Pretty Celestia by UF

 

(16/11/2013)

 

 

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The sound of the front door opening and closing now served to Princess Celestia as nothing more than a herald to misery. It had only been a week and three days since she had found herself in such servitude, but it took no more than a fragment of that time to determine when she was safest and when her life was most in tatters.

 

When her master returned was when she most wanted to huddle into a corner and cry.

 

She affected a dignified hair as she heard him tramping up the stairs with all the grace of a rampaging dragon. He knew where she would be at this time, because it was where he would order her to be. Master’s bedroom. Not their bedroom. It’s would never be their bedroom. For, while Celestia might serve as dutifully in it as any other courtesan would do, she was granted the grace of residing in a kennel outside, once built for a hound that left one day and never returned. Through rain or fall she would sleep in that run-down, cramped little prison; or rather she would stay awake, warded off from sleep by the sound of her own sobbing.

 

The bedroom door flew open and in Celestia’s new master stepped, an avatar of cruelty in all its wickedness. He had no name that she knew of. To her, he was master and nothing more. He sauntered forward, a definite sway accentuating each uncertain motion. He reeked of tobacco and alcohol and his clothes were filthy with liquids she wasn’t sure she had any intention of identifying.

 

She bowed her at his approach, both out of an enforced respect and equally from disgust at knowing what would come next. His greasy fingers touched the side of her face and she flinched, as though she anticipated the digits to morph into glistening knives painted with her blood at any moment.

 

“Do you have anything to say, mule?” he asked.

 

She winced. There were lots of things she wanted to say. Had she been a shadow of the princess she once was, she would have said them. She would have told him of how she deplored the title of mule. She would have commented on his loathsome alcoholism and poor behaviour. She would have criticised his slavery of her and demanded that she be given the opportunity to flee and restore the dignity of her people.

 

But abuse had eroded resolve and so she said: “I did exactly what you asked of me, sir. I washed to bedding, cleaned the windows, dusted the house, sorted the laundry, tended to the plants and prepared roast beef for you evening meal.” She was sure to emphasise the roast beef. Four nights ago she had foolishly prepared a meal of pasta puttanesca and spent the rest of the evening made to sorely regret her decision.

 

As the words tumbled from her mouth, it was as though she stood upon kindling and each utterance was a spark. The more she spoke, the more she burned, suffering for the indignity of her position. She still remembered a time not so long ago when she had never been required to prepare a meal in her life. She had been the finest, the most beautiful, and the kindest pony in all of Equestria. And now she stood alone and quivering before the mighty figure of her inhumane human master.

 

“Good,” he commented, his lips turning into a lascivious snarl. She could see his eyes roaming her body, switching from her face to her hindquarters, still turned away from him. He licked his lips.

 

“Perhaps we should continue our discussion downstairs?” she suggested, desperate to shift his attention. “I-I can serve your meal and then–”

 

She had more to say but was cut off with a yelp and a fist clamping around her main in a vice-like grip. Her master pulled her forwards until his rotten breath was the only air that she knew of.”

 

“You used to be pretty,” he snarled, tightening his grip and wrenching the poor mare’s head further backwards. He began to twist her around, inspecting her sleek, swan-like neck like a butcher looking for the right angle. “I bought you because you were pretty. What was it, some kind of scam?”

 

She wailed. “No, please! Master, I-I’m still pretty!”

 

“You’re calling me a liar?”

 

“No! No, it’s just…It’s just I…” She wanted to believe it too. Wanted to put her hoof upon her heart and say that without a shadow of a doubt, she was still just as splendid as she had been in the high Canterlot halls, when her sister stood at her side and Twilight Sparkle bowed at her feet (she no longer knew what had become of them, though she sometimes prayed to the stars that they had found contentment). But she couldn’t lie to herself forever. She had caught herself in a reflection enough times each day and been forced to look away, not for one moment wishing to believe in the wretch she had become. Her once flowing hair had now grown lank and lifeless, its radiant colours melted into a sludgy mix. The ivory gleam of her coat had yellowed, providing her a sickly pallor. No, she wasn’t pretty. She was a sham.

 

He hawked and spat on her face, the globule striking her dead between the eyes, just beneath her horn. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. It was nothing new. She would have to grow accustomed to it. What she didn’t expect was the fist that flew close behind, crunching into her chin and sending her sprawling to the floor.

 

She landed with a heavy thump and tried to scrabble to her feet, only to be met by his foot connecting with her sternum. She squawked in pain and wriggled for freedom, encouraging him to strike again with yet another kick. Another cry of pain and she slumped down again, learning her lesson and learning it well.

 

“I heard a rumour earlier today,” he said, kneeling down in front of her. “A funny little rumour, it was. It seemed to suggest that this recent hoard of freaks and immigrants in our world…that they had some kind of a leader. D’you know what they called her?” He reached out and clutched her hair again, yanking so hard that tears swam into her eyes. “They called her Princess Celestia, mule. Fancy that! I should end up with some bitch of a servant who just happens to have the same name.”

 

She didn’t have anything to say. Her side blazed with pain and she found herself with her head laid in a puddle of her own drool. If she had really had once been a princess, she resembled nothing of the sort now. He had stripped everything from her.

 

The sound of his jangling belt caught her ears and she saw his jeans fall to his ankles.

 

Everything.

 

She never protested as he manoeuvred over to her rump. She never said a word as he took her tail and lifted it to the air, exposing the treasures beneath to his dark intent. Word was it wasn’t bestiality if they could think and talk and serve like humans. Everyone could be depraved as they liked. It wasn’t as though the ponies could have a say in the matter.

 

He forced himself inside of her, hands digging into her ass like claws. She never said a thing as he began to thrust back and forth inside of her, using her as his own masturbatory aid. There was no pleasure in it for her, only pain as he wound his hand back and struck at her rump, sending cheeks rippling to his contentment. This wasn’t the first time she had suffered this. The first night had been the worst. 1,000 years of well-maintained purity taken in an instant. All those years of chastity, all wasted by the cruelty of one sadistic master. Gone.

 

A foul grunt and he finished, spilling his blessedly non-compatible seed into her pussy and pulling himself out, not concerned for a second whether or not she might have desired more. He spat on her again and pulled his jeans back up to his waist, seemingly mulling something over as he did so.

 

He walked away from the quivering mare, feet so close to stamping on her face. As he passed the threshold of the room he turned back to his pet. “You’re not as good as they said you could have been,” he growled, glaring at her from the doorway. “Tomorrow I’ll go to the market and I’ll find a better mare. You can go back to living on the streets.”

 

And he left Princess Celestia to sob in solitude.