Broken Incentives - Chapter 2: Failed Harvest

 

Six humans step through, sealed head-to-toe in heavy exosuits. Matte black armor plates hum faintly with power cells. Helmets feature tinted visors, rebreathers hissing in rhythm. The suits are over-engineered: radiation shielding, molecular filters, strength augmentation. Designed for zones where reality itself unravels.

 

They emerge onto cracked cobblestone streets. The world around them is locked in eternal crepuscule—gray upon gray. Buildings lean like exhausted sentinels, windows dark and empty. Trees stand leafless, branches frozen mid-sway. Ponies—earth, unicorn, pegasus—dot the landscape in perfect stillness. Some mid-gallop, others mid-conversation, mouths open in silent laughter or screams. Time stopped here the day Zero-Four happened. Bodies in limbo: not dead, not alive. Suspended.

 

The team moves with practiced efficiency. No chatter over comms. Only clipped orders.

 

"Grid Alpha secure. Begin harvest."

 

One squad deploys extractors—tall, spider-like machines that drill into the ground and siphon water from underground aquifers. Another group sets up biomass collectors, pulling withered vegetation into compressed cubes for transport back to Earth. Resources first. Always resources first.

 

A third team approaches the frozen ponies. Large metal crates roll forward on treads—government-issue stasis pods, lined with cryo-foam and restraint fields. They work methodically: scan for vitals (still present, faint), tag with RFID collars, lift the rigid bodies with mechanical arms, and slot them into pods. Foals and adults alike—though the foals are flagged red for "relocation priority" to allied Equestrias. The rest... destined for processing.

 

One worker pauses. His suit's HUD flickers as he stares at a lavender unicorn frozen mid-levitation, horn glowing eternally. He mutters into his private channel, voice low.

 

"How many Equestrias were involved? How many actually triggered this?"

 

The question hangs. No answer comes. He knows the official line: a cluster of reckless realities experimented with dimensional anchors. The rift opened. Billions evaporated on Earth. The guilty ones paid the price—first with collapse, then with subjugation.

 

But he remembers the allied Equestrias too. The ones that sided with humanity early. The ones whose princesses negotiated treaties, whose ponies were "protected" in exchange for magic-tech collaboration. He remembers the photos leaked years ago: those same "allied" ponies turned into collaborators, overseers in the camps, whipping their own kind to prove loyalty. Ponies torturing ponies. The system rewards betrayal.

 

His stomach turns. He exhales sharply into the rebreather.

 

Doesn't matter. Job's the job.

 

He resumes work. Grabs the next frozen pegasus by the wings—careful not to snap them—and loads her into a pod. The lid seals with a pneumatic hiss. Another crate filled. Another batch for the farms, the auctions, the incentives program.

 

The twilight never changes. The gray never lifts.

 

Here, the harvest continues.

 

Another reality emptied.

 

Another debt collected.

 

---

 

The blindfold was a cruel mercy—thick, black fabric wrapped tight around her eyes, plunging Quartz Cup into endless darkness. She couldn't see the strikes coming, couldn't brace for the impact. All she had were the sounds: the sharp whistle of the belt cutting air, the thunderous crack against her gray flanks, and her own broken symphony of whimpers, yelps, and moans that twisted into desperate pleasure.

 

Another lash landed—hard, unyielding. The leather bit deep into her right flank, sending a white-hot sting that radiated through her muscles like fire. Quartz Cup bucked involuntarily, her hooves scraping the cold apartment floor, body arching in a shameful display. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate, but it melted almost instantly into that familiar, intoxicating heat. Her marehood clenched on nothing, winking frantically, slick fluids dripping down her inner thighs in shameful rivulets. She'd cum again—her fourth? Fifth? The count blurred in the haze of her broken mind.

 

Oh, yes... Master loves me, she thought, the words a twisted mantra drilled into her during months of conditioning. The program had rewired her: every slap, every bruise, every denial was proof of ownership. Love wasn't gentle; it was this—raw, possessive control. Her Cutie Mark—a quartz heart and teacup—throbbed under the abuse, as if echoing the ache. She ground her teeth, tail flagging higher instinctively, presenting her reddened, welted rear for more. Hurt me more. Own me more. That's how you show you care...

 

The next strike came faster—left flank this time, the belt wrapping around her curve with a vicious snap. She screamed—a high, whinnying cry that dissolved into a guttural moan. Her body convulsed, hips jerking as another orgasm ripped through her. Fluids squirted weakly onto the floor, mixing with the sweat and tears she'd already shed. The pleasure was agonizing, relentless; her clit pulsed with overstimulation, every nerve ending raw and screaming for mercy that she didn't truly want.

 

But beneath the bliss, a fire smoldered. A gnawing frustration that the conditioning couldn't fully extinguish. Why? Why did Master beat her so beautifully, mark her flanks with his handprints and belt stripes, tease her edges with fingers and toys until she begged... but never take her fully? Her entrance ached—stretched from plugs and probes during sessions, but never filled with him. Her womb clenched empty, yearning for his seed to flood her, to claim her insides as he'd claimed her outsides. The program promised it: good slaves got bred, got purpose. But he held back. Always held back.

 

Am I not broken enough? Not worthy? The thought stung worse than any lash. She twisted on the floor, blindfold damp with tears, rubbing her sore flanks against the carpet for friction. Another strike landed—center, right across her dock—drawing a fresh wail. Pain exploded, then ecstasy. Her mind fractured further, looping back to devotion. He must love me... this is love... but why not all of me?

 

The sounds echoed in the apartment: crack, whimper, moan. Day six of his "vacation." And Quartz Cup, lost in her dark, sadistic paradise, could only pray for the day he'd finally shatter her completely.

 

---

 

You stop the belt mid-swing. Your arm aches; her flanks are a map of angry red welts and handprints, some already bruising purple. Quartz Cup is shaking—blindfold soaked, body slick with sweat and her own repeated releases. Every lash had pushed her over the edge again, her marehood winking and squirting like it was programmed to reward pain. The sight turns your stomach.

 

She's cumming from being beaten. Just from the fucking pain.

 

The cameras blink red in every corner—government-mandated, always recording. Proof you're "integrating" her correctly. Proof you're following the incentive protocol. If you stop now, they'll dock your benefits. Maybe flag you for re-education. You hate how normal that threat feels.

 

Tsk.

 

You drop the belt and grab her roughly by the withers, flipping her onto her back. She gasps, legs kicking weakly in surprise. You drag the bondage kit from under the bed—the black case they shipped with her crate. Heavy-duty cuffs, chains, spreader bar. You work fast, mechanical: wrists to ankles, ankles spread wide and chained to the bedposts, tail pulled aside and secured high. She's splayed open completely—gray flanks still throbbing, marehood exposed and glistening, clit pulsing visibly with aftershocks.

 

Next, the mask. Not a simple ball gag. This one's worse: a full-face muzzle with breathing tubes for her nostrils, sealed tight around her muzzle and cheeks. You connect the hose to the small tank they provided. Inside: a filthy rag soaked in your unwashed gym shirt and—god help you—your own dried cum from the last few mornings. The manual calls it "scent imprinting." Associates your personal odor with pleasure and safety. Two-hour supply. Automatic flow.

 

You clip the last restraint and step back. She's trembling, blind, gagged, spread, breathing your stink in shallow panicked huffs through the tubes.

 

The manual says this is step seven: olfactory conditioning. "Prolonged exposure reinforces dependency. Subject will crave the handler's scent during arousal and distress."

 

Who the fuck writes this shit?

 

You pick up the small jar of cream—colorless, odorless, labeled only "Mild Sensory Enhancer (Non-Addictive – Pony Physiology Compatible)." Government-issue aphrodisiac. Not supposed to hook them chemically, just amplify every nerve ending for a couple hours. You squeeze a dollop onto two fingers and push inside her without warning.

 

Quartz Cup convulses instantly.

 

A muffled scream vibrates through the mask. Her whole body arches against the chains—hooves straining, back bowing off the mattress, marehood clenching hard around your fingers before you pull them out. Slick gushes in a fresh wave; her clit throbs visibly, swollen and desperate. She thrashes, testing every link. The cuffs creak but hold. The spreader bar doesn't budge. She's trapped, burning, unable to touch herself or close her legs.

 

You watch for ten seconds—long enough to see another orgasm hit her like a freight train. Her muffled moans turn frantic, hips bucking uselessly into empty air.

 

Your stomach lurches. You feel sick. Not aroused. Just... disgusted. With her. With the system. With yourself for doing it anyway.

 

You grab your keys from the counter.

 

"I'm going out," you mutter, even though she can't hear you properly through the mask and her own haze. "Two hours. Behave."

 

The door clicks shut behind you.

 

Outside, the city is quiet. No muggings, no gang wars, no violent crime waves. Irony of ironies: redirect all the rage, all the frustration, all the primal urges onto ponies instead of each other, and suddenly society "stabilizes." The streets are safe for humans. Ponies pay the price.

 

You walk aimlessly, hands in pockets, trying not to think about the mare chained to your bed—blind, gagged, drowning in your scent and artificial heat, cumming over and over from nothing but pain and denial.

 

Two hours.

 

Then you'll have to go back.

 

And keep going.

 

Because the cameras are still rolling.

 

And the protocol doesn't care how much you hate it.

 

---

 

You walk the streets with your hands shoved deep in your pockets, trying to shake off the nausea still churning in your gut. The apartment is behind you, Quartz Cup still chained and blindfolded, drowning in heat and your scent for the next hour or so. You needed air. Needed distance.

 

You end up at the same café without really planning it. Push the door open. The bell jingles.

 

The moment you step inside, every earth pony waitress freezes mid-step. Ears pin back. Cheeks flush deep crimson. Nostrils flare—they catch it instantly. The lingering smell on your skin, your clothes, your hands. Sweat. Sex. Her fluids. Your cum. You forgot to shower properly. Forgot cologne. Forgot everything except getting out.

 

One mare drops a tray. Cups clatter. No one moves to pick it up.

 

You clear your throat and head straight for the bathroom. Soap. Hot water. Scrub until your skin is raw. When you come out, the waitresses are back at work—smiles forced, eyes darting away. Nervous twitches in their tails.

 

You take your usual corner table. Order the pastrami sandwich with extra cheese and bacon. Black coffee. And on impulse: “A dozen premium sugar cubes. To go.”

 

The sandwich arrives. You eat mechanically, barely tasting it. When you’re done, you pull one cube from the small paper bag. Hold it between thumb and forefinger.

 

“Red,” you call softly, nodding at the mare with the deep crimson coat and matching mane—your regular server.

 

She approaches like she’s walking on glass. Eyes wide, ears half-lowered. You extend your hand, cube balanced on your palm.

 

She hesitates. Then leans in slowly. Lips part. Tongue flicks out—careful, reverent. She takes the cube gently, rolling it against her tongue before crunching down. Her eyes flutter shut. A long, shuddering sigh escapes her.

 

Premium cubes aren’t just treats. They’re engineered bliss: intense sweetness that floods pony endorphins, plus a mild muscle relaxant. Four hours of pure, boneless calm. No pain. No aching joints from trays and scrubbing. The café encourages customers to buy them for the staff. “Happy ponies work better,” the sign says. Everyone knows what it really means: a temporary reprieve from hell.

 

Red’s shoulders drop. Tension melts from her frame. She sways slightly, a dreamy smile spreading across her face—genuine peace, the first you’ve seen on any pony today.

 

The other waitresses stare. Jealousy flickers in their eyes—sharp, bitter—but no one says a word. No scene. They know better.

 

You chuckle once, low and tired. Reach out and pat her head gently, fingers lingering in her mane for a second. “Good girl.”

 

She leans into the touch without thinking, eyes half-lidded.

 

You leave a generous tip, grab the bag of remaining cubes, and walk out.

 

Later—much later—you step out of a narrow shop tucked in the industrial district. Black plastic bag in hand. Heavy.

 

Inside: three models of chastity belt (steel-reinforced, remote-lockable, sizes for earth ponies), a full-face synthetic leather hood (breathing slits, blindfold panel, gag mount), and—because you told yourself “just to try them”—a pair of punishment gloves.

 

Black leather, reinforced palms, embedded nodes along the fingers. Low-voltage shocks. Pressure-point stimulators tuned to equine magic meridians. The clerk called them “advanced disciplinary tools.” You called them overpriced. But when you slipped one on in the fitting area… they fit like a second skin. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

 

You stare at the bag as you walk home.

 

You let yourself get carried away.

 

The gloves are for sadists. Real ones. Not reluctant assholes following a government checklist.

 

But they’re in the bag.

 

And you’re already imagining how they’d feel against Quartz Cup’s flanks.

 

The city is quiet around you. No crime. No chaos. Just ponies paying the price so humans can pretend everything’s fine.

 

You quicken your pace.

 

Two hours are almost up.

 

She’s waiting.

 

And now you have new toys.

 

You hate how part of you isn’t dreading it anymore.

 

---

 

Limestone Pie’s POV

 

The memory hits like a hoof to the ribs.

 

She woke up screaming—raw, throat-scraped screams—for Marble, for Maud, for Igneous Rock. For anypony. The room was white. Too white. Too clean. Machines descended from the ceiling like metal spiders: cold nozzles, rotating brushes, suction tubes thicker than her foreleg. They pinned her down without mercy. No warning.

 

Water—hot, chemical-laced—blasted every inch of her. Then the probes. Thin, flexible, invasive. They forced their way into her nostrils, her ears, between her hind legs. Deep. Deeper. Scrubbing, suctioning, rinsing. Her mouth was pried open; a tube snaked down her throat, flooding her stomach with bitter sanitizer. Her tailhole clenched instinctively—too late. Another tube pushed in, cold lubricant first, then pressure. Cleaning. Sterilizing. Every orifice violated except her eyes. She thrashed until the restraints bit into her coat, until her screams turned to choked gurgles.

 

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the clinical indifference. The machines didn’t hate her. They just… did their job.

 

Then came the small room.

 

Dark. Soundproof. A single voice—female, calm, almost bored—looped from hidden speakers.

 

“Renounce resistance. Submit to re-education.”

 

Limestone snarled. “Buck you.”

 

Electricity ripped through hidden nodes in the floor. White-hot agony from hooves to spine. She collapsed, steaming, muscles locked. The voice repeated. She cursed again. Another shock—longer. Deeper. Until her legs gave out and she lay twitching, drooling on cold tile.

 

Hours? Days? Time blurred.

 

Then the door opened.

 

Two ponies entered. A unicorn mare with a smug lavender mane and a smugger smile. An earth pony with a clipboard and bored eyes. They didn’t speak to her. They spoke over her.

 

“Another stubborn one,” the unicorn said. “Bet she’ll break fast once the collar’s on.”

 

The earth pony laughed. “My coltfriend in Canterlot says the new incentives are selling like hotcakes. Wish I could get one for him to play with.”

 

They ignored Limestone like she was furniture. The unicorn’s magic pinned her down—soft purple glow that felt like velvet chains. The earth pony prodded her welts, checked her vitals, then stepped back.

 

“Ready for phase two.”

 

The unicorn levitated a buzzing device. A clipper. It hummed low and hungry. Limestone tried to thrash. Magic tightened. The clipper touched her neck.

 

Buzz.

 

Fur fell away in clumps—soft gray turning to raw pink skin. Exposed. Vulnerable. The unicorn leaned close, breath warm against Limestone’s ear.

 

“Labor complete,” she announced to the empty room, voice dripping malice. “Collar-ready.”

 

They left. The magic faded.

 

Limestone lay there, shaking, neck bare and stinging. Then rage took over. She hurled herself at the walls—hooves, shoulders, hornless fury—until one panel cracked like brittle stone. She rammed again. Again. The wall gave. Darkness beyond. Pipes. Crawlspace. Freedom.

 

She ran.

 

Now she’s here—hiding in bushes on the edge of some human park, heart hammering, legs burning. Drones hum overhead. Bipedal shadows patrol. She’s filthy, starving, terrified.

 

A growl rumbles from her stomach. Loud. Painful.

 

Then the smell hits her.

 

Sweet. Overwhelming. Sugar. Real sugar. Not the chemical slop they fed her in the center.

 

She creeps forward. There—on the path—a tall human in a coat, carrying a paper bag. The scent pours from it like liquid heaven.

 

Hunger overrides fear. Hunger overrides everything.

 

She lunges.

 

Anon’s POV

 

You’re halfway home when something orange and furious explodes from the bushes.

 

It slams into your chest—hooves on your sternum, weight driving you backward. You hit the ground hard. Air whooshes out. The paper bag rips. Premium sugar cubes scatter across your shirt like pale confetti.

 

A gray-maned earth pony mare—neck shaved raw, pink skin glaring under streetlights—pins you down. Her muzzle dives into the spilled cubes. She devours them—crunch, crunch, crunch—four in seconds flat. No manners. Pure animal need.

 

You stare up at her. No collar. No inhibitor ring. Just bare, freshly-shorn neck. Fugitive. Unprocessed. Fresh from a center, probably.

 

Great. Karma. Divine punishment. Whatever.

 

She finishes the last cube. Her eyes glaze. Shoulders slump. Muscles go boneless. She tips sideways with a soft thud—out cold, sprawled across your lap in drugged bliss. Twelve hours minimum of limp, euphoric rest.

 

You exhale slowly.

 

Then your wrist comm beeps.

 

Alert: Unprocessed pony detected. Fugitive status confirmed. Coordinates locked. Video feed transmitting. Handler responsibility assigned. Proceed to containment or report for incentive reassignment.

 

The screen shows your own shocked face—and the unconscious mare draped over you.

 

You look down at her. Limestone Pie. One of the Pie sisters. You recognize the mane, the stubborn jaw even in sleep.

 

Fuck.

 

She’s not processed. Not collared. Not broken.

 

Yet here she is—passed out on your chest, belly full of your sugar cubes meant for Quartz Cup.

 

And the system just tagged you as her captor.

 

You’re responsible now.

 

Whether you want it or not.

 

You drag a hand down your face.

 

This is going to be a long night.