[SiM, Celestia]Equine Therapy


                                            >You tear open your medicine cabinet and franticly shift through each potion bottle, destroying any sorting system you once had.

                                            >That light green one was old wasn't it?

                                            >It's going to be rancid-you'll have to call it off tonight.

                                            >It's not safe.

                                            >Locating the offending bottle, you pull out the cork and hold it up to your nose, sniffing away.

                                            >It smells like lime juice mixed with acetate, which...is exactly how it's supposed to.

                                            >Oh.

                                            >...Good...

                                            >You recork the bottle and gingerly place it back in the cabinet, righting the potions you've knocked over.

                                            >Closing the cabinet, you get back to what you were doing: pacing back and forth in your "play” room, waiting for her to arrive.

                                            >It’s more or less what you’ve been doing since dinner-you know she’ll be here once she finishes.

                                            >Today has quickly become your least favorite day of the year.

                                            >It's also the longest.

                                            >You swear, if it weren't for the celebrations, you'd think she was dragging it out specifically to mess with you. It's certainly something she'd do.

                                            >Then again, you primarily hate it because of how miserable it makes your girlfriend.

                                            >Mare friend?

                                            >You’re still not too sure how the terminology works with these ponies...they do love their horse puns.

                                            >Hell, if laws were different it’d be a non-issue-she’d just be your wife, but apparently there are some laws not even she can change.

                                            >Regardless, she’s the one you love, and she wakes up crying every year on this day.

                                            >You can’t really blame her for that one.

                                            >After all, the celebrations are because it’s the anniversary of when she killed her sister, even if she won’t admit it.

                                            >Ninety seven years ago.

                                            >This whole thing wouldn't be so horrible for you to deal with if she acted like a normal person...pony...thing.

                                            >You'd hold her close, treat her like the goddess she quite literally is and tell her it wasn't her fault, that she had no choice. From the way she described it, her sister really was a monster.

                                            >But no.

                                            >When she gets like this, her unbridled self loathing won't let you just show her affection. It’d just make her feels worse, she'd break down crying and saying she doesn't deserve it.

                                            >Unbridled. Heh.

                                            >Wait, were there only two dark blue potions in there or three?

                                            >In a flash you’re back over in the medicine cabinet, tearing through your collection.

                                            >One...two...there’s only two, two’s not enough, there’s no way you can…

                                            >Nope, there’s the third one, hiding behind the big white one that you swear is just a big bottle of cum.

                                            >Goodie, you didn’t forget anything.

                                            >With a deep sigh, you close the cabinet yet again-probably for the twelfth time tonight.

                                            >Rather than returning to pacing aimlessly, you look at the closest thing there is to a clock in this place: the window.

                                            >Behind the constant rainbow of fireworks, the moon rises.

                                            >She's done. She’s going to be here soon.

                                            >You sit on the bed, which is reserved for either after you're done or when she's in a happier mood, and stare at the door, your leg bouncing wildly.

                                            >Your stomach starts doing flips.

                                            >Normally, when you two can make time for your ‘sessions,’ it’s the highlight of both of your weeks.

                                            >Your rather impressive display of toys attests to that.

                                            >You’ve always loved this stuff, and she said it’s “wondrous to give up control for once.”

                                            >Sure, when you two are in here, you’re her master, but she’s almost always been the one holding the reins.

                                            >...Reins. You’ve been here too long, haven’t you?

                                            >Hell, she asked you to be rougher than you ever were on earth. It was easy to agree, what with her being, as far as you can tell, damn near a literal goddess.

                                            >Plus, these healing potions are fantastic if you ever go too far.

                                            >But days like this are why you practically have a pharmacy in here.

                                            >You hear the sound of hooves approaching.

                                            >Leaping off the bed, you reach the door in a few long strides.

                                            >She knows you’re in here, and you have a part to play.

                                            >It’s the only way to cheer her up.

                                            >Dread wells up, like bile in your throat. You know the anticipation is worse than anything that’s about to happen, but you can’t help yourself.

                                            >You hear her telltale knock.

                                            >Taking a deep breath, you grip the handle and adopt an expression of cold fury.

                                            >Just need to treat it like any other session.

                                            >You fling the door open and glare down at the sitting form of Celestia, her head bowed, her eyes on your feet.

                                            “You’re late, pet.”

                                            >She’s only late because of work...but that doesn’t need to matter, right?

                                            >Her ears sink down, her front soon following suit, “I-I’m sorry master, I tried-”

                                            “Oh you ‘tried.’ I don’t care if you ‘tried,’ I only care if my pet obeys me or not, and right now, you kept your master waiting. I really don’t see why I should keep a living piece of garbage like you around if you can’t be bothered to follow a simple command.”

                                            >Yea, you know you’re going way over the top, but at least it helps set the mood, right?

                                            >A shudder runs through her, her wings drooping.

                                            >“I’ll do better master, I promise! I’m sorry, please, give your pet one more chance.”

                                            >You pause, pretending to think.

                                            “Hmm...I don’t know. This isn’t the first time you’ve been late. I want to hear you beg for it, pet.”

                                            >She nods with a sniffle, her voice quivering as she speaks.

                                            >Oh god, she’s probably not acting.

                                            >”P-please Master...give me one more chance. I’m useless at everything else, worse than useless. I-I don’t know what I would do if I can’t be your pet. Please, I won’t let you down again, I promise!”

                                            >You make a big show of rolling your eyes, even though she’s staring at your feet.

                                            “Of course you will. You’re just a stupid animal who thinks she’s people just because you can talk.”

                                            >That earns you a nod, followed by a shaky “Y-yes Master,” her voice still threatening to crack.

                                            >You step aside with a soft sigh, resisting the urge to give her loving ear scratches.

                                            “Last chance. Get inside, you, and put on something nice.”

                                            >Her ears perk up.

                                            >”Thank you master! Thank you!”

                                            >She actually kisses your feet before rushing inside.

                                            >You close the door and walk back to the window, electing to look out at the moon rather than turn around, wanting to find some distraction.

                                            >Heh. Kinda funny how even the man on the moon is a horse in this crazy place.

                                            >You can hear her busying herself with the wardrobe.

                                            >’Something nice’ is your keyword for ‘pick how heavy you want it tonight, sweetie.’

                                            >You just hope she doesn't put on that freaky muzzle.

                                            >She only ever wears it when she wants you to go completely nuts.

                                            >You tap your fingers on the sill, still keeping up the appearance of an "impatient master" while the pit in your stomach grows.

                                            >When it reaches the point where 'canyon' would be more appropriate, the sounds coming from Celestia stop.

                                            >She's ready.

                                            "About damn time, pet."

                                            >You growl out as you turn around, looking over her prostrate form.

                                            >Yeeeep. She's wearing the muzzle.

                                            >It’s the only thing you’ve seen in the world that’s actually made out of real leather. The only openings in it are two small holes above her nose.

                                            >She once told you her sister intended her to wear it, after being overthrown.

                                            >Yea...you may not be Sigmund Freud, but even you can recognize this family has some serious issues.


                                            >At Celestia’s hooves lies a whip-the instrument of torture she picked out for you to use.

                                            >Not just any whip-a proper riding whip.

                                            >It’s times like this you’re glad they haven’t discovered electricity yet.

                                            >...

                                            >You should probably get on that one.

                                            >She looks up at you, her violet orbs pleading silently.

                                            >You aren’t going to let her off that easy.

                                            "Do you seriously expect me to bend down and pick that up? I thought you wanted this.”

                                            >She furiously shakes her head. “Mm-mm, mm-mm!”

                                            >Already trying to disassociate the situation, you growl out,

                                            “Then pick it up and hand it to me, you stupid animal.”

                                            >The white mare in front of you isn’t Celestia. After all it looks nothing like her. It’s nothing more than your pet and it’s being very naughty.

                                            >Her outfit’s certainly helping things.

                                            >As she fumbles with the whip, trying to grab it with her bound hooves, you look over her.

                                            >She’s wearing a saddle-the pony equivalent of a corset, her prismatic tail's bound up, her hooves are chained together...oh god, she even has the piercings in.

                                            >A loop ring on the front of each of her wings is connected by a small chain to a matching loop in her shoulders-keeping her wings half open, but still pinned to her side.

                                            >You still remember the day she asked you to make those piercings.

                                            >That was...interesting, to say the least.

                                            >Your quick jog down memory lane is interrupted by the sound of nails on chalkboard.

                                            >Well...horn on stone, to be more accurate.

                                            >She’s trying to wedge her horn underneath the whip that's currently being pinned by her hooves.

                                            >Letting her struggle, you wander off to the open wardrobe-you’ve barely begun and she’s already earned herself two punishments.

                                            >More, if she doesn’t hurry up with that whip.

                                            >You pick up a silver rod with a gem on the side and a spiked pinwheel.

                                            >Do you need anything else?

                                            >Your eyes linger on the branding iron.

                                            >You used that exactly once...this day last year.

                                            >Shuddering at the memory, you turn away. Never again.

                                            >Screw it, you have enough to get going.

                                            >You turn around and see she’s still struggling to get that whip.

                                            >Huh. She actually might not be able to get it.

                                            >In that case, it’s your pet's fault for picking out something she knew she couldn’t grab.

                                            >Approaching her, you press that pinwheel into her alabaster flank, just below her butt tattoo.

                                            >You can feel a shudder run up her spine as she goes still, not even looking back at you.

                                            “Tick tock, pet.”

                                            >You push that pinwheel upwards, the spikes pressing into her skin-not breaking it, but certainly threatening to.

                                            >She whimpers loudly, her back arching as the pinpricks start to overwhelm her.

                                            >You can see the muscles in her haunches twitch as you run the pinwheel over them.

                                            >You’re being slow, sending each jab at a set interval to try and mimic a clock.

                                            >After all, your pet only has until you reach the bottom opposite sun before you pick a new toy-and immediately use it on her for not giving you the one she picked.

                                            >Once you reach the tip of the ‘flame’ above her sun, she cries out, “Hhrrrrm!”

                                            >Her hooves scrabble at the floor, her head turned sideways as she redoubles her efforts to hook that whip on her horn.

                                            >When you reach her spine, you see a quick flash of yellow.

                                            >Magic.

                                            “Oh no you don’t!”

                                            >You roar, dropping the pinwheel as you race around to her front.

                                            >The look on her face is akin to a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, the whip resting on her head.

                                            >Yep. She cheated.

                                            >You grab her horn, squeezing it as hard as you can while still holding onto that rod, pressing it against her horn as you force her head down.

                                            >She squeezes her eyes shut as you pull the whip from behind her horn with a sneer.

                                            “You know the rules! Pets don’t get to use magic!”

                                            >The one time you two tried an inhibitor, the world quite literally stopped spinning.

                                            >Plus, it’s more fun if it's "voluntary."

                                            >”Hymm mmmmyyyrmm!”

                                            “Oh you’re sorry?! Sorry isn’t good enough! I need to teach you again, don’t I?!”

                                            >Her horn tugs against your hand as she tries to shake her head.

                                            >”Nnn-nnm! Nnnnn!”

                                            “Yes I do! You forgot the rules didn’t you? You need to be reminded! Well here’s the first one!”

                                            >You raise the whip over her quaking form.

                                            >Tightening your grip on her horn, you use your foot to pin the chain between her hooves to the floor-ensuring she won’t pull away.

                                            “Seven lashes for using magic!”

                                            >You swing the whip down, cracking it against her back.

                                            >”Hmmmmrff!” Her scream is warped by the muzzle.  Her eyes shoot open, already welling up with tears of pain.

                                            >Your finger twitches, hovering over the crystal on the rod in your hand.

                                            >No. Not yet.

                                            >Instead, you raise the whip again, cracking it against her back and drink in her muffled scream.

                                            >Again and again until you deliver her the promised lashes.

                                            >You only lower your arm once those seven angry red lines show through her white fur, the only sounds in the room being your panting, and your pet sobbing from the pain.

                                            >No...not your pet…

                                            >Celestia...your sunshine.

                                            >Still holding onto her horn, you bend down and look her in the eye, mouthing the words ‘You ok?’ to her.

                                            >She nods her head, her muffled sobs barely escaping the muzzle.

                                            >Damn. That’s exactly what you’ve been dreading all day.

                                            >This is one of those nights where she wants you to go waayy over the line. One where she wants you to punish her for everything she’s done wrong in her long, long life.

                                            >She’s told you that she feels wonderful after getting ‘what she deserves.’

                                            >You steel your nerves.

                                            >Just give her what she wants. You’ve done it before.

                                            >Your pet has been very, VERY naughty. So naughty, you need to go back to square one.

                                            >Standing up, you place your foot on her withers and put all your weight onto her.

                                            “I think I get it...the real reason my pet used her magic. Why you couldn’t be bothered to hand your master the toy you picked out. Why you were so late.”

                                            >Bending down, you reach out with the whip’s stock and catch the fallen pinwheel. You drag it over to you, picking it up without letting up the pressure on her withers.

                                            >You look back to meet her lavender eyes, glaring at her.

                                            “You completely forgot your place, didn’t you?”

                                            >Her sides heave under your foot, her eyes going wide in fear before she shakes her head no.

                                            >”Mmm-mm nnnn!”

                                            “I think you did! I think you forgot that you’re nothing more than an animal!”

                                            >With that, you jab the pinwheel into her rump, multiple spikes pushing into her skin.

                                            >She tenses up, another whimper escaping her muzzle.

                                            “That you're nothing but my useless, pathetic property!”

                                            >You yell out that last word and drag the pinwheel sideways, up, over her back.

                                            >The spikes dig into her, mimicking claws as they leave trails of reddening skin behind them.

                                            >Her leg twitches, rattling her chains as her reflexes take over, forcing her to kick at the 'predator.'

                                            >”Hrrrnnnn-nn-nn-nn-nn!”

                                            >It isn’t long before the spines catch on the welting skin where you lashed her, causing your pet  to scream out in pain and terror.

                                            >”HRRRMMMMPH!”

                                            >The exact moment her scream ends, your finger slams down on the crystal in that rod you’re still holding.

                                            >You’re rewarded with a static shock to your hand as the holes on her muzzle magically seal shut.

                                            >Cutting off the only way for her to breathe.

                                            >She thrashes under you, a choked squeak the only sound she makes-the only sound she CAN make as you had just forced her to empty her lungs.

                                            >Her hooves scrabble against the muzzle, trying to pull it free.

                                            >But her sister made it VERY well. It’s completely air tight.

                                            >It fits her perfectly. It’s not going anywhere.

                                            >Your stomach churns as she starts to thrash under you, desperation sinking in.

                                            >Her rational mind is quickly eroding-the only thoughts in her head are how desperate she is for air.

                                            >Celestia may be the closest thing to God there is, but she’s always required the same things mortals do.

                                            >...Celestia...not your pet.

                                            >No...she WANTS this. That’s why she picked the muzzle.

                                            >You know this...but when you see the raw terror in her eyes, watch her struggle, you don’t see your pet, you don't see your plaything for tonight.

                                            >You see the one you love...and you’re killing her.

                                            >Fuck. This.

                                            >You squeeze the gem again, causing the muzzle to open up once more.

                                            >She gasps, collapsing onto the floor as she sucks in that precious, precious oxygen, her whole body heaving under you with every breath.

                                            >But the look in her eyes says something different.

                                            >There’s no true gratitude at being able to breath. Her eyes are merely curious, begging the question,

                                            >’Why did you stop?’

                                            >This right here is why breathplay always freaks you out.

                                            >There’s a world of difference between listening to wonderfully sexy screams, your boner can't tell the source of those, and watching someone helplessly suffocate half to death.

                                            >Even IF that’s what she wants.

                                            >You can make this work, though.

                                            "Do you like getting to breathe, pet?"

                                            >The questioning look in her eyes gives way to revelation as she thinks she understands the game you're playing.

                                            >She nods her head vigorously, so hard that her multi-colored mane falls over her eyes.

                                            "You do? Well, do you know what I like?"

                                            >She cocks an ear, not even trying to uncover her eyes.

                                            >It certainly helps you see her as less than she is again. As your pet.

                                            "I like having a pet who knows her place. I like having a pet that obeys me."

                                            >Your mouth’s running ahead of your brain again. You need to come up with something, quick.

                                            "So if I don’t get what I like, I don’t see why you should either!”

                                            >...God dammit.

                                            >You meant something ELSE. Now you don’t have a choice.

                                            >Celestia shudders below you, her ears drooping as you hear what is most likely egging.

                                            >”Hmm prmm mrrrml!”

                                            >Your pet’s wasting her oxygen.

                                            >You squeeze down on the gem again, the muzzle slamming closed once more.

                                            >This time the effect is less dramatic.

                                            >She goes back to scrabbling at the muzzle, but the desperation isn't there...not yet.

                                            >She still had air in her lungs. Give it time.

                                            “I think my pet needs to be reminded of her place. Of who she REALLY is.”

                                            >You really cannot shut up tonight, can you?

                                            >You lift your foot off her, allowing her greater freedom to struggle, before walking back over to the wardrobe.

                                            >Let’s see...You shouldn’t need too much.

                                            >In fact, you only take one more thing out.

                                            >Pausing before turning back around, you listen to her hooves clacking against the stone floor, her muffled cries getting more and more desperate.

                                            >Huh. It's actually kinda fun when you aren’t watching.

                                            >You wait until the sounds of her struggles begin to slow, her muscles weakening, just as she's starting to wonder if you're going to let her die, before you re-open her muzzle.

                                            >Those sounds cease, being replaced by your pet greedily gasping for air.

                                            >...Too greedy.

                                            >You give her about half a minute before cutting off her oxygen yet again, eliciting a muted cry from your pet.

                                            >Turning around, you approach her squirming form.

                                            >Straddling her, you grab her waving mane and pull her head back, forcing her to look up at you, her eyes wild.

                                            >Her hooves pull and tug at their chains, still trying to reach the muzzle.

                                            "You think you’re more than you are, just because ponies like you.”

                                            >Bending down to her ear, you hiss out,

                                            “They only like you because you're pretty. If they knew what you’re really like, what you look like on the inside, they'd be disgusted. You aren’t fit to rule them. You’re barely fit to be my PET.”

                                            >You squeeze the gem once more, your pet going limp under you as she once again gasps for oxygen.

                                            >She weakly nods her head, her eyes closed. Of course she’d agree with that line of reasoning on a night like tonight.

                                            "So why don't we fix that? Why don't we make you look like the pet you really are. Let's show the world what you're REALLY like inisde."

                                            >Normally she wouldn't actually let you parade her around...but on a night like tonight you aren't sure.

                                            >That WOULD be pretty fun.

                                            >Then again, considering the nature of the celebrations, you'd probably get stabbed if you led their sky god around on a leash.

                                            >Maybe you should stick with stuff that won't put yourself in danger.

                                            "Why don't we start by getting rid of that mane everyone likes? The one you like to hide your face behind."

                                            >Her heaving sides quiver under you, her panting quickening.

                                            >"Mmmm hrrmmnn mmrrrm!"

                                            >You aren't quite sure what that means, but her tone was somewhere between helpless whimpering and desperate begging.

                                            "Well, maybe you have thought of that before you decided you could be late!"

                                            >You hold up the object you've taken out-a pair of scissors-and tighten your grip on her mane.

                                            >She's definitely whimpering now in between her hungry breaths.

                                            >Good.

                                            >If your pet was struggling, you'd take her air again.

                                            >You get to work, cutting off her long prismatic locks, leaving only a shadow of what she once had, just enough for you to grab.

                                            >It's quick work when you don't care about keeping it even.

                                            >You let it drop, her once long mane now barely reaching her eyes, before repeating the process with her tail. That one goes even quicker.

                                            >When you're done, you grab your pet's long horn and twist her head down, forcing her to look at the long prismatic hair now surrounding her on the ground.

                                            "I wonder if they'll even recognize you without your mane? You certainly don't look like the princess everyone knows and love. You look more like a mutated deer than anything."

                                            >Well that's not entirely true. She actually looks kinda cute with a short mane.

                                            >Nothing she needs to know right this moment, however.

                                            >You glance down to confirm she's looking...only to see your pet's eyes are screwed shut.

                                            >Ooohh, you can't have that.

                                            >Discarding the scissors, you pick up the whip again and snarl out,

                                            "I see pet's still not giving her master what he wants!"

                                            >Her eyes snap open at that, quite literally as wide as dinner plates. "Hmm-mm! Hmm-mm!" She furiously shakes her head no, her eyes locked onto the whip as you make a big show of drawing it back.

                                            >You pause, listening to your pet's muffled, wordless pleading, letting her cower, before cracking the whip right over her spine.

                                            >Once you've gotten to drink in her scream, you squeeze the gem to again cut off her air with her lungs emptied.

                                            >But you don't stop there.

                                            >Instead, you slap the stock of that whip against one of her wings, causing her instincts to force her to fold it in against her side...which pulls hard, far too hard on the chain attached to the piercing.

                                            >The effect is immediate, your pet collapses onto her belly from the pain.

                                            >Without giving yourself time to think, you leap upon your fallen pet and grab her shortened mane, pulling her head up and hiss in her ear,

                                            "I'm not going to give you what YOU want, until I get what I want. Get to the cabinet, and get me something that shows me you know your place. NOW!"

                                            >You step to the side, allowing your pet to scramble to her hooves, shuffle-trotting as best she can over to the cabinet, obeying your command.

                                            >...God damn, did you REALLY just do all that? Where the hell did THAT come from?

                                            >Well, it's what she wants...at this rate, you're the one who's going to need all the cuddles. Good job jack-ass, you've just shown once again you can be a complete monster on demand.

                                            >Your self loathing is interrupted by something metal clanging by your feet.

                                            >You look down to meet your pet's desperate, pleading gaze, and see...oh fuck no.

                                            >She dropped the branding iron in front of you.

                                            >Your mind goes back to the last time you used it, her agonized, if sexy, screams of pain, the smell...god dammit, that smell.

                                            >It was what finally killed that craving for meat you had since you arrived.

                                            >You had meant get another toy or a collar or something!

                                            >Not...not THAT.

                                            >But she picked the damn thing out. She WANTS you to use it.

                                            “Good JOB, pet! I suppose this means I should give you what you wanted...”

                                            >You squeeze the gem, your pet collapsing on your feet as she wheezes for breath once more, with every exhale saying “Hmm mrrrm.”

                                            >Bending down, you grab  the handle of the branding iron, your face inches away from hers.

                                            >You mouth “Are you SURE?” to her, the closest you can get to breaking character without upsetting her.

                                            >She nods emphatically, the look in her eyes screaming “I need this.”

                                            >...She owes you big for this one. You mouth back ‘No more,’ to let her know that you’re going to be done after this last bit...there’s no way you’d be able to properly rut her afterwards.

                                            >This is going to be boner kryptonite.

                                            >You stand back up and make a big show of studying the iron, looking over your backwards initials on the end, the wooden grip custom-made for your hands on the other, before loudly announcing.

                                            "Hmmm. Now that I think about it, I don’t know if my pet DID give me what I want.”

                                            >”Mmrrrrm?” comes her reply, your pet looking up at you, her sides still heaving.

                                            “Well. Sure, at first glance it looks like what I asked. I could use it to show the world who you belong to, that you’re nothing more than my pet...but you didn’t heat it up! How am I supposed to USE this, if it’s not hot? If I didn’t know better, I’d say pet’s trying to trick me...”

                                            >You lower the front of the iron to her horn, her fear filled eyes right behind it.

                                            “You’d better fix that.”

                                            >She hesitates, quivering before you, before giving the smallest shake of the head. A no.

                                            “Well? I’m waiting, pet.”

                                            >You raise the hand holding the crystal tipped rod, making the threat clear.

                                            >She squeezes her eyes shut again and...oh god, that's a tear going down her cheek.

                                            >"Mmmrff, mmrrm," comes her shaking reply as her horn lights up.

                                            “Good girl,”

                                            >You purr out to her as you watch the tip of the iron heat up, your stomach churning.

                                            >This right here?

                                            >This is exactly what you’ve been dreading all day. Why you’ve been practically panicking while waiting for her.

                                            >God dammit, are you really going to go through with this?

                                            >...This mare's lucky you can't say no to her.

                                            >Once the tip of that branding iron is an angry red, you pull it away from her horn.

                                            “That’s a good job.”

                                            >You stalk around to her flank, all the while listening to your pet's terrified whimpering, before grabbing her tail with the ‘gem hand.’

                                            >She shudders against you, shaking her head 'no' furiously, "Hmm-mmm! Mmmrrmf!"

                                            "You didn't think I'm going to let all my pet's hard work go to waste, did you? Now hold still!"

                                            >You jab that branding iron forward, right on the center of her sun tattoo.

                                            >The sick sound of her hissing flesh mixes with her agonized scream, "HRRRMMHHH!" Smoke billows out from the iron as she convulses before you.

                                            >That smell soon follows, like beef and hair both burning at once. Bile rises in your throat, the remnants of your dinner threatening to make a quick exit at the smell.

                                            >If you ever somehow made it back to Earth, you don't think you could survive a barbeque after this.

                                            >Finally, you pull the iron from your pet's flank, exposing the charred fur covering what should be a permanent scar-showing everyone that your ownership of her overrides any destiny she might have once had.

                                            >Your pet's legs give out from under her, the alicorn collapsing before you, her form wracked in bodily sobs from the shear agony she must be in.

                                            >But you're not done.

                                            >The branding iron's still glowing, and one of her sun tattoos are still 'hers.'

                                            >But as you approach her other side, your pet starts to crawl away, crying out between sobs "Hrrmm! Mmrhhm-mm mmmmrr!"

                                            "No? I thought you LIKED being my pet!"

                                            >With that, you squeeze the crystal, listening to the strangled, primal scream of your pet, your toy, the little pitiful creature before you.

                                            >That animal starts to curl up, her limbs jerking, a pale imitation of their previous struggles...she can’t control them anymore, can she?

                                            >She probably, honestly believes she’s going to die. It’s not like she’d be capable of rational thought at this point.

                                            >Once again, you move fast, not letting your mind catch up to the reality of what you’re doing.

                                            >You pin the chain connecting her hind legs and aim the iron.

                                            >Only once it's lined up do you re-open her muzzle, giving her exactly one breath, just enough to scream, before slamming the branding iron against her rump.

                                            >Her howl, the hiss, that smell all return, just as intensely as the first time...only this time, your dinner doesn't try to escape.

                                            >After all, your pet deserves it this time.

                                            >She tried to get away.

                                            >...Right?

                                            >It’s at that moment where reality catches up to you, and HARD.

                                            >What kind of sick fuck ARE you?!

                                            >You pull the branding iron away, your initials once again seared into her sun mark, and toss it off to the side.

                                            >You're done.

                                            >You rush over to her front and grab her, holding her sobbing form against you.

                                            "I gotchu, I got you 'Tia, you're ok."

                                            >With one hand, you undo the buckles holding the muzzle to her and pull it off.

                                            >"Thank you," she gasps out between sobs, collapsing forward into your embrace. "Thank you, sweetheart."

                                            >You don't respond. You don't need to.

                                            >Instead, you get to work on removing the chains holding her forehooves followed by unhooking the chains from her piercings.

                                            >She weakly throws her freed legs around your shoulders the moment she can, burying your face against her neck. Her wings go limp, resting on the floor as she continues to cry herself out.

                                            >You stroke your hand over her shortened mane, shushing her as she finally calms down.

                                            >It’s faint, but you could swear you hear her whisper ‘I’m sorry,’ over and over again while her sobs finally quiet.

                                            >Meant for her sister rather than you, if the past has been any indication.

                                            >Once her breath is merely ‘shaky,’ you ask,

                                            “Do you want me to get the potions?”

                                            >”No...j-just bed. For now.”

                                            >Dark blue, scar heal. You checked those ones last, you KNOW they’re fine. That coupled with a few others, and no one will have to know what kind of screwed up stuff you two have gotten up to.

                                            “You sure?”

                                            >You can feel the nod of her head.

                                            “Alright, hang on.”

                                            >You spin around against her, your back pressing to her front, and hook your arms behind you, under her wings. She collapses forward onto you, putting all her weight onto your back.

                                            >Ooohh man, she’s heavy. It’s been years of doing this and she still hasn’t gotten any goddamn lighter.

                                            >Every time you’ve been able to lift her without pulling or straining something, she’s taken it as an invitation to pig out on sweets.

                                            >Still, you make it to the bed without killing yourself, and even manage to crawl onto it without her falling off.

                                            >She wraps her hooves and a wing around you, pressing herself to you before you have a chance to get back up to take the rest of her restraints off.

                                            “Celly, I need to-”

                                            >”Get them in the morning…”

                                            >Well, if that tone was any indication, you’ve more or less broke her out of her funk. Also, the fact that she’s hugging you instead of pulling away is a definite sign.

                                            “Yes, my Sunshine.”

                                            >You spin around in her hooves’ grasp and hold her against you, peppering her neck with kisses. All the while she shakes against you, still twitching from the pain you’ve put her in.

                                            >There HAS to be a healthier way for her to deal with this stuff.

                                            >One that doesn’t make you feel like a monster when you’re done.

                                            >She eventually manages to fall asleep against you like that.

                                            >For you, it’s a long time coming. You lay there for what feels like hours, feeling her various muscles twitch against you, her hot, steady breath on your neck. Her hooves occasionally wriggle against you.

                                            >The whole time you replay the events of what you just did...god dammit, you can still smell everything.

                                            >Worse yet, it killed any chance of sex...maybe in the morning she’ll still be up for something a bit more sexual...maybe before she drinks all the potions.

                                            >As fucked up as it is...the thought of your initials overwriting the symbol of her destiny IS kind of really hot.

                                            >Even if the process is…that.

                                            >Maybe you should see about convincing her to just break out the make-up for that, and leave it for now?

                                            >Yea...you’d like that…

                                            >Your guilty conscious assuaged, you finally manage to join her in sleep.

                                            >Unfortunately, your somewhat normal dream about your teeth falling out during a family reunion soon ends terribly.  There’s a cackle before the whole place burns down to the ground around you. All you can do is watch until there’s nothing left but you and Evilestia.

                                            >Evilestia’s what you’ve taken to calling the weirdo armored, black furred version of Celestia that shows up in your dreams whenever you go waaay too far in your sessions.

                                            >She always...yep, there she goes, she’s showing you what you just did on a giant movie screen, in third person no less, cackling all the while. Pretty soon she’s going to start calling you her ‘faithful servant’ again.

                                            >As the branding scene plays over and over, you can’t help but think that you really are a piece of shit.

                                            >...Maybe YOU’RE the one who could use some help, if your subconscious keeps coming up with crazy stuff like this.

                                            >The dream drags on for far, far longer than it should...hell, you should have woken up the moment you realized it was a dream, that’s what always happened whenever you tried lucid dreaming.

                                            >Not counting all the sleep paralysis.

                                            >Instead, you can only stand there as Evillestia wraps her ebony wing around you and plants a kiss on your cheek, before going into all the things you “should” do to Celestia.

                                            >Her talk about hooks and knives are brought to a swift end when you’re woken up by a pillow slamming into your face.

                                            >”Good morning sleepyhead!”

                                            >You peel the pillow off your sweat covered face and blink yourself awake, sitting up.

                                            >When the world’s mostly in focus, you can see it’s still dark outside.

                                            “It’s not morning yet, you lazy bum.”

                                            >...Well that’s a sentence that never would have made sense on Earth.

                                            >You rub your eyes, trying to bring the world into focus as she giggles, making a sound that’s been increasingly rare over the past week or so.

                                            >Oh yea, you fixed her...more or less.

                                            >"I’m the one who decides what’s morning, silly. I'll get the sun in a minute, I'm trying to get everything together, first."

                                            >The white blob that was Celestia resolves into her giant sun emblazoned ass, your black initials still plain to the world to see.

                                            >She’s bent over, her shortened tail off to the side to give you a wonderful view as she digs into your magical pharmacy.

                                            “You sure you need to do that now, Sunshine? I was thinking we could have some fun, first...”

                                            >That gets another giggle out of her. “I’d rather avoid my little ponies rioting, especially after yesterday. But….I won’t say no to afterwards.”

                                            >She flicks her tail at that last sentence, trying to be sexy. The effect is more than a tad diminished  with it so short.

                                            “Alright fine. But can we talk about whole branding thing? I’m having weird dreams again.”

                                            >”Sure thing sweetie, just let me find everything...”

                                            >She hums away and sways her rump side to side, the sounds of glasses clinking ring out as she rearranges all those bottles.

                                            >You’d really wish she’d trust you, you quadruple checked it all last night.

                                            >Finally, she looks up, with a decidedly not seductive look on her face.

                                            >”Sweetheart? I’m not seeing the burn heal in here...”

                                            “The light green one? I saw it in there, I made sure it’s still good.”

                                            >Yea, the cause of the scar changes what potion you need. This magic stuff still doesn't make sense to you, hence why you just tried to get one of everything.

                                            >She shakes her head. “Light green’s hoof repair. "

                                            >That pit in your stomach from last night returns with a vengeance.

                                            "Hang on a minute, I thought that was the dark red one..."

                                            >"Nooo, that one is mane restorer. We...DO have it, right? I can't go outside like this sweetie, ponies would see!"

                                            >Well she's panicking now, which isn't helping you keep your head at all.

                                            "Hang on, hang on, hang on, I thought that was the big white one!"

                                            >"No, that's for when I convince you that we should have a foal!" She says with her eyes wide as she dances from hoof to hoof, her gigantic wings shaking.

                                            “I...wait, what?”

                                            >Well that wasn’t something you expected her to ever say. That’s...not supposed to be even possible, is it?

                                            >Luckily, it throws you off enough to keep you from joining Celestia in blind panic. With a deep, calming breath, you ask,

                                            “Alright, hang on. It has to be in there somewhere. What color is the burn healing potion?”

                                            >Your attempt to be an emotional rock seems to have its intended effect. She's not dancing around anymore, at least.

                                            >"It's purple, three shades darker than my eyes."

                                            >You freeze up at that.

                                            >FUCK.

                                            >"...Sweetie? You're sure we have it, right? I can't go get anything...you know what would happen if they see me like this! Especially with..." she twists around and points her horn at the charred fur on her butt tattoo, "that!"

                                            >You knew you were forgetting something last night.