Broken Incentives - Chapter 3: The Next Step.

 

In a vast chamber carved from white marble veined with gold—the new seat of judgment for the Allied Equestrias—a single unicorn stands chained at the center of a raised dais. Twilight Sparkle, glasses cracked and askew, coat dulled by weeks of confinement. She trembles, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. The air is thick with incense and quiet fury.

 

Around her, a tribunal of ponies from the surviving, allied realities watches in cold silence. At the head sits the judge: a unicorn mare with pristine white coat, chestnut mane pulled into a severe bun, eyes burning with barely-contained rage. Her Cutie Mark—a balanced scale cracked down the middle—seems almost mocking in this room.

 

Twilight’s voice cracks as she speaks.

 

“I… I followed my teacher’s orders. Princess Celestia instructed me to—”

 

The judge’s horn flares once—sharp, warning. “Continue.”

 

Twilight swallows. “I received letters. Scrolls. Data from other realities. Methods to pierce the dimensional veils. Safe passages. I compiled them. We built the first devices—stable transfer for inanimate objects. Then… Celestia became obsessed. She demanded a full portal. Permanent. Urgent. She said it was for harmony across worlds.”

 

She looks up, desperate. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know it would tear open Zero-Four. I didn’t know it would melt billions.”

 

The judge’s face twists. She remembers. Everypony in this room remembers. In her own Equestria, the rift opened without warning. Her foals—two colts, barely old enough for school—were playing in the garden. One moment laughing. The next, their bodies liquefied before her eyes. Flesh sliding off bone, blood evaporating into red mist, until only dark stains remained on the grass. Her husband reached for her—then dissolved mid-step. She stood there screaming until the anomaly collapsed.

 

The pain never left. It just hardened.

 

The judge leans forward. A slow, sadistic smile curls her lips.

 

“The Harmony we once knew is dead,” she says softly. “Even our own Princess Celestia—my Celestia—looks upon your kind with nothing but contempt. You are not redeemable. You are a plague that must be contained.”

 

Twilight’s breathing hitches.

 

The judge’s voice rises, formal and final.

 

“Twilight Sparkle of the guilty reality. Your sentence is amended in light of this testimony. You have two paths.”

 

She pauses, letting the silence press down.

 

“Option one: lifelong labor in the service of the Allied Equestrias. You will be shipped to the deepest mines—those carved into unstable dimensional scars. You will dig until your hooves bleed, until your horn cracks from overuse, until your body fails. No parole. No mercy. Eternal penance.”

 

Twilight’s legs buckle slightly.

 

“Option two: you will be sold. As property. To a human on Earth. Full transfer of ownership. No rights. No protections. Your fate will be whatever your owner decides—cruel and short, or long and agonizing. But it will end.”

 

The chamber is deathly quiet.

 

Twilight’s head drops. Glasses slip further down her muzzle. Tears drip onto the marble.

 

She knows the rumors. The humans who buy ponies don’t always kill quickly. Some keep them for decades—broken, collared, used until nothing remains but a shell.

 

But the mines… endless darkness. Endless pain. No end.

 

She lifts her head just enough to meet the judge’s eyes.

 

“I… I choose to be sold,” she whispers. “To a human.”

 

The judge’s smile widens—cold, triumphant.

 

“So recorded.”

 

A guard steps forward with a fresh inhibitor ring. It clicks around Twilight’s horn with mechanical finality.

 

The judge stands.

 

“Prepare her for auction. Priority listing: incentive program compatible. Let the humans decide how best to punish her.”

 

Twilight is led away in chains, head bowed, glasses fogged with tears.

 

Behind her, the judge exhales slowly. For a moment the mask slips—pure, exhausted grief.

 

Then it hardens again.

 

Another guilty soul sold.

 

Another debt repaid.

 

---

 

Broken Incentives - Chapter 3: Marked

 

Tags: anon, /spg/, submission is magic, SiM, slave pony general, grimdark, Quartz Cup, first breeding, scent conditioning aftermath, forced orgasm, degradation, mind break, non-con to broken devotion, nsfw, explicit, AU, dark

 

Quartz Cup’s POV

 

The mask is finally gone.

 

Fresh air rushes in—cool, sharp, merciful—and with it, the overwhelming flood of him. Master’s scent clings to every breath: sweat, musk, dried cum from the rag they forced her to inhale for hours. It’s everywhere—on the sheets, soaked into the mattress, mixed with her own endless slick. Her marehood flutters wildly, winking open and closed in frantic rhythm, dripping steadily onto the already drenched fabric beneath her. The blindfold is still on, but she doesn’t need sight. She feels the heat radiating from between her hind legs, the painful ache of emptiness that’s been building since the cream was smeared inside her.

 

Is this a reward? A punishment? She can’t tell anymore. The conditioning has fused them into the same thing.

 

The cuffs loosen. Chains clink. Her legs are freed, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. Her body is locked in desperate, trembling need.

 

Then she smells it—him, closer now, and something else. Another mare. Fresh. Unfamiliar. A low, feral whine escapes her throat.

 

No. No. Not now. Not when she’s finally—

 

“Master… please…” Her voice cracks, raw from muffled screams. “Use me. Fill me. Mark me with your seed. I swear—I swear I’ll be yours forever. Just… please…”

 

Tears soak the blindfold. She arches her back, tail flagged high, presenting everything despite the shame burning in her chest. “I need it. I need you inside me. Please… breed me… claim me…”

 

Anon’s POV

 

You stand in the doorway, staring at the wreck on your bed.

 

Quartz Cup is a trembling, soaked mess. Flanks still striped red from earlier, marehood swollen and pulsing, fluids pooling beneath her in a dark stain that’s spread halfway across the mattress. She’s blindfolded, legs splayed, hips twitching with every shallow breath. The room reeks of her—musky, sweet, desperate.

 

And now Limestone Pie is under your roof. Sedated, collared, processed in a rush because the system decided you caught her. A virgin earth pony with a shaved neck and a temper that’ll probably explode the second she wakes up.

 

Perfect timing.

 

You sigh, long and exhausted.

 

The cameras are still rolling. Red lights blinking in every corner.

 

You unbuckle your belt. Pants slide down. Boxers follow. Your cock is already half-hard from the sheer smell—two mares in heat, one broken and begging, the other drugged and helpless in the next room. Biology doesn’t care about your disgust.

 

“Fucking government,” you mutter, stepping closer.

 

You grab Quartz Cup under the withers and lift her like she weighs nothing. She whimpers, legs dangling uselessly until you position her above you. You lower her slowly—agonizingly slow—onto your length.

 

Her entrance parts with wet heat. She’s soaked, burning, tighter than anything should be after hours of denial. Inch by inch she sinks down, inner walls fluttering and clenching like they’re trying to pull you deeper. A long, shuddering moan vibrates through her chest.

 

When you bottom out—fully sheathed inside her—she goes rigid.

 

“Yes… yes… finally…”

 

Her voice is wrecked. Worshipful.

 

You hold her there for a long moment, feeling her pulse around you, her clit throbbing against your pelvis. Then you start moving her—hands on her hips, lifting and dropping her like a toy designed for this exact purpose.

 

Up. Down. Slow at first, then faster. Her body bounces limply at first, then starts meeting you—hindquarters rolling, tail thrashing. She buries her muzzle in your neck, tongue lapping desperately at your skin, tasting sweat and salt.

 

“Mark me… please… fill me… breed your pony… I’m yours… yours…”

 

Every word is punctuated by a wet slap, by the obscene squelch of her marehood swallowing you over and over. She’s crying now—happy tears, broken tears—while her walls ripple and squeeze, milking you with frantic devotion.

 

You hate how good it feels.

 

Minutes blur. Pressure builds. You thrust up harder, burying yourself to the hilt as you cum—thick, hot pulses flooding her depths. She screams—a high, shattered whinny—as her own climax crashes through her. Her whole body convulses, inner muscles locking down so tight it almost hurts, refusing to let a single drop escape.

 

She slumps against you, murmuring softly.

 

“At last… at last…”

 

Then she goes limp. Unconscious. Still impaled, still clenching weakly around you in aftershocks.

 

You sit there for several long seconds, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

 

The bed is ruined. She’s leaking slowly around you. You’ll have to clean her, change the sheets, probably hose her down in the shower.

 

And in the spare room, Limestone Pie is starting to stir under the sedation.

 

You drag a hand down your face.

 

Tch.

 

You really hate your luck.

 

But the cameras caught it all.

 

And the protocol just advanced another step.

 

Another pony marked.

 

Another debt collected.

 

You ease Quartz Cup off you—slowly, carefully—and lay her on the dry side of the bed. She curls instinctively toward your scent, a small, contented sigh escaping her.

 

You stand, cock still slick, and glance toward the hallway.

 

Two ponies now.

 

One broken beyond repair.

 

One barely started.

 

And the system doesn’t give a fuck how much you hate it.

 

You head for the shower.

 

Tomorrow’s going to be worse.

 

---

 

 

Limestone Pie’s POV

 

Limestone wakes to darkness and restraint.

 

Her forelegs are pulled forward and chained to the headboard; hind legs spread wide and secured to the foot of the bed. A thick ball gag fills her mouth, straps biting into the corners of her lips. Worst of all—something tight and humiliating is cinched around her waist: human underwear, far too small, wedged cruelly between her flanks and tied in place like makeshift chastity. The fabric presses against her marehood, already damp from whatever dreams haunted her sleep.

 

She remembers fragments: bushes, hunger, a delicious sweet scent, lunging at a tall biped, devouring… then nothing. Blackout.

 

She snarls around the gag and yanks against the cuffs. Metal clinks. The chains hold fast. She strains harder—muscles bulging, neck veins standing out—but her strength feels muted, distant. Drugged? Suppressed? Something in the collar—

 

Her eyes snap to it. Black synthetic leather, seamless, locked tight around her neck. A small metal plate on the front glints in the dim light: no name yet, just a barcode and a serial number.

 

They got her.

 

Captured. Processed. Owned.

 

She huffs through her nostrils, furious. How do I get out of this? The thought loops, angry and helpless. She tugs again. Nothing gives.

 

Two hours pass in futile struggle. Sweat mats her mane. The gag makes her jaw ache. The underwear chafes with every frustrated shift of her hips.

 

She’s trapped.

 

And whoever put her here is coming back.

 

---

 

Anon’s POV

 

The bedroom still smells like her.

 

Even after stripping the sheets, scrubbing the mattress, hosing Quartz Cup down in the shower until she stopped trembling from overstimulation, the scent lingers—sweet, musky, feminine. It’s in the air, on your skin, in your lungs. Your cock twitches again, half-hard despite the exhaustion.

 

The government knew exactly what they were doing when they engineered pony pheromones to spike human libido. Vigor. Fertility. Population recovery. They turned slaves into walking aphrodisiacs and called it incentive.

 

You lift the clean sheet.

 

Quartz Cup is curled against your chest, fast asleep, blindfold still on from last night. A soft, dopey smile curves her lips. Her muzzle presses to your sternum, breathing slow and deep, inhaling you like you’re oxygen.

 

You try to slide out from under her.

 

She stirs instantly. Ears flick. Head jerks left and right in brief, adorable panic—forgot she’s blindfolded.

 

You almost laugh. Almost.

 

Instead you reach up and untie the knot. The fabric falls away. Her gray eyes blink open, focus on you—and light up with something feverish, almost religious.

 

“Master…” she breathes. Devotion drips from the word like honey. “Good morning…”

 

She shifts. Her hindquarters drag back deliberately, pressing her slick marehood against your erection. The contact is electric. She grinds once, slow and teasing.

 

“Want to… repeat?” she asks, voice husky, needy. “Please… fill me again. Breed me again. I need it…”

 

The words are so raw, so hungry, they could melt steel. Her tail flags high, flanks quivering, clit winking against your shaft.

 

You open your mouth to say no. To push her away. To remind yourself this is wrong.

 

But she takes your silence as permission.

 

In one fluid, desperate motion she lifts her hips and sinks down—taking you fully inside her with a wet, obscene slide. Her inner walls clamp down immediately, hot and greedy, milking you from base to tip.

 

She moans long and low, eyes rolling back.

 

“Yes… yes…”

 

She starts moving—hips rolling in slow, filthy circles, grinding her clit against you with every rotation. Her forehooves brace on your chest. She leans down, muzzle seeking yours.

 

You grab her throat—not hard, just enough to guide her—and pull her into a kiss.

 

Her tongue dives in immediately, eager, exploring, tasting you like she’s starving. She whimpers into your mouth, hips never stopping their rhythm. Faster now. Needier.

 

You thrust up to meet her—hard, deep—hands sliding to her flanks to control the pace. She breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp:

 

“Fill me… mark me… again… please, Master…”

 

Her walls flutter, clench, ripple. She’s close already—always close when you’re inside her.

 

You feel the pressure build, inevitable.

 

One more thrust—deep, holding—and you cum hard, flooding her depths with thick pulses. She shudders violently, crying out against your neck as her own orgasm crashes through her, marehood spasming, milking every drop.

 

She collapses on top of you, panting, smiling that broken, blissful smile.

 

“Yours…” she whispers. “All yours…”

 

You stare at the ceiling, breathing hard, cock still buried inside her twitching body.

 

The cameras caught it.

 

Limestone is chained in the next room, probably awake and furious.

 

And you’re already hard again.

 

You hate this world.

 

But part of you is starting to stop fighting it.

 

---

 

You finish cooking in silence.

 

Eggs scrambled with thick slices of ham, toast golden and crisp, real butter melting into the bread—no more of that chemical spread that tasted like regret. The world lost half its species to Zero-Four, but at least the cows survived long enough to keep producing dairy. Small mercies.

 

You plate your breakfast and carry it to the table.

 

In the living room, Quartz Cup kneels at her designated spot on the floor. A wide metal dog bowl holds warm oatmeal flecked with premium sugar cubes, a shallow dish of fortified milk beside it, and a small pile of fried hay mixed with scrambled eggs. Simple. Nutritious. Designed to keep an incentive pony healthy enough to serve.

 

She eats with quiet enthusiasm—muzzle dipping delicately, tail swishing in slow contentment. Every few bites she looks up at you with that warm, dopey smile, eyes shining like you hung the moon. Like last night’s breeding was the greatest gift she’s ever received.

 

You force yourself to look away.

 

Don’t think about it. Don’t feel anything about it.

 

You sit and eat mechanically. The food is good. The coffee is hot. Your mind is elsewhere.

 

Limestone’s bowl is already prepared on the counter: dry oatmeal dusted with a light coating of the government-issued stimulant powder. Edible. Non-addictive. Pony-safe. It’ll spike her energy, sharpen her senses, and push her into a low-grade semi-heat state—enough to make her body betray her mind without fully breaking her yet.

 

If this doesn’t soften her edges, you’ll have to call in a professional breaker. Pay extra. Watch someone else do the worst parts while you stand there pretending it’s not your fault.

 

You sigh—long, heavy—and pick up the bowl.

 

Time to face the new one.

 

You push open the bedroom door.

 

The sight hits you like a slap.

 

Limestone Pie is still chained exactly as you left her: forelegs stretched forward and cuffed to the headboard, hind legs spread wide and secured to the footboard. The makeshift chastity underwear you tied around her waist is soaked through—dark patch spreading from her marehood. Her shaved neck looks raw under the black collar, the metal plate catching the morning light.

 

She’s on her back, both sets of legs in the air, tail pinned awkwardly beneath her. The position leaves her completely exposed—flanks tense, clit barely visible under the fabric, chest heaving with restrained fury.

 

And she’s glaring at you.

 

Murderous. Unblinking. If looks could burn, you’d be ash.

 

You almost laugh—almost. The absurdity of it: this furious grey mare, chained like livestock, trying to incinerate you with her eyes while her body is forced into the most vulnerable pose imaginable.

 

“Easy,” you mutter, stepping closer. “Breakfast.”

 

You set the bowl on the floor near her head. The stimulant-laced oatmeal smells faintly sweet, almost inviting.

 

She snorts through her nostrils—sharp, contemptuous. The gag muffles whatever insult she wants to spit at you, but the venom in her eyes says it all.

 

You crouch beside the bed, meeting her stare.

 

“I know you hate this. I get it. But fighting the chains won’t help. And starving yourself won’t either.”

 

She narrows her eyes further. A low growl vibrates around the ball gag.

 

You reach out—slowly—and loosen the gag strap just enough to pull it free. Saliva strings from her lips to the rubber ball. She works her jaw, glaring harder.

 

“Fuck. You,” she rasps, voice hoarse from disuse.

 

You don’t flinch. Just nod once.

 

“Yeah. Probably.”

 

You push the bowl closer with your foot.

 

“Eat. Or don’t. Your choice. But if you don’t, the stimulant still works through the skin. They’ll just smear it on you next time.”

 

Her ears pin flat. She looks at the bowl, then back at you—calculating, furious, humiliated.

 

You stand and turn toward the door.

 

“Two hours. Then we talk.”

 

You leave her chained, bowl untouched, glare burning holes in your back.

 

Quartz Cup is still in the living room, licking the last traces of milk from her dish, humming softly to herself.

 

Two ponies.

 

One beaming with broken adoration.

 

One ready to kill you the second she gets free.

 

And the cameras are still rolling.

 

You rub your temples.

 

This is going to be a long day.

 

---

 

Limestone Pie’s POV

 

The chains allow exactly enough slack.

 

Not enough to stand. Not enough to roll over. Not enough to kick the bowl away or smash it against the wall like she wants to.

 

Just enough to crane her neck forward, muzzle hovering over the metal dog dish. The oatmeal sits there—dry, plain-looking, dusted with something faintly sweet-smelling that makes her nostrils flare despite herself.

 

Her stomach snarls again. Loud. Painful. Empty since the sugar cubes yesterday. The growl echoes in her ribcage like thunder.

 

No. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

 

She glares at the doorway where the human disappeared. The one who chained her like livestock. The one who left her exposed, shaved, collared, gagged until just now. The one whose scent still lingers faintly in the room—musk and soap and something darker that makes her skin crawl.

 

Buck him. I can starve. I can outlast him.

 

Another growl. Sharper. Her vision blurs for a second from the hunger pang.

 

She huffs through her nostrils. Tries to turn her head away.

 

The smell hits harder—warm oats, a hint of sugar, something earthy and comforting that reminds her of home-cooked meals back on the rock farm. Before everything went to Tartarus.

 

Her mouth waters. Unwanted. Unfair.

 

Damn it.

 

She lowers her muzzle. Just to sniff. Just to prove she can resist.

 

One bite.

 

Crunch. Warm. Salty-sweet. The oats are plain but filling, the dusting on top hits her tongue like a spark—sweet, tingling, spreading fast.

 

She freezes.

 

What the—

 

Too late. Hunger overrides pride. She dives in—muzzle plunging deep, devouring bite after bite. Oats stick to her lips, dust coats her tongue. She chews faster, swallowing greedily, hating every second of how good it feels to fill the hollow ache in her belly.

 

She doesn’t notice the warmth spreading at first.

 

It starts low—subtle heat in her core, a slow bloom between her hind legs. Her clit twitches once, then again. Marehood flutters faintly, lips parting on their own. Slick begins to gather, seeping into the already-soaked underwear tied around her waist.

 

She pauses mid-bite. Ears flick back.

 

No… no, that’s not—

 

Another wave. Hotter. Deeper. Her nipples harden under the coarse fabric. Hips shift involuntarily—small, helpless rocking against the chains. The stimulant powder is doing its job: not full estrus, not yet, but enough to make every nerve ending hum with unwanted sensitivity. Enough to make her body remember what it’s supposed to crave.

 

She snarls around a mouthful of oats.

 

That bastard. That filthy, two-legged—

 

She forces another bite down. Then another. Can’t stop. The hunger is too strong, and the drug is already working its way through her bloodstream.

 

By the time the bowl is empty, she’s breathing hard through her nostrils. Flanks trembling. Marehood winking rhythmically under the humiliating restraint, clit swollen and aching for contact she can’t reach.

 

She presses her forehead to the mattress, growling low.

 

He did this on purpose.

 

He’s going to pay.

 

But even as the thought burns, her body betrays her—another involuntary clench, another trickle of slick soaking the fabric.

 

She’s trapped. Hungry no more.

 

But the new ache is worse.

 

And he’s coming back soon.

 

She closes her eyes tight, trying to ignore the heat building inside her.

 

Trying—and failing—to hate him just a little less.