The Piggery – Part Three: Descent into the Abyss

 

The narrow corridor from the locker room ended abruptly at a heavy iron grate, rusted at the edges and slick with condensation. Mirror Charm paused before it, horn flickering once to release the latch. A low, wet hiss escaped as the grate swung inward, releasing a wave of humid air thick enough to taste.

 

The scent hit first: rotting vegetation, animal musk, sweat-soaked latex, and something fouler—manure-like, fermented, primal. It coated the tongue, made Minuette gag softly behind her porcine mask. Moon Dancer's glasses fogged instantly; she tore them off with a trembling hoof, only to realize they were useless now anyway, dangling from the collar of her vinyl suit.

 

"Descend," Mirror Charm said flatly. No ceremony. No warning. Just the word, cold as the stone underhoof.

 

A short flight of slick steps led downward. The air grew warmer, damper, heavier with every step. Rune-lights dimmed to near-darkness, replaced by flickering torches set into the walls—real fire, not magic, casting long, dancing shadows. The floor transitioned from tile to packed earth, then to soft, sucking mud that clung to their false trotters with wet, obscene squelches.

 

They emerged into the Mud Pit.

 

It was not a room. It was a pit.

 

A vast, sunken chamber carved from the bedrock beneath Canterlot, roofed with low, dripping stone arches. The ground was a shallow sea of churned mud—dark brown, glistening, warm from body heat and constant motion. Hundreds of suited figures writhed in it: glossy latex pigs, masks identical in their blank porcine stupidity, bodies coated in filth and fluid. No individuality remained. Only herd. Only instinct.

 

The sounds were worse than the sight.

 

No words. No pleas. Only grunts, squeals, guttural porcine shrieks of ecstasy. Wet slaps of flesh against flesh. The rhythmic thud of flogger on latex-covered flanks. The gluck-gluck of throats filled beyond capacity. Some mares were mounted from both ends at once—humans thrusting in brutal tandem, one in mouth, one in rear, driving them face-first into the muck. Others were pinned on their backs, legs splayed, trotters kicking uselessly as multiple hands and cocks claimed every hole. A few were dragged by leashes through the mud, heads forced down until snouts submerged, bubbles rising as they gasped and squealed in delirious surrender.

 

None resisted. None cried out in pain. Only pleasure—raw, animal, mindless. Tails (synthetic curls) wagged frantically. Flanks quivered. Bodies arched into every strike, every thrust, every degradation as though it were salvation.

 

Minuette froze at the edge of the pit. Her mask's glassy eyes stared wide. Behind it, her real eyes were huge, pupils blown. The heat that the premium cooler had dulled roared back tenfold, amplified by the sight, the smell, the sheer overwhelming reality of it. Warm slickness leaked anew between her hind legs, mixing with the mud that already clung to her trotters.

 

Moon Dancer trembled beside her, breath coming in short, ragged snorts through the mask's snout. Her tail plug twitched involuntarily. "This... this can't be..." she whispered, voice muffled and distorted into something almost porcine.

 

But her body betrayed her. Nipples hardened against the tight vinyl. Lips parted beneath the mask. A low, involuntary grunt escaped her throat—half horror, half need.

 

A group of humans detached from the writhing mass and approached. Eight, maybe ten. Some still glistened with fluids; others wiped hands on thighs or latex flanks. Their expressions varied: a few smiled with lazy hunger, eyes gleaming. Others sighed heavily, shoulders slumped, faces etched with the exhaustion of men who had long since stopped counting the nights.

 

One stepped forward—the tallest, broad-shouldered, dark hair matted with sweat. His face was handsome once; now it carried only weariness and faint disgust.

 

"New meat," he muttered, voice rough. He looked them over like livestock at auction. "Fresh from the locker room. Still clean. Won't stay that way long."

 

He cracked his knuckles.

 

"Time to grind this fresh flesh."

 

The others moved in, forming a loose semicircle. Hands reached out—not gently. One gripped Minuette's collar, yanking her forward until her false trotters slipped in the mud. She stumbled, falling to her knees with a wet splat. Mud splashed up her chest, coating the glossy pink vinyl in streaks of brown.

 

Moon Dancer tried to back away. A second human caught her tail plug, twisting it once—hard. She squealed—real, porcine, involuntary—and collapsed forward, snout-first into the muck. The impact forced a bubble of air from her mask; mud oozed into the slots, coating her tongue.

 

The tall one crouched before them, voice low.

 

"You came here because nothing else worked. The coolers failed. The heat ate you alive. Now you're here." He gestured at the sea of squealing bodies behind him. "Look around. This is what happens when you stop fighting it. You become part of the herd. You learn to love the mud. The cock. The whip. The brand."

 

He leaned closer, breath hot against Minuette's mask.

 

"And you will love it. They all do."

 

A flogger cracked nearby—sharp, wet impact on latex flank. A delighted squeal rose in answer.

 

Another human grabbed Moon Dancer's hindquarters, lifting her tail high. "Start with the mouth," he said casually. "Get them used to the taste."

 

Minuette whimpered behind her mask—terror and arousal twisting into something unrecognizable.

 

Moon Dancer's body shook, but her hips canted upward instinctively.

 

The Mud Pit waited.

 

Hundreds of eyes—blank, glassy, porcine—turned toward the newcomers.

 

The herd was hungry.

 

And the descent had only just begun.

 

---

 

The grate clanged shut behind them, sealing Minuette and Moon Dancer in the Mud Pit's embrace. No time for adjustment. No mercy. The humans closed in like predators, hands rough and unyielding.

 

The tall one grabbed Minuette first, slamming her down into the mud with a wet splatter. Her porcine mask buried halfway in the filth, snout filling with muck. She tried to protest—"Wait, this is too—" but a sharp crack silenced her: a flogger across her flanks, latex stinging like fire. "No talking, sow," he growled. "Only squeal."

 

Moon Dancer fared no better. Two humans pinned her, one forcing her mouth open while another positioned at her rear. "Open wide," the one in front sneered. She shook her head—"No, please—" earning a vicious lash across her back. The sting made her gasp; that's when the first thrust came—brutal, ungentle, filling her throat with thick, salty intrusion.

 

The assault was savage from the start. No caresses. No buildup. Just raw, animal rutting. Minuette's hindquarters were lifted roughly, a cock slamming into her without preamble, stretching, pounding. She bit back a scream, but the sensation twisted—pain bleeding into forbidden heat as he buried deep. Moon Dancer choked on her own invader, tears leaking from beneath the mask, while another claimed her from behind, hips slapping wetly against mud-slick vinyl.

 

They filled them without restraint. Hot spurts flooded Minuette's core first, human seed spilling deep, triggering something primal. Her mind fogged—this is wrong, this is filthy—but the warmth spread, quenching the fire in waves of twisted relief. Thoughts shifted: more... need more. Moon Dancer felt it next, gagging as semen poured down her throat, the one behind her groaning as he emptied inside. Her body betrayed her, clenching around the invasion, a spark of dark pleasure igniting despite the horror.

 

But speech brought punishment. Minuette whimpered a plea—"Stop, it hurts—" and earned a flurry of lashes, the flogger biting into her teats until she squealed porcine nonsense. Moon Dancer spat a curse—"You bastards—" and the tall human sighed, pulling a thin black rod from his belt. A rune etched along its length glowed faint blue.

 

Moon Dancer's eyes widened behind the mask. "Nooo!" she screamed, voice raw. She recognized it—electromagic, a shock wand tuned for agony without lasting harm. He pressed it to her crotch teats, the sensitive mounds beneath her belly. Zap. Electricity arced, white-hot jolt ripping through her. She convulsed, body arching off the mud. "Squeal like the pig you are," he commanded. Another zap—stronger. She thrashed, tears streaming. A third, until her scream warped into a guttural, porcine screech—high-pitched, animal, broken.

 

Minuette's conditioning was simpler, crueler. Forced to swallow load after load, salty bitterness coating her tongue. She retched once, spitting—crack, the flogger across her flanks. Vomit bubbled up—crack, harder, welts rising under the vinyl. "Swallow it all, sow," they barked. Each rejection brought fiercer strikes, until she learned: gulp it down, let it slide warm into her belly. The pain conditioned her—accept, submit, crave.

 

Time blurred in the pit. Hours? Minutes? The two mares lay spent in the mud, semen leaking from swollen entrances in thick rivulets, mixing with filth. Their breaths came ragged, porcine snorts through masks. The heat... subdued for now. A fragile calm.

 

Until a new human approached, two syringes in hand—filled with a viscous red solution. He crouched by Minuette first, fingers roughly scooping out the cooling seed from her depths. She whimpered. Then the syringe plunged in, cold tip breaching, plunger depressed. Red fire bloomed inside—heat doubling, tripling, a monstrous inferno that made her writhe. "Ahh—!" she gasped, false trotter pawing desperately at her entrance. But the cloven design blunted her efforts—awkward, slipping in mud, no precision. Pleasure denied, need amplified.

 

Moon Dancer's turn. He cleared her, injected. She exploded in squeals—porcine, needy, desperate. Her trotters scrabbled futilely between her legs, the clumsy hooves denying release. "Make it stop!" she begged, but only grunts emerged.

 

The humans retreated, watching from afar. Laughing softly. Letting them stew in the hellish need—minutes stretching to eternity, bodies on fire, minds fraying.

 

One returned to Minuette. Gripped her ear through the mask, yanking her up. Mud dripped from her snout. "Look at me," he snarled. "What are you?"

 

Tears streamed from the mask's eye slots. "I-I'm... a dirty sow," she whispered, voice breaking.

 

He released her—splat back into the mud. Flipped her onto her back, legs splayed. Then he mounted, thrusting hard, relentless. No mercy. Minuette's resistance shattered—hips bucking up to meet him, squeals of surrender filling the pit. She gave in, pleasure consuming her whole.

 

Moon Dancer watched in horror, a part of her crumbling. I could just... let go. But she fought—scrabbling to her trotters, waddling toward the edge. "No more!" she grunted.

 

They tackled her down. Mud engulfed her. The torment only worsened—lashes, shocks, thrusts without end. Her struggle fueled their cruelty.

 

The Mud Pit claimed another.

 

And the abyss stared back, hungry for the last thread of her will.

 

---

 

Moon Dancer's mind flickered with one last spark of fury amid the haze of heat and humiliation. She focused inward, horn igniting beneath the porcine mask in a desperate attempt to conjure a simple defensive burst—anything to shove them back, to buy a second of space.

 

A faint blue shimmer sparked at the tip of her horn.

 

It died instantly.

 

The mask's embedded runes—subtle, almost invisible etchings around the eye slots and snout—flared once, absorbing the magic like a sponge. The humans noticed. Their expressions shifted in unison: the predatory grins faded, replaced by something colder, more professional.

 

The one who had been smiling earlier stepped forward slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture rather than threat. Moon Dancer snarled through the mask, voice muffled and porcine: "No! Get away from—"

 

He didn't strike her. He simply crouched to her level, mud dripping from his knees, and met her glassy eyes.

 

Moon Dancer froze. His face wasn't angry. It was... tired. Almost relieved.

 

Another human moved in from the side, pressing a finger to the small rune etched into the collar of her vinyl suit. A soft chime sounded—barely audible over the distant squeals—and a low voice crackled from the embedded communicator band.

 

"Security, this is Handler Four. One of the new intakes just triggered the safeword protocol. Repeat: safeword registered. Stand by."

 

Moon Dancer blinked, incredulous. The words echoed in her skull like a foreign language.

 

The communicator crackled again. A mare's voice—sharp, authoritative, laced with rising panic—cut through.

 

"Handler Four, confirm identity and safeword phrase. Now."

 

The human holding the band glanced at Moon Dancer. He leaned in close and whispered a single word into her ear, soft enough that only she could hear it over the ambient grunts and slaps.

 

"Cheese."

 

Moon Dancer's breath hitched. The word felt absurd, ridiculous... and real.

 

She said it with hurry on her voice.

 

The human straightened, speaking clearly into the band. "Safeword confirmed by subject: 'Cheese.' She's lucid. Bringing her up."

 

Silence on the line. Then a furious shout.

 

"Impossible! You told her! You bastards fed her the phrase—"

 

The handler cut in, voice flat and dry. "You're on loudspeaker, Brilliant Shy. She's hearing every word. And so are we."

 

Moon Dancer was lifted then—not roughly, but with careful hands under her barrel and flanks. The false trotters were unstrapped first, then the mask peeled away with surprising gentleness, letting cool air hit her sweat-soaked face. Her glasses were returned, smudged but intact. A clean blanket was draped over her shoulders as they guided her toward the exit ramp.

 

She twisted, looking back into the pit.

 

Minuette was already gone—indistinguishable among the writhing herd. Just another glossy pink form, squealing in mindless bliss, flanks rising to meet thrust after thrust. No trace of the pony Moon Dancer had known. Only the herd remained.

 

A sob caught in her throat.

 

The handler beside her spoke quietly. "She's not coming out tonight. She chose this. We can't force her. But you... you said the word. You're done here."

 

They carried her up the slick steps, through the passage, back to the locker room. Warm water from a hidden shower rinsed the mud from her coat; gentle hooves (a quiet earth pony attendant) toweled her dry. No words. Just efficiency.

 

The communicator crackled once more as they reached the café facade.

 

Brilliant Shy's voice—now stripped of bravado, trembling—pleaded.

 

"Please... it was just protocol. I didn't mean—"

 

Ice Pebble's reply was ice-cold, every syllable measured.

 

"Brilliant Shy. You are suspended indefinitely from all Stable operations. Your access to every branch is revoked. Security teams are en route to your location. Do not attempt to flee. You will be escorted for debriefing."

 

A pause. Then, softer but no less lethal:

 

"And Brilliant Shy? Threatening a handler—a human—with that tone was exceptionally stupid. The rule is absolute: no harm comes to the stallions. No exceptions. Your sentence will reflect exactly how far you overstepped."

 

The line went dead.

 

Moon Dancer stood trembling in the dim café light, blanket clutched tight. Truffle Badge watched from behind the counter, expression unreadable—pity, perhaps, or quiet approval.

 

One of the handlers knelt to her level.

 

"Matriarch Ice Pebble wants to see you. Right now. We'll take you to her office. Clean, safe. No more sex tonight."

 

Moon Dancer nodded numbly. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

 

"Minuette... she really wanted this?"

 

The handler sighed. "She did. We all saw it. The moment she stopped fighting... she was gone. Happy, in her way."

 

Moon Dancer closed her eyes.

 

"Then take me to Ice Pebble."

 

The door to the alley opened. Cool night air washed over her.

 

Behind her, faint porcine squeals echoed from the depths.

 

The abyss had claimed one.

 

But not both.

 

The End of Part Three.