat.

 

Mine.

 

She had taken a stubborn, sarcastic stranger—a filly who once pushed her away, who once begged for freedom—and licked her into perfect surrender. Every plea, every tear, every fractured thought had been swallowed along with the slick. Now there was only this: soft mumbles, vacant teal eyes, a body that dripped endlessly for her tongue.

 

Glide settled between those spread thighs, wings draping over the smaller form like a living blanket. Her muzzle pressed forward, lips parting the folds, tongue sliding deep into warm, willing heat. The taste exploded across her senses—thicker, richer than the first night, moon apples and surrender distilled into pure nectar.

 

Her pet stirred then, a sleepy mumble rising: “Glide…”

 

The sound speared straight through her chest. Possession. Triumph. Something deeper and more dangerous that she refused to name.

 

Glide drank slowly tonight. Long, deliberate strokes inside those clenching walls, curling to draw out every fresh gush, swallowing noisily in the quiet room. Her pet’s hips rocked weakly, instinctively, chasing the tongue even in half-sleep. Soft, incoherent sounds spilled from that open mouth—wet, needy, wordless except for the one that mattered.

 

“Glide…”

 

She would never let this go.

 

Never let her go.

 

The world outside could search forever—purple alicorns, princesses of sun and moon, frantic friends with posters and spells. They would never find this hidden grove. And even if they did, they would be too late. The filly they sought was gone, licked away night after night until only sweetness remained.

 

Glide sealed her lips over the dripping entrance and sucked gently, drawing out one final flood. Her pet whimpered, body trembling through a sleepy climax, then went limp again beneath her wings.

 

Glide crawled up, curled possessively around the smaller form, and pressed her muzzle to a teal eye that stared at nothing.

 

“Sleep, my perfect green apple,” she whispered. “Tomorrow night I’ll harvest you again. And the night after. And every night after that. Forever.”

 

The only answer was a soft, dreamy mumble against her neck.

 

“Glide…”