Broken Incentives

 

One of the few young adults left in what used to be Earth.

 

Fifty years since Zero-Four. The world population is barely crawling back toward five billion. It's strange to feel nothing when you think about the billions who were simply... erased by that multiversal disaster. But you do feel it. Or you used to. Now it's just emptiness, filled by routine.

 

You sigh deeply, leaning on the park railing. Your father is still the same workaholic he always was—ever since your mother dissolved in molecular failure, that new sickness the Zero-Four zones left behind as their parting gift. You barely see him outside the office anymore. Another sigh. The air smells of ozone and rotting trash.

 

In front of you, a group of ponies cleans the park. Harnesses strapped tight, brooms clenched in their mouths, picking up cans and plastic like trained vermin. You might have felt pity once. Decades ago, maybe. Now you know too much: you know their dimensions were the ones that cracked open the rift, the ones that killed your mother, your grandparents, half the planet. You learn to lose the pity. It's easier that way.

 

One pegasus—wings clipped halfway, coat matted with filth—tries to bolt. She makes it three clumsy steps before the collar activates. A sharp green electric discharge. She drops sideways, convulsing, a small puddle of fear forming beneath her. The other ponies tense up and work twice as fast without looking. No one wants to be next.

 

Two human supervisors approach. One grabs her wings in a brutal grip and yanks backward. Crack. Crack. Wings fully shattered, feathers scattering like dirty confetti. The pegasus snaps out of the convulsions and screams—a high, broken wail that cuts off when they shove a rag into her mouth.

 

The other supervisor kneels, speaking low and calm into her ear:

 

"Don't do it again, pony. Unless you want us to cut them off for good. You know how runaways end up in the farms."

 

She nods frantically, trembling, tears mixing with drool. She crawls back to work, useless wings dangling. The humans chuckle quietly, slap each other's backs, and continue their patrol.

 

Just another day in the park.

 

You turn and walk home. Tomorrow's shift at the refinery. Maybe you'll see more ponies there. Maybe one will try something stupid again.

 

You feel nothing.

 

Or so you tell yourself.

 

---

 

You push open the door to the café. The bell jingles softly—old habit from before Zero-Four, when places like this still pretended to be normal.

 

Inside, it's quiet. Dim lights, worn wooden tables, the faint smell of cheap coffee and hay. A group of earth ponies works the floor: mares mostly, coats brushed to look presentable, manes tied back with ribbons. Their uniforms are custom-made—frilly aprons, little skirts that hug their flanks just enough to make them "cute" for the customers. No collars here, at least not visible ones. This place is one of the few that pretends to care about its workforce. The owners say it's good for business: happy ponies work harder, smile prettier, bring in the old-timers who still remember what "service with a smile" used to mean.

 

Most of the patrons are humans in their sixties or seventies—survivors with gray hair and tired eyes. They sit alone or in small groups, nursing black coffee and staring at nothing. You take a corner table, order a plain latte from a soft-spoken earth pony mare with a faded Cutie Mark of three apples. She nods politely, no eye contact.

 

Some of the regulars are kinder. An old man slides a small cube of sugar across the counter to his waitress. "Here, girl. For the long shift." She takes it carefully, like it's gold. Sugar cubes aren't cheap anymore—not with the zones still leaching the soil—but they help. A quick energy hit, dulls the joint pain from hauling trays all day, eases the ache in their backs. The lucky ones get one or two a shift. The rest just endure.

 

You watch them move: efficient, quiet, heads low. No talking back, no complaints. In other places—diners, factories, the street crews—they're whipped for less. Here, at least, they get to pretend it's a job.

 

The door opens again. A young family steps in: mother, father, and a small boy—three, maybe four years old. He walks unsteadily, clutching his mother's pant leg for balance. The kid looks up at the ponies with wide eyes, already smiling.

 

The old patrons turn. Their faces soften. A few murmur hellos, wave gently. You can see it in their eyes: the ache of survivors who lost everyone else. Grandkids that never grew up, wives gone to molecular failure, sons drafted into cleanup crews that never came back. Seeing a child—any child—hits them like sunlight after decades of ash.

 

The earth pony mares light up too. Their ears perk, tails flick. A couple edge closer, waiting for permission. The mother nods once, smiling tiredly. "Go ahead, girls."

 

Three of them trot over carefully. One lowers her head so the boy can pat her muzzle. Another nuzzles his cheek gently. The third lies down so he can hug her neck. Soft whinnies, little giggles from the kid. "Pony soft!" he says, burying his face in mane. The mares beam—genuine warmth, the first real spark you've seen all day.

 

It's almost sweet. Almost.

 

But you know the truth. These mares can't have families of their own. Not unless they sign up for the breeding programs—government-approved studs, monitored pregnancies, foals taken away at weaning to be "integrated" into safe Equestrias or raised as future labor. Most never see their babies again. The system calls it "repopulation aid." Everyone else calls it what it is.

 

You sip your coffee. It's bitter.

 

God, we've gotten desensitized. Watching a mother pony nuzzle a human child while knowing she'd be separated from her own in an instant... and feeling nothing but a faint twinge. Or worse—nothing at all.

 

The boy laughs again. One mare starts humming a soft lullaby, the kind they used to sing in Equestria before the rift.

 

You look away.

 

Another day. Another cup of coffee.

 

Another reminder that the world ended, and somehow kept turning.

 

---

 

Hours later. Night has fallen.

 

You unlock the door to your apartment. The place is bigger than you need—spacious enough for a small family. Government policy: give young adults like you extra room to "encourage human reproduction." They even throw in incentives. Apparently, one of those incentives just arrived.

 

A large animal transport crate sits in the middle of your living room floor. Government-issue, black plastic with air holes and a metal latch. You sigh heavily. You hate this. Hate that they assigned you a pony slave without asking. Hate that refusing would flag you for "low civic contribution" and tank your benefits.

 

"Tch. Let's get this over with," you mutter, voice flat and tired.

 

You press your palm to the biometric plate. The latch clicks. The front panel swings open.

 

A gray earth pony mare tumbles out unceremoniously, landing on her side with a soft thud. Her coat is a dull storm-gray; mane and tail pure white, almost silvery under the apartment lights. On her flank: a Cutie Mark of a quartz heart next to a steaming teacup. Cute. Or it would be, if not for the thick black collar locked around her neck—synthetic leather substitute, seamless, impossible to remove without the right key or a plasma cutter.

 

She scrambles to her hooves, eyes wide with fear, scanning the room like she's expecting a trap.

 

"Your name," you say, voice dry.

 

The mare tenses. She looks away, pretending you aren't there.

 

You click your tongue. "Cute. Bad choice."

 

SMACK!

 

Your hand cracks across her right flank—hard enough to sting. She yelps, legs buckling for a second.

 

"Stop—please!"

 

You slap the left flank next. Sharper this time. She gasps, cheeks flushing with shame and pain.

 

You keep going. Methodical. Alternating sides until both flanks glow red with perfect handprints. She whimpers with each hit, tears welling up.

 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry—please forgive me!"

 

You stop. "Your name."

 

She looks up at you, eyes glassy with tears. "Q-Quartz Cup... sir."

 

You grab the base of her tail—right where it meets her dock—and squeeze. Not enough to break anything, just enough to hurt. She squeaks, hind legs clamping together instinctively. A deep blush spreads across her face, ears pinning back. A soft, involuntary moan slips out.

 

You lean down, voice low and mocking. "Present yourself properly. Now."

 

You release her tail. She drops to the floor, trembling. Slowly, she lifts it high—classic slave presentation pose. Her tail flags up and to the side, exposing everything: soft gray flanks still stinging red, puckered tailhole, and her marehood already winking faintly from the mix of fear, pain, and... something else. Her lips flutter open and closed, glistening slightly despite herself.

 

She speaks in a small, broken voice: "I-I'm Quartz Cup... your exclusive slave. Assigned as... as an incentive. To help you vent your frustrations... so you can find a human partner... and have children..."

 

She trails off. You don't let her finish.

 

Three fingers push inside her without warning—rough, no prep. She gasps sharply, body jerking. You pump slowly at first, then harder, curling to hit that spot that makes her thighs quiver. Cruel? Maybe. But the cameras in every room just activated—government-mandated surveillance for "proper slave handling." They need proof you're degrading her correctly, breaking her in like the program expects.

 

Her walls clench around your fingers. She's soaked already. Pathetic. A few more thrusts and she shudders hard— a small, forced orgasm rips through her. Fluid slicks your hand, warm and sticky. She whines, hips bucking weakly against your palm.

 

You pull out and hold your dripping hand in front of her muzzle.

 

"Clean it."

 

She hesitates for half a second—then leans in with desperate obedience. Her tongue laps at each finger carefully, thoroughly, tasting herself on you. Soft whimpers between licks. Her body twitches with aftershocks.

 

You watch her eyes glaze slightly. A faint spasm runs through her frame.

 

Tch. A masochist.

 

You wanted a normal pony. Someone to talk to, maybe even treat like a companion eventually. Not this... eager little pain slut the government decided to dump on you.

 

You wipe your hand on her mane, leaving streaks.

 

"Get up. Bed's that way. You're sleeping on the floor tonight."

 

She nods frantically, still sniffling.

 

Another day in this broken world.

 

And now you've got company.

 

---

 

Morning light filters through the blinds. You wake up hard, as usual. The apartment is quiet except for the soft breathing from the floor.

 

You sit up, peel off your shirt, and kick your boxers aside. Another sigh—half annoyance, half resignation. Government incentive or not, this is your reality now.

 

"Quartz Cup," you call, voice sharp and loud enough to echo off the walls.

 

The gray mare startles awake on her makeshift blanket pile. Her eyes snap open, pupils dilating as she registers you standing naked above her. She trembles—ears flat, tail tucked—but doesn't look away. Fear and something else mix in her gaze.

 

"Relieve me. Now."

 

She hesitates for only a second, then crawls forward on her belly, slow and careful. When she reaches you, her muzzle is inches from your erection. She inhales—deep, instinctive—and her whole body shivers. The scent hits her like a drug. Her mind blanks. Training, biology, whatever the program drilled into her—it takes over.

 

Her tongue darts out first: tentative licks along the shaft, cleaning, worshiping. Devoted. Blindly devoted. She works her way up to the head, swirling, sucking gently. Her own arousal betrays her fast—her marehood winks, slickness already dripping down her inner thighs.

 

You get impatient.

 

Your hand fists in her white mane, right behind her ears. You pull her forward—hard. She gags instantly as you force your length past her lips, down her throat. Her eyes water, but she doesn't fight. She relaxes her throat like she's been conditioned to, letting you use her mouth like a toy.

 

You thrust steadily. Not gentle. Not cruel for cruelty's sake—just efficient. Her muzzle presses against your pelvis with each deep push. Wet, choking sounds fill the room. Drool runs down her chin. Her body rocks with the rhythm, flanks quivering, pussy clenching on nothing.

 

It doesn't take long. You grunt low and hold her head in place as you cum—thick ropes straight down her throat. She swallows frantically, but it's too much. Some forces its way up her nose; she snorts, eyes tearing harder, but doesn't pull back.

 

You stay buried until the last pulse. Only then do you loosen your grip.

 

She pulls off slowly—agonizingly slow—lips sealed tight around you until the head pops free. Not a single visible drop of semen left on her muzzle or your shaft. Clean. Perfect.

 

You look down at her. She's panting, cheeks flushed, tears streaking her face, but her eyes... glazed with something close to bliss.

 

You reach down and stroke the top of her head—almost gentle.

 

"Good girl."

 

Quartz Cup freezes. Then a full-body shudder runs through her. Her hind legs buckle slightly. A soft, needy whine escapes her as fresh slick gushes from her marehood, dripping onto the floor in small patters. The praise hits her harder than any slap ever could.

 

She looks up at you with those big, wet eyes—adoration mixed with shame.

 

You pull your hand away.

 

"Clean yourself up. Breakfast in ten."

 

She nods eagerly, still trembling from the aftershocks.

 

You turn toward the bathroom, already thinking about the day ahead.

 

Another morning.

 

Another routine.

 

---

 

You finish cooking. Plain oatmeal—warm, with chunks of apple stirred in. Nothing fancy. Nothing for you, really.

 

The reason you ever wanted a "companion" was simple: you thought a pony might be more than this. Someone to talk to, cook with, maybe even care for in this empty world. But the program doesn't allow that. The training—mental, physical, chemical—strips them down until all that's left is body service. Obedience. Holes. If you'd met Quartz Cup before Zero-Four turned her into government property... before the collars, the conditioning, the endless sessions that rewired her brain... maybe she could've been a real individual. A friend. A partner.

 

Tsk. Lucky you.

 

You mutter under your breath, "Damn my luck," as you scoop the oatmeal into a metal dog bowl. Warm, but not hot enough to burn. Next to it: a shallow dish of water. No utensils. No table for her. That's not how incentives work.

 

Quartz Cup pads into the kitchen on soft hooves, head low, tail slightly flagged in submission. She stops at the doorway, waiting for permission. Eyes on the floor.

 

"Eat," you say flatly, pointing at the bowl.

 

She moves immediately—crawling the last few steps, muzzle dipping into the food. No complaints. No hesitation. You sit at the table with your own plate and coffee, scrolling through your work log on the tablet.

 

Two weeks off. Paid leave. "Incentive integration period."

 

You curse under your breath. "Fucking lunatics in the government."

 

Work was your escape. Long shifts at the refinery kept your mind off the emptiness, off the craters where cities used to be, off everything. Now the only thing waiting at home is her. And they expect you to finish breaking her during this "vacation."

 

That word—break—makes your stomach twist. In the program, it means total dependency. She won't be able to function without you. Without your commands, your touch, your approval. The conditioning ensures it: neural rewiring, pheromonal triggers, pain-pleasure loops hammered in over months. Most humans who finish the process do it because the government mandates it. "Civic duty." "Population encouragement." Bullshit.

 

You've read the reports. The ones they don't publicize.

 

When an owner dies—accident, age, murder—the pony often follows. Quick suicide: starvation, self-harm, or just shutting down. In extreme cases... they snap the other way. Revenge. Slaughtering neighbors, handlers, anyone in reach. Logic circuits fried. Programming overridden by raw grief. The government calls those "catastrophic failures." Cleans them up quietly.

 

You glance over. She's finished—bowl licked clean, water dish half-empty. Sitting back on her haunches, waiting. Eyes flick up to you once, then down again. Obedient. Already halfway gone.

 

Your gut churns at the thought of what's next. Two hours from now, the mandatory session starts. Cameras will roll. You'll have to use... whatever tools they shipped with the crate. Collars with stim settings. Restraints. The manual on your tablet has diagrams. Step-by-step degradation.

 

You push the plate away, appetite gone.

 

"Up," you say. "Living room. Now."

 

She rises without a sound and trots ahead, tail high in presentation reflex.

 

You follow, already dreading it.

 

Another morning.

 

Another step toward making her yours completely.

 

Whether you want it or not.

 

---

 

High above the ruined streets, in the fortified council chambers of the city's ruling triumvirate, three men sit naked in their executive thrones. The room is opulent: reinforced glass overlooking the scarred skyline, polished marble floors, and the low hum of security drones outside. These are the leaders who rebuilt order after Zero-Four—ruthless pragmatists who turned pony guilt into policy.

 

At the first man's desk: three unicorns. Three Raritys, pulled from parallel fallen Equestrias—the ones whose dimensional meddling cracked the rift and killed billions. Their white coats are still elegant under the grime of tears and use, manes once perfect now tangled. Black mascara streaks their faces from endless crying. They kneel shoulder-to-shoulder, tongues working in desperate harmony along his thick cock. One Rarity laps slow and worshipful at the base; another swirls the head with practiced suction; the third kisses the shaft's underside, lips trembling. Inhibitor rings clamp their horns—magic suppressed. Inside each mare's flanks, heavy vibrating dildos buzz mercilessly, locked by harnesses synced to his remote. Their hips twitch, marehoods dripping onto the marble, but they don't dare falter. A muffled whimper escapes when a vibration spikes; tears renew, but tongues never stop.

 

Across the room, at the second man's station: Twilight Sparkle. Still the young unicorn student of Celestia in her collapsed reality—glasses crooked, purple coat slick with sweat, mane frazzled. She's bent over his desk, tail flagged high, hindquarters presented. He grips her throat with precise control—squeezing just enough to blur her vision, make her gasp. He thrusts into her hard, deep, punishing. Each slam rocks her forward, forehooves scraping wood. She chokes out delirious moans—pleasure twisted into something macabre. Her walls clench greedily around him, body betraying the broken mind. A perverse enjoyment in being used, degraded, ruined. The student princess reduced to a choking, spasming fucktoy.

 

At the third man's side: Fluttershy. The yellow pegasus clings to him like a devoted lover. He's lifted her onto his lap (awkward positioning, but deliberate), wings wrapped tight around his torso in possessive embrace. He fucks her slowly, almost tenderly—deep, rolling thrusts that draw soft gasps from her. She buries her muzzle in his neck, whispering "I love you... only you..." between whimpers. Her big teal eyes dart jealously toward the Raritys and Twilight—narrowing with warning. She doesn't want them watching. Doesn't want them sharing. Her wings tighten, feathers quivering with need and territorial fury. When one Rarity glances up, Fluttershy hisses softly: "Mine... he's mine..."

 

The men exchange low chuckles. The first speeds his remote—the vibrators in the Raritys surge, making them whine around his cock. The second tightens on Twilight's throat—she spasms, cumming hard with a strangled cry, milking him desperately. The third strokes Fluttershy's mane gently while thrusting deeper; she shudders in sweet release, wings flaring.

 

They finish in sequence: the first pulls out to paint the three Raritys' muzzles in thick ropes—they lap it up between them, sharing like ritual. Twilight gets filled deep, collapsing forward with a broken sob of bliss. Fluttershy takes hers inside, clinging tighter, nuzzling possessively as if to mark him.

 

The room quiets—except for buzzing toys and soft, shattered breaths.

 

Another council meeting.

 

Another extraction of penance from the guilty.

 

After the climaxes subside, the council chamber fills with heavy breathing and the wet sounds of spent bodies. The three men lean back in their chairs, sated for the moment. The Raritys slump forward, muzzles sticky and eyes glazed; Twilight trembles on the desk, throat bruised but smiling faintly in broken bliss; Fluttershy clings tighter to her owner, wings still wrapped possessively.

 

The double doors slide open with a soft hiss.

 

A human woman enters—tall, confident, dressed in sheer black lingerie that clings to her curves like a second skin. Lace bra, garters, thigh-highs. She walks with deliberate grace, heels clicking on marble.

 

At her side trots Applejack. The earth pony mare is dressed in cow-print lingerie: black-and-white spotted bikini top straining over her massively enlarged crotch tits—udders swollen and heavy, almost human-sized breasts hanging low between her forelegs. Black pasties cover her leaking nipples, barely containing the pressure. Her hat is gone; mane tied in a messy ponytail. She walks with head low, cheeks burning with shame, flanks quivering as she stays close to her mistress's leg like a loyal pet.

 

The woman doesn't speak at first. She strides to the center of the room, gestures once. Applejack lowers herself to all fours—back straight, legs spread slightly—forming a living seat.

 

The woman sits on the orange mare's broad back without ceremony, crossing her legs. Applejack grunts softly under the weight but holds position perfectly.

 

From a hidden pocket in her lingerie, the woman produces a long, thick red dildo—ribbed, with a glowing control ring at the base. She reaches back casually and presses the tip against Applejack's exposed marehood. One slow push—deep, unyielding. Applejack gasps, hind legs trembling, but doesn't move.

 

"You boys always rush," the woman says, voice cool and amused. She begins thrusting the toy in lazy strokes. "Playtime's over too quick. You should take your time—break them properly. Slow. Thorough. Make it last."

 

Her eyes flick to the Raritys, still licking remnants from their muzzles; to Twilight, panting on the desk; then to Fluttershy, wrapped around her owner's waist like she owns him.

 

She sighs, almost fondly. "Well... I won't criticize tastes." A small smile. "Fluttershy's little jealous streak is almost endearing. But remember your mission. In a few weeks, new rescues arrive—ponies pulled from the Zero-Four danger zones. Fresh. Untrained. Some bleeding-heart factions are already pushing for 'rights' again."

 

She pauses. Her hand speeds up—shoving the dildo deeper, harder. Applejack whimpers, eyes squeezing shut, but holds her posture as furniture.

 

The woman smiles maliciously and flips a switch on the base. A low buzz—then faint electric pops. Mild shocks ripple through the toy, straight into Applejack's core.

 

The mare convulses. A choked moan escapes her. Her massive crotch tits sway, pasties straining as milk beads at the edges. Her marehood clenches visibly around the invading dildo; fluids gush in a sudden, forceful squirt. She loses strength—front legs buckling slightly—but the woman presses down harder with her weight, keeping her pinned.

 

Applejack orgasms hard—body shaking, eyes rolling back, tongue lolling in dumb pleasure. The dildo slips free with a wet pop, coated and dripping. A puddle spreads beneath her on the marble.

 

The other mares watch in horror and twisted lust: the Raritys flinch, tears renewing; Twilight bites her lip, thighs squeezing together; Fluttershy narrows her eyes, wings tightening jealously around her man.

 

The woman stands, stepping off Applejack's back. The orange mare collapses sideways, panting, smiling vacantly through the aftershocks.

 

Casually, the woman kneels. She peels away one black pasty from Applejack's swollen nipple. Milk sprays in a thin arc—warm, sweet. The woman latches on without hesitation, drinking deeply, greedily. Applejack arches, another climax ripping through her almost immediately. She whinnies softly, eyes half-lidded in stupid, blissful surrender.

 

The woman pulls back, lips glistening with milk. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

"See? Patience. Technique. That's how you make them yours forever."

 

She glances at the men, then at the broken ponies scattered around the room.

 

"Get ready for the new batch. No mistakes."

 

The doors hiss shut behind her as she leaves, Applejack crawling weakly after her mistress, still leaking.

 

The chamber falls silent once more.

 

Down in the city, Anon's two weeks of "integration" have only just begun and become more hectic without him knowing it.