[NSFW] Slut-in-training Rainbow


                                            >Tugging at your skirt as if it would magically lengthen to cover more of your thighs, you sit down in the school cafeteria for lunch.

                                            >Cross your legs, dummy!

                                            >You quickly pull your knees together, jerking your head left and right in terror.

                                            >Looks like nobody saw.

                                            >In fact, no one seems to have noticed at all so far.

                                            >No one knows that you are actually—for the first time since you can remember—wearing your skirt without the protective layer of fabric that are your spats beneath it.

                                            >You’re simply not wearing them, and you’ve been giving the entire school unwitting pantyshots all day to prove it.


                                            >The very absence of the smooth, stretchy fiber against your skin feels weird; even just the way your thighs rub against each other when you sit has an almost electrifying sensation to it.

                                            >You don’t, for the life of you, know how other girls do it.

                                            >All you do is walk and sit, yet you’re already flushed to the point where it’s permanently visible on your cheeks.

                                            >It’s supposed to get colder when you wear less clothing, right?

                                            >So why does it feel like the school’s A/C has all but reversed its function since yesterday?

                                            >Your spats are currently tucked into your school bag like contraband, ever since you took them off in the bathroom after first period math this morning.

                                            >You still had them on when you came to school and now they’re gone.

                                            >Somebody is bound to notice, right?

                                            >Whenever you pass a group of guys, you’re getting borderline excited at the thought of it, at the sheer notion of them having to force themselves not to take a second look over their shoulders to check you out, and you’ve actually had to take care not to fall over your own feet more than once because of it.

                                            >That would really be the joke of it, wouldn’t it?

                                            >To not only fall flat on your face in the hallway but give everyone a nice view of your panties in the process.

                                            >Granted, they’re nothing too scandalous or anything—you only own the normal, boring kind because you never really felt comfortable in anything else—but still.

                                            >You’ll have a full-blown problem by the time the day ends if this keeps up.


                                            >Why did you agree to this?

                                            >The question has been playing in your head even before today, ever since you got the list.

                                            >Maybe you felt left out.

                                            >Maybe the stares your friends seem to get from the male portion of the school—and the lack thereof you get yourself—finally got the better of you.

                                            >Maybe you just wanted to challenge yourself to be someone else, someone who could be more readily described as 'a girl'.

                                            >Not a slightly-curvy boy with no breasts to speak of and a habit of dyeing his hair like somebody spilled Froot Loops all over it.

                                            >Even though the exact reason is escaping you at the moment, the results are still embarrassingly clear.

                                            >When this is over, you’ll have collected enough shameful memories to miss an entire year of school.

                                            >Maybe two.


                                            >Your sight wanders to the worn paper in front of you again.

                                            >The list—it’s nothing more than a series of scribbled commands, really—has been mocking you for weeks.

                                            >Although the pencil marks are already starting to fade, unfortunately, you can still make out Twilight’s handwriting.

                                            >After all this time of the damned thing just sitting in your bag between your books somewhere, you have finally mustered enough courage to work on the first instruction.

                                            >Courage.

                                            >It took you courage, actual bravery, to do something a real girl would do without even thinking about on a daily basis.

                                            >That’s how hilariously pathetic you are.

                                            >'No spats' is all it reads on the first line, and you’re sure you’d be the ridicule of the entire female half of the school if they found out how hard you have to battle to adhere to the words.

                                            >You truly are pitiful.

                                            >This is nothing, this is second nature to any girl who gives two shits about being received as such, and yet here you are, shifting and tugging and jumping at the sudden breezes of opening doors.

                                            >To you, this is nothing short of torture.

                                            >You may as well be naked.


                                            >"How’s it going?"

                                            >You jerk up from the cursed paper, hastily crumpling and shoving it into your pocket.

                                            >It’s Sunset who is sitting down next to you, and if you had any doubt left about Twilight telling your other friends about your arrangement, the girl’s shit-eating grin would have cleared it.

                                            >Of course she knows, of course she has been noticing your discomfort, and—like you would expect from one of your best friends, one of the few people in the world you know you can trust blindly—of course she is visibly enjoying your anguish.

                                            "You know exactly how it’s going," you growl, again reaching under the table to tug down the hem of your skirt. "Don’t act like you’re not part of the reason I’m in this shit."

                                            >Your friend just smiles at you, playing with a curl of her hair.

                                            >"I have no idea what you’re talking about, Rainbow. I’d say the only reason you are walking around without your shorts–"

                                            "Will you be more quiet, damn it!" you hiss, once again looking around for any impromptu eavesdroppers. "As if this stupid fucking dare wasn’t hard enough already."

                                            >"I think," Sunset continues a little more subtle but still with a grin reaching from one ear to the other, "the only reason you’re actually going along with this is because you want to, Dash. I’ve seen how you look at him, you know. I know how much you want to be looked at, too."

                                            "I don’t… I have no idea what you’re talking about," you try to put up a token resistance, although you’re pretty sure your blush is not exactly becoming less noticeable.

                                            >"Alright."

                                            >Standing up, Sunset straightens her own skirt with a few practiced tugs and pats.

                                            >It’s even shorter than yours; you have no idea how she manages to walk around in it without bursting into flames every time she has to pick up a pencil.

                                            >"If you need any help, let me know," your friend grins before bending down to whisper directly into your ear. "I can’t wait to see you working your way down that list."

                                            >With that, the girl leaves you to your own embarrassment again, although not before playfully letting her fingertips trace over the naked skin of your thighs, making you shiver at the touch.

                                            >Satisfied with your reaction, she walks off.

                                            "Fucking… fucking sluts," you grumble.


                                            >While continuing to quietly complain, you pull the list back out, carefully straightening the crumpled-up paper on the table.

                                            >You gulp, once again reading over the items on the lines further below, each of them already filling you with enough embarrassment that you’re sure you could convince the school nurse you’re sporting a fever.

                                            "G-string…" you read quietly.

                                            >That’s one of those numbers where the bottom part all but migrates up your crack all day and the top flashes out beneath the waistband of your skirt if you as much as breathe, right?

                                            >Might have to ask Sunset for help after all.

                                            >You’re pretty sure Twilight added the last entry just to fuck with you.

                                            >She wouldn’t expect you to do this, right?

                                            >Your friend wouldn’t be that risqué, would she?

                                            "Nopan."


                                            "I’m telling you, AJ, I can’t fucking do this."

                                            >"There, there, Sugarcube."

                                            >You are Rainbow Dash, and you feel thoroughly violated.

                                            >It’s not like anything bad happened or anything, it’s just that walking around school without your shorts all day had you feeling naked and downright vulnerable for the better part of the last eight hours.

                                            >It’s taken its toll.

                                            >Like the victim of a terrible crime, you are holed up in your room with your best friend, wearing the pair of sweatpants from the back of your closet that are two sizes too large and the baggiest, most concealing hoodie you could find.

                                            >You would have wrapped yourself into your blanket for good measure but Applejack stopped you.

                                            >You have been quietly complaining into her shoulder ever since, your arms wrapped around your knees, grumbling about how all of those skirt-wearing sluts are inhaling dicks by the wheelbarrowload.

                                            >The blood still hasn’t left your cheeks.


                                            "This is just unfair is what it is. Why do girls have to wear skirts?"

                                            >"Don’t ask me," your friend shakes her head. "I don’t like all that fancy stuff either. Besides"—she can’t hide her grin—"I reckon my butt works better in jeans anyway."

                                            "Yeah, because you actually have a butt to speak of."

                                            >Applejack shrugs.

                                            >"Don’t forget my boobs, either."

                                            >As if your humiliation wasn’t complete enough already, she squishes together the two soft pillows she dares to call breasts, pressing herself into your side playfully.

                                            "Lucky fuck," you grumble, trying to push her away.

                                            >"I still don’t exactly see your problem. It’s not like you don’t look the part. Your thighs would make any fella want to take a closer look, so why not show them off a bit?"

                                            "M-my thighs?"

                                            >"Sure! Quit frettin’ about the way you think you look and live a little."

                                            "I’m serious, Applejack, what if I’m just not meant to be like this?"

                                            >"What if you are, Sugarcube?" your friend pats your shoulder. "Maybe all you need is a little push. Like… an apple tree."

                                            >You sigh.


                                            "No!"

                                            >Shaking your head, you slap your cheeks a few times to get yourself to focus again.

                                            "Look at this shit!"

                                            >Applejack scoots closer to read the list with you.

                                            >It’s not like you don’t know the damned thing by heart by now, like you haven’t spent hours and hours imagining what all those things would mean.

                                            >What they would feel like.

                                            "Just reading it makes me nauseous," you shiver.

                                            >"You sure it’s not something else? Like excitement?"

                                            "What?! N-no!"

                                            >You shake the list in front of Applejack’s face.

                                            "This is downright pervy!"

                                            >"Semantics," the girl waves you off. "Sometimes you gotta play the part."

                                            "What if I don’t like the part?"

                                            >"How can you know you don’t if you haven’t even tried? Maybe all you need to do is quit your bellyaching and see for yourself."

                                            "But… I don’t even…" you mumble into your hoodie.

                                            >"Pardon?"

                                            "…"

                                            >"You’re gonna have to speak up, Dash."

                                            "I don’t even own stuff like this, alright!" you snap, pointing at the list. "Look at this! G-strings and thongs and lingerie and thigh highs. What the fuck? You know what I wear, AJ! I have panties. Plain-ass, non-slut panties! And—for all the good that it’s done me: you’re about the only person who's seen them!"

                                            >You allow yourself a moment to breathe.

                                            "Fucking… fucking sexy underwear and shit."

                                            >"Let’s start there, then."

                                            >You blink at your friend.

                                            >For the first time since you all but forced her to comfort you after what you consider the most embarrassing day of your life, Applejack’s words are not laced with the subtle edge of a smirk.

                                            >She’s genuinely smiling, her hand resting on your shoulder.

                                            >"No one is asking you to become a second Twilight, Rainbow. We’re just trying to get you to admit that you have a feminine side. That there’s a girl in there, beneath the fightin’ and roughhousin’ and kicking the asses of the guys getting to touchy for Fluttershy’s comfort. That’s why we made the stupid list to begin with. Because we saw how you looked at him."


                                            >It takes a few seconds before you can respond again.

                                            "So you’re in on it, too, huh?"

                                            >"We’re all in on it, Sugarcube," your friend smiles.

                                            "Well I’m not asking Shimmer to borrow her underwear. I’m just not, Applejack. If you think I will, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m gonna catch the clap or something.

                                            >That draws a hearty chuckle from the girl.

                                            >"Lucky for you, we thought about that."

                                            >Before you can ask, Applejack pulls something from her pocket, and it takes a second for you to recognize it for what it is.

                                            >While you watch in horror, your friend holds out a thin piece of fabric between her thumbs and spreads it, letting the elastic fibers stretch out.

                                            "W-what the fuck is that!?"

                                            >"Panties, Sugarcube."

                                            "Yeah, right."

                                            >The entire ungodly piece of clothing consists of nothing more than a thin waistband and another string of fabric connecting to it.

                                            >A small satin triangle makes up the front, the back is simply a T of connected cloth straps.

                                            >All of it is hot pink.

                                            >A small picture—a cloud with a rainbow-colored lightning bolt coming out of it—is stenciled onto the front.

                                            "No!"

                                            >You instinctively clench your legs together, as if the underwear itself would come to life at any second to start forcing itself onto you like in a bad horror movie.

                                            "No way! How the fuck do you even wear this without it cutting off your blood flow or something?"

                                            >"Well, this part kinda goes between your buttocks, you see, and this…"

                                            >You stare in horror at Applejack’s explanation.

                                            >"Just try it on, Rainbow. It really ain’t that big of a deal. It can actually feel quite… comfortable. I bet it looks cute on you."


                                            >This is worse.

                                            >This is so much worse than just relinquishing your spats.

                                            >If someone had told you yesterday that you had yet to reach the end of the rabbit hole, that you could get even more uncomfortable, you would have laughed at them.

                                            >You would have decked them, and that would have been it for the old Rainbow Dash.

                                            >And yet, here you are.

                                            >The new Dash.

                                            >The one trying her level best to do what would, by all means, be considered normal teenage-girl behavior by her peers.

                                            >The one that is a light breeze away from starting to collect skulls.


                                            >The piece of underwear that looks like something you would normally use to clean your teeth with is tightly hugging around your waist, and you swear the string going between your legs is actually made to travel up as far as your anatomy will possibly allow.

                                            >It would be an easy fix if you could just find a quiet corner to reach under there and give it a tug, but you’re not that lucky.

                                            >You can’t exactly run into the bathroom every ten minutes either.

                                            >You’re already at the point of debating how much you are prepared to embarrass yourself if it only meant to not feel like you are being violated by your own undergarments anymore.

                                            >You couldn’t concentrate one bit in class, spending your entire mental capacity on keeping anything from showing—at the front or back—while performing a task as simple as sitting on a chair.

                                            >Now that you’re out in the hallway between classes, it’s not much better.

                                            >An almost melancholic sigh escapes you.

                                            >You miss your panties.


                                            >"Hey, Dash. How do you feel?"

                                            >You almost jump in place at the feeling of someone slapping your butt.

                                            >You find Sunset standing behind you, the girl slightly out of breath.

                                            "Like the entire universe is laughing behind my back at some joke I’m just not quite getting."

                                            >"Oh, come on. It doesn’t feel THAT bad, does it? And you look nice. It suits you."

                                            "You tricked me. You all tricked me into wearing dental floss for underwear."

                                            >"Listen, can you do me a favor?" your fried ignores your accusation. "We have history next; could you swing by my locker and bring my books when you get yours?"

                                            >Clasping her hands together as if she was praying to you, Sunset grins sheepishly.

                                            >"Please? You know the combination, right?"

                                            "You’re too lazy or what?"

                                            >"Actually," your friend leans in to whisper, "I have a… uhm… a date I was hoping to… wrap up before next period. And I’m not going to make it on time if I have to go get my books."

                                            >You glare at her.

                                            "…"

                                            >"So could you help a gal out?"

                                            >She is obviously in a hurry, quickly sidestepping from one foot to the other, her ridiculous breasts slightly bouncing with the motion.

                                            "…fine," you sigh, trying to walk away.

                                            >Sunset is quicker than you though, trapping you into a hug before you can react.

                                            "Sunset… stop…"

                                            >Locked into the embrace, her breasts pushing into you, you try your best to keep your skirt from doing any funny business and giving some lucky passerby an eyeful.

                                            "the… the skirt…"

                                            >"Mwah," she playfully kisses your cheek before releasing you, and if you could feel any more fire in them, you probably would have.

                                            >As it stands, you can only awkwardly push yourself away from your friend, with her smarmy, almost mischievous grin being the last thing you see before she turns and half-runs off to wherever she is supposed to be right now.

                                            "Fucking sluts," you mumble under your breath, wiping your cheek and—once again—checking if your skirt is still in proper order.


                                            "Fuck!"

                                            >You slam your fist against another locker.

                                            "Which of these fucking things is hers!?"

                                            >You know the combination alright—it’s her birthday, not exactly NASA-grade security level—but you can’t remember where her locker actually was.

                                            >The hallway clock reads two minutes until the bell rings for the next period, and you really need to get to the classroom about now.

                                            >It doesn’t help that you can’t exactly run in this getup.

                                            >Hell, it takes all of your dexterity and then some just to manage walking without a life-changing embarrassment.

                                            >Fuck it, she’ll just have to share the book with her neighbor or something.

                                            >You’re about to turn when a small sticker on the next locker catches your eye.

                                            >It’s a shiny, red-and-yellow emblem of a stylized sun.

                                            "Of course…"

                                            >Hastily fumbling with the combination lock, you are rewarded with a sharp metal click and the door of the cupboard coming loose.

                                            "Bingo."

                                            >Pulling back the door, however, you are reminded how little Sunset cares about order in her locker.

                                            >Everything is just stuffed in there, and a few books and binders just slide right out when you open it, clattering to the floor.

                                            "Shit," you curse silently.

                                            >Now you have to pick all this shit up, too, and you’re already–

                                            >"JESUS CHRIST"

                                            >You freeze.

                                            >For a small, blissfully-naive second, you just stay locked up with one of Sunset’s binders in your hand.

                                            >And then it’s gone.

                                            >You realize, with a panicked jerk, that you just bent down at the waist to pick something up.

                                            >Adrenaline rushes through your body like your heart is pumping electricity into your veins, and you all but jump to see where the yell came from.

                                            >The cold knot in your stomach comes too late.

                                            >Your skirt flutters up with the motion of you rotating around, exposing the unholy ordeal beneath it for a second time before you manage to get it under control again.

                                            >It’s him!


                                            "What did you see!?"

                                            >You don’t care that you sound panicked, you don’t care that your face could melt glass, you don’t even know why you’re yelling at him.

                                            >"Nothing!" he quickly raises his hands, although you can clearly see the blush in his own cheeks.

                                            "WHAT. DID. YOU SEE?"

                                            >Instead of defending himself, he simply starts sprinting down the hallway.

                                            >You’re about the give chase, but the breeze caressing your things at the first step stops you dead in your tracks.

                                            >Fuck.

                                            >You still can’t run like this.

                                            "Yeah, well," you yell after the boy, "you better forget what you saw real fucking quick!"

                                            >Panting, you look down at yourself, at the girl who ridiculously thought she could handle something as easy as wearing a skirt.

                                            "Fucking… fucking perverts…"

                                            >The bell rings as you quietly try to find your composure, leaving you standing in the hallway embarrassed, crestfallen, and a little bit aroused.


                                            >You are Rainbow Dash, and you’re starting to think you’ve been had.

                                            >The list, the tasks, the crap falling out of Sunset’s locker, your continuous luck to expose everything that’s going on to anyone willing to look—it’s just too much of a shitty coincidence.

                                            >The others must be fucking with you.

                                            >That, or the ancient power silently pulling the strings behind the curtain of reality, whatever it may be, is actively out to try and get you.

                                            >Both explanations seem equally reasonable by now.

                                            >The worst thing though, the real joke of it all, is the fact that you still didn’t manage to call it quits and throw the stupid list away.

                                            >It’s still in your backpack, and you’re pretty sure you can hear it laughing when you listen carefully.

                                            >You came close a couple of times, playing with your Dad’s lighter in one and the accursed document in the other hand, but you never went through with it.

                                            >Some part of you, the one you’ve given your level best to silence and ignore for the better part of the last four years of high school, is holding you back.

                                            >You used to be able to just go about your business without worrying about these things: the daring and downright lewd things your friends seem to become more and more invested in.

                                            >Now look at you.


                                            >After weeks of torture and public indecency, you have finally reached the bottom of Twilight’s series of commands, and with it a new low of self-respect.

                                            >The slut herself has given you a set of clothes to wear for this special occasion, and it is conveniently missing any and all pieces of underwear.

                                            >Instead, you are sporting a pair of rainbow-colored thigh-high socks, a skirt that is barely long enough to be called such, and a tight-fitting black t-shirt.

                                            >That’s it.

                                            >No bra—less of an issue because you’re not that stacked, but the puffiness of your nipples is still somewhat visible against the shirt—and no panties.

                                            >You have been told the exposed skin between the skirt and socks is very important for this look, which does not at all stop you from trying to pull them as high as they will possibly go.

                                            >You can’t really wear the skirt itself any lower without showing off your butt crack.

                                            >You’ve tried.


                                            >And here you are, wearing a getup that is bound to have you expelled if a teacher would bother to take a closer look, eating your lunch alone on the bleachers near the school’s soccer field.

                                            >Away from anything and everyone ready to discover your secret and piss in your proverbial cornflakes.

                                            >The silver lining is that no one can call you anything but a real, flesh-and-blood girl anymore.

                                            >No spats, no boyish sportswear, no comfy underpants.

                                            >You’ve even been getting more and more attention from the boys and were actually invited to hang out after school once.

                                            >Not for soccer practice or anything like that, but an actual get-together.

                                            >You declined of course, blushing and stuttering like a child, but it still counts.


                                            >It’s Friday, you’ve taken care to time it like this, which gives you two whole days of headstart should you find yourself in need to leave the city after today.

                                            >Better yet, you’ll probably leave the country.

                                            >You’ll simply emigrate to somewhere they never heard of skirts or slutty underwear, somewhere cold and snowy, where you can wear as many layers of clothing as you want all year round.

                                            >It’ll be hard saying goodbye to your parents, but you guess they wouldn’t want a known delinquent for a daughter anyway.


                                            >"Hiya, Rainbow!"

                                            >The shouting makes you look up from your sandwich, and just like that, your dream of silently cruising through the day shatters.

                                            >"Why are you eating out here, silly?"

                                            >Shit.

                                            >It’s Pinkie Pie who is running towards you, waving excitedly.

                                            >How did she find you?

                                            >The girl almost trips a couple of times while climbing up the steps of the bleachers, but manages to stay on her feet until crashing to a panting halt next to you.

                                            >"Why… aren’t you… inside with us?" she repeats her question, trying to catch her breath. "I was… looking for you."

                                            "I dunno," you mumble, trying to play it cool, "just felt like some fresh air or something."

                                            >You can see she's not buying it, but you can’t exactly tell her the truth here either.

                                            >You can’t explain how you are hiding from the entire school, trying to minimize your social interactions to avoid any and all chances for accidentally flashing somebody.

                                            >And boy would you flash them.

                                            >You’re also wary of your friends still, as you can’t shake the feeling that they are trying to set you up again.

                                            "I just didn’t feel like spending my lunch in an overfilled cafeteria today, Pinks."

                                            >The girl seems to consider your words for a moment before giving you a toothy smile.

                                            >"Alright! You should have just told us, silly, we could have come out here with you! I could have made lunch and we could have had a proper picnic."

                                            "Uhm… maybe next time, alright?"

                                            >"Sure!" the girl nods. "Just be sure to actually tell us."

                                            >You manage to smile at her.

                                            >Her own clothes are rather typical: a skirt that’s way too puffy for your liking and a matching blouse, all colored in light pink.

                                            "Did you… want to keep me company?"

                                            >"What kind of question is that, Dashie?" Pinkie giggles while sitting down.


                                            >For a few minutes, you continue to eat your sandwich in silence.

                                            >Pinkie is uncharacteristically quiet, softly humming and swaying next to you, but she doesn’t seem to want to impose too much.

                                            >You don’t particularly mind her of course, but there is a reason why you wanted to be alone here.

                                            >It means you can afford to be a little less on guard about potential wardrobe malfunctions while eating lunch at least.

                                            >For better or worse, you have actually learned how to sit in this getup without exposing too much, even on a wooden bench like this, but it still takes considerable effort.

                                            >Now you have to keep running through your mental checklist over and over again, making sure your legs are closed, your skirt hasn’t travelled somewhere indecent, and your breasts aren’t starting to stand out against the tight top too much.

                                            >Pinkie, as always, doesn’t seem to care about these things at all, sitting so close to you that your sides are actually touching.

                                            >That’s just who she is, you suppose.

                                            >She never was one to respect someone’s personal space, even—as you are currently learning—if that someone happens to be trying not to show off her genitalia.


                                            >"So," your friend finally breaches the silence, not able to hold herself back anymore, "how’s your day with Twilight’s clothes going?"

                                            >Of course.

                                            "You knew, huh?" you ask flatly.

                                            >"Yep!"

                                            "Is that why you’re here?"

                                            >"Of course it is, silly!"

                                            >You should have known.

                                            >Pinkie giggles at your sigh, throwing her arms around you for a side hug.

                                            >"Don’t be grumpy, Rainbow. You look very cute. It’s a shame no one is able to see it out here. I could just…"

                                            "Gah!"

                                            >One of the girl’s hands has found its way to your breasts, slightly tracing your nipple.

                                            "Pinkie!"

                                            >"Ah! Sorry," she grins mischievously, still continuing to rub you through the fabric. "I just couldn’t help myself, you just look so delicious. And your reaction is so…"

                                            >You can feel her brushing over your nipple again, prompting you to seize up and clench your legs.

                                            >"Are you getting ha–"

                                            "Alright, alright, time out. Get off!"

                                            >You manage to push Pinkie away, the girl still visibly excited.

                                            >"You’re just so lewd," she has her hands against her cheeks, "with your perky breasts and soft thighs and your cute little butt and–"

                                            "Pinkie!"

                                            >Your friend is panting.

                                            "I’m not even wearing underwear here."


                                            >As if a switch had been flipped, Pinkie’s expression suddenly turns sober.

                                            >"So?"

                                            "Huh?" you gasp for air, trying to manually push the blood from your cheeks.

                                            >"I never wear underwear," she explains, "it’s just waaay too restricting. And it always ends up getting in the way when you…"

                                            >she gives you a smarmy eyebrow wiggle.

                                            >"…want to have company."

                                            "Gross."

                                            >Your reply comes out anemic and breathy.

                                            >You’re not even surprised at this point, honestly, and you can’t claim that you fully care either.

                                            >"Here, look!"

                                            >Before you can protest, Pinkie stands up and lifts her skirt, sheepishly sticking out her tongue.

                                            "…"

                                            >You just wanted to each lunch in peace, damn it!

                                            >Now, apropos of fucking nothing, you are given a front-row seat to another girl’s crotch, in all its naked, smooth, and curvy splendor.

                                            "Jesus Christ."

                                            >If you ever wondered what your friend’s naked thighs would look like, how puffy and pillowy her private parts would be between them, you’ve just been given the answer.

                                            >Not that you have, of course.

                                            >Snapping out of your stupor, you quickly grab the girl’s skirt to pull it back down yourself.

                                            "Fucking hell, Pinkie, someone might be looking!"

                                            >"No one is looking, silly," Pinkie turns her head left and right, still grinning. "And if they are, why not let them? It feels good, doesn’t it? Did looking at me make you feel all warm and excited again? Did it make you tingly all over?"

                                            "N-no!"

                                            >"I think it ~did~" she playfully touches the tip of your nose.

                                            >It didn’t.

                                            >No way.

                                            >That’s patently ridiculous.


                                            >"Think about it, Rainbow," Pinkie leans closer, "if it works this well on you, what will the boys feel like? You should try it."

                                            >She actually has to wipe a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.

                                            >"You’ll feel happy, they’ll feel happy, everybody’ll feel happy: Isn’t that what it’s all about?"

                                            >Before you're given a chance to reply—before you can even start to wonder whether the girl’s twisted logic actually holds a shred of truth—she changes gears on you again.

                                            >"Oh, I know!" she bounces on her feet excitedly. "Do you want to see my tits, too? Look, I’m trying something new!"

                                            "Pinkie, please don’t–"

                                            >You’re too late.

                                            >Of course you are.

                                            >Your friend has already pulled her shirt up to her chin.

                                            >It’s hard not to be affected by her, to simply start giggling at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

                                            >There might be some other sensation mixed in—something subtle, something that’s spreading through you like a gentle wave of tingly electricity only to settle between your legs with a familiar warmth—but you can’t put your finger on it.

                                            >Pinkie’s breasts are round and soft, slightly jiggling with her excited gasps for air.

                                            >What the fuck?

                                            >And at their center, where they taper slightly towards where her nipples should be, two band-aids are stuck onto them.

                                            >Even still, you can see her nipples all but trying to poke out from underneath the concealing pieces of fabric.

                                            >You blink, looking between the girl’s face and her nipples—which you swear you can see getting harder—before finally managing to find your voice.

                                            "Is that a thing to do now?!"

                                            >"Maybe. I just like the tingly feeling that comes with it. Now you!"

                                            "What?! N-no, Pinkie, please…"

                                            >"Lemme see!"

                                            >Pinkie has already managed to get you on your feet and found her way behind you, reaching around to let her hands run from your breasts over your stomach and down to the exposed flesh of your thighs.

                                            >You’re frozen—fully locked up—the soft fingertips tracing your muscles sapping your strength to react.

                                            >You can only try to muster enough energy to keep yourself from moaning.

                                            "Ah…"

                                            >Fuck!

                                            >"I was right, Dashie," Pinkie quietly giggles into your ear, "you are totally sexy in this."

                                            >The hands find their way under your skirt, brushing against the insides of your thighs.

                                            >"I bet you’re just quivering for someone to shove–"

                                            >"E-excuse me!"

                                            >A yell from the base of the bleachers brings you back to reality, giving you enough of a jolt to jerk away from Pinkie’s touch.

                                            >Her hands slip out from under your skirt, and you hastily pull it down as far as the tiny bit of fabric will go, searching for whoever interrupted you.

                                            >Your friend is visibly miffed at not being able to continue her fondling.


                                            >A boy—you don’t know him—is standing at the side of the soccer field, bent-over, his hands on his knees.

                                            >"P-pinkie!" he pants, out of breath from sprinting, you suppose.

                                            >He is younger than you by at least a couple of years.

                                            >"Can you… can you come with me? I need your help with…"

                                            >The boy fails miserably at trying to look confident, the healthy blush on his face betraying his emotions.

                                            >"With something in there!" he gestures somewhat lamely in the direction of the supply shack at the other end of the field. "J-just for a bit!"

                                            >"Aww…" your friend holds her cheeks again, gushing. "So cute!"


                                            >Just like that, you are left alone again, watching the boy grabbing Pinkie’s hand to lead her away.

                                            >"P-please hurry."

                                            >"Alright, alright. No pulling."

                                            >With a last, apologetic grin over her shoulder, your friend lets herself get dragged in the direction of the small hut.

                                            >You fall back onto the bench after they’re out of sight, panting, shaking, and burning up all over.

                                            >The wooden plank under your butt is the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

                                            >Fuck it!

                                            >Pulling up your skirt—there’s not much length to go there, really—you try to finish what your friend started, caressing your thighs and tracing the hot flesh between your legs.

                                            >You don’t stop to think about what you’re doing and you don’t want to either.

                                            >You don’t care that you are still at school and that the bell signaling the end of lunch will probably be ringing any second now.

                                            >You don’t mind the moans and mewls escaping you.

                                            >All you care about is doing something against this damned heat.

                                            >There are no panties to block you from your task, all you have to do is spread your legs and start working your fingers.

                                            >You cum within minutes.


                                            >By the time the bell actually sounds, you have to struggle to stand up.

                                            >You are exhausted, your legs are wobbly, and you find your clothes are still somewhat in a state of disarray.

                                            >One of your stockings has travelled down to your knee and your shirt has ridden up to expose your tummy.

                                            >The skirt is still riding so high that the arousal on the inside of your thighs is clearly visible.

                                            >You try to fix what you can as soon as you’re down on solid ground again, but for some reason the clothes just don’t want to obey your shaking hands.

                                            >You're still pretty messed up.

                                            >Fuck it, you’ll just work on them on the way back.

                                            >You already masturbated on the bleachers, what more could possibly happen to you?


                                            >The sound of clothes rustling makes you turn around, just in time to see someone step out from under the stands.

                                            >Well, you had to go ahead and dare the universe.

                                            >It’s him, of course it is, the same guy who watched you show off your new and improved underwear a while ago.

                                            >The guy you wouldn’t fully mind asking for an encore.

                                            >A still-glowing cigarette is in the corner of his mouth, betraying that he most likely snuck away under there for a quick smoke before the next period.

                                            >He just had to pick the same spot where you just worked your hardest to get your rocks off.

                                            >The red in his face tells you all you need to know, really, and the opened zipper of his pants leaves the rest up to your imagination.

                                            >"I-I wasn’t… I was just…"

                                            >You stare at each other.

                                            >Looking around again, you find that there is still no one else in sight.

                                            >It’s just him and you and the lewd little secret you apparently share now.

                                            "…want to… walk back together?"


                                            >Your name is Rainbow Dash and you are not a slut.

                                            >You’re not.

                                            >Indubitably.

                                            "F-fuck!"

                                            >The fact that you’re currently having sex in the cleaning closet doesn’t change that one bit.

                                            >You’ve been panting heavily for a while now, muffling your voice by pressing your face into his shoulder.

                                            >His arms are wrapped around your torso, hugging you tight.

                                            >Everything in your mind is on fire, a battlefield of neurons exploding with dopamine like dying suns.

                                            >The small room is doing its part in trapping your musk.

                                            >It’s just enough for the two of you to stand in, really, with you pressed against the wall and him pumping into you.

                                            >Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t escape the assault.

                                            >Not that you want to, that is.

                                            >The intoxicating smell has sent your body into overdrive, making you drool into the fabric of his shirt as you try to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head.

                                            >You will smell like sex again for the rest of the day.


                                            >"Dash, I’m…"

                                            >You nod into his neck, pulling him closer to brace for your own orgasm.

                                            >It’s not the first, not even the second wave washing over you since you snuck away, but it still manages to hit you like a sledgehammer to the brain.

                                            "Mhffff…"

                                            >For better or worse, the boy has learned exactly how to press your buttons.

                                            >Not that they are hard to press, as you have found out, which you don’t really know how to feel about.

                                            >You’re the type to cum quickly—when you’re really pent up all he needs to do is fuck you for a minute or so until you start twitching around his dick—and he keeps telling you the convulsions feel like your pussy itself is trying to wring him out.

                                            >Is that how sluts are?


                                            >As always, he keeps thrusting through your orgasm, fucking more and more hot sperm into you as if you weren’t filled to brim already.

                                            >You can all but hear it sloshing around in you.

                                            >It’s not possible of course, he can’t possibly produce enough cum to inflate your womb like a water balloon, but it sure feels that way.

                                            >Happy that he is actually holding you up, you let your legs go limp and sink against his heat, focusing on the pleasure shooting through your spine.

                                            >Your panties—a pink number Twilight described as a T-string—are around your knees, giving the boy free access to do as he pleases.

                                            >Your tongue has lolled out of your mouth, dripping with saliva.

                                            >You pant like a bitch, your balled fists crumpling up the back of his shirt.

                                            >It’s still not enough; you’re still not getting in the air you need.

                                            >Your brain is still running on lust rather than oxygen.


                                            >You moan as he finally, mercifully, pulls his length out of you.

                                            >Although you’re not a slut, you can never get enough of the view.

                                            >Something about the way your lips cling to it as if it was coated in sticky caramel is just mesmerizing.

                                            >He has such a cute face yet his cock is so… menacing.

                                            >You can’t help but wrap your hands around it and keep stroking, jerking out every last bit of cum into your pussy.

                                            >It’s yours and yours alone, by all rights.

                                            >He pulls your thong back over your butt in an attempt to stem the flow of sticky goo following his dick, reaching around and under your skirt to wedge the thin sting into your crack.

                                            >It doesn’t work of course, the amount of bubbling cum is simply too great against the tiny scrap of fabric.

                                            >Thick globs roll down the insides of your thighs, mixing with your own juices already glistening on your flesh.

                                            >It also doesn’t help that you squeeze out the last few strands directly onto your soiled panties.

                                            >Well, at least you’re actually wearing underwear today.


                                            "mghkhhh..."

                                            >You’re still way too fucked up to talk.

                                            >You want to thank him for taking care of you again but all that comes out are dry whimpers.

                                            >All you can do is try and scoop up the runaway droplets, eagerly licking them off your fingers while rubbing yourself through your stained panties.

                                            >More pleasure.

                                            >Just one more orgasm.

                                            >One more torrent of flashing ecstasy.

                                            >You’re only able to stand because of his support already, but you can’t keep your fingers from pumping, digging up more and more cum with wet, sloshing strokes.

                                            >"You just can’t get enough, can you?" he chuckles wearily.

                                            >No.

                                            >No kissing!

                                            >Not now!

                                            >Your mind short-circuits as his tongue grinds against yours, shutting down everything except its ability to send more and more pleasure into your convulsing body like poison.

                                            >You squirt all over your legs this time, continuing to drench your soaked panties and increasing the puddle of fluids below your feet.

                                            >More evidence for your inappropriate behavior.

                                            >You can’t thank him with your words but you think he gets the message.


                                            >"Jesus, Dash."

                                            >With a sniff, Sunset wrinkles her nose.

                                            >"You stink of cum. Did you sneak away and have sex after school again?"

                                            >You can’t help the guilty, goofy smile.

                                            >Truth be told, you can’t really do much of anything right now.

                                            >You manage walking, but only just, shakily putting one foot in front of the other and holding yourself up against walls and fences lest your legs buckle under your own weight.

                                            >You don’t really care.

                                            >It’s not like what’s going on isn’t painfully obvious anyway, what with you shamefully wobbling your way home like a junkie after a hit.

                                            >At least the insufferable heat inside has died down for now, replaced with a gentle, enveloping warmth spreading from your tummy.

                                            >Your friend is accompanying you on your way home like she does most days.

                                            >Well, on the days you don’t make her wait too long because you’ve lost track of time in some closet or bathroom stall.

                                            >Come to think of it, she hasn’t been walking with you all that much lately.


                                            >Actually, it is pretty late already, isn’t it?

                                            >You can’t possibly be sure but you must have been late by an hour at least.

                                            >Maybe two.

                                            "Sorry, I just..."

                                            >You don’t know how to finish the sentence.

                                            "Sorry."

                                            >Sunset pats your back while you again take a moment to steady yourself.

                                            >She looks you over, her sight travelling down your bare legs and sticking to the suspicious droplets still making their way down.

                                            >The old Rainbow would have probably died right then and there, caught red-handed with the evidence of her escapades slowly drying in the afternoon sun.

                                            >Sadly enough, for the new-and-improved Dash, letting her friend behold her cum-stained legs is barely par for the course.

                                            >You’ve been caught doing worse.

                                            >"It’s alright," Sunset gently helps you back on your feet, "I just wanted to check on you, you know. To make sure you’re not... overdoing it."

                                            >You nod.

                                            >Yes.

                                            >This is good.

                                            >It’s nice having friends.


                                            "It was you who turned me into this."

                                            >Your speech is still a little slurred.

                                            "If you want to see the girl you created, here she is: barely able to stand and fucked full to capacity and then some."

                                            >Sunset blinks for a second.

                                            >"Maybe you should dial it back a notch, huh? I mean I’m all for satisfying your desires"—she makes a vulgar gesture, holding up her fingers like a ring and pumping into them—"but this?"

                                            >You stay quiet.

                                            >"Is it really that good for you?"

                                            >You pause a moment before nodding again, prompting the shadow of a smile to play on Sunset’s lips.

                                            "I’m not a slut."

                                            >The grin widens.

                                            "I’m not."

                                            >"And it’s always with that same guy?" she ignores your protests. "I’ve never seen you sneak away with anyone else. And that time I asked for your help... taking care of Applejack’s brother, you conveniently remembered you made plans with Scootaloo already."

                                            "What’s your point? You saying I should sleep around more?"

                                            >"You’re not falling for this guy, are you?"

                                            >Sunset’s grin turns toothy, and the glance you shoot her does nothing to lessen it.

                                            >You don’t miss the generous amount of smugness she is not even trying to hide.

                                            >No, sir, you don’t like it.


                                            >So what if you only ever did it with him?

                                            >Maybe you just like the way he's able to make you twitch.

                                            >Maybe you enjoy his stuttering breath on your face when he tries his hardest not to lose to you and cum first.

                                            >Maybe you like the way he kisses you.

                                            >"I couldn’t do that," Sunset muses. "I need to have some... variation. But you? You’re all but cumdrunk and it’s all from a single boy."

                                            "So?"

                                            >"Nothing. Just, you gotta give a stud credit where it’s due, right? How often did you do it today?"

                                            >You try to recall, to sort through the instances of getting assaulted with pleasure as if they hadn’t all swollen into one singular squishy sensation.

                                            "Once in the morning," you hold out a finger. "But just a quick one before classes because we... we missed each other," you mumble.

                                            >You can physically feel Sunset’s smug trying to work its way into your body.

                                            "Then once... no, twice during lunch," you shake your head, "and then in the closet just now... "

                                            >You notice you ran out of fingers.

                                            >"Kudos," your friend chuckles. "I doubt even I could milk that shaft dry."

                                            >Somehow, you don’t know why, a low, guttural growl escapes your throat.

                                            >"Hey, hey! I get it," Sunset holds up her hands. "Some people are more possessive than others. Message received."

                                            >Good.

                                            >"I’m honestly not sure I could keep up anyway."

                                            >Yeah, right.

                                            >As if a bona fide slut couldn’t easily match your own, non-slut behavior.

                                            >You choose not to tell Sunset about the sexting session the two of you had in history class today.

                                            >Looking back, you can’t really believe no one noticed you cumming into your hand in the middle of a lesson.


                                            >"Please remember to take care of yourself," your friend waves before vanishing around the corner. "And if you ever need a second pair of hands, don’t hesitate to ask."

                                            >She flees before you can bark a response.

                                            "Fucking sluts."

                                            >Grumbling to yourself about teenage girls having no morals at all today, you walk up the steps to your front door.

                                            >You still have about an hour before your parents get home, which you will need to thoroughly destroy the leftovers from your day’s activities.

                                            >You’re not a slut, but for some reason the days you have to sneak home with cum-filled panties seem to have grown more frequent lately.

                                            >Maybe Sunset has a point.

                                            >Maybe you do need to dial it back.

                                            >But you just can’t help yourself, in those moments where you spot him across the hall fiddling with his phone.

                                            >When he looks up, noticing your stare.

                                            >Seeing that smile that's just for you.


                                            >Walking past the hallway mirror, you notice your own smiling face staring back at you.

                                            >It looks like your shirt has collected some very interesting stains again.

                                            >Your skirt has ridden up to expose your thighs and most of your buttocks, all glistening with dried fluids.

                                            >You can still feel the hot cum slowly leaking out of you.

                                            >Maybe, just maybe, you’re a slut after all.

                                            >Can sluts fall in love?