Be Sprite Will. The bell above the door chimes softly as you push it open, the familiar scent of vanilla, browned butter, and warm sugar rushing out to greet you like an old friend. Your hooves feel heavier than usual today. The meeting at the Stables lingers on your coat like smoke you can’t quite shake off. But then small arms wrap around your neck. “Mommy!” Radiant—your little miracle, your impossible pink-haired boy—launches himself at you the moment the door closes. His hair glows faintly, even in the dim afternoon light filtering through the shop windows, strands shimmering like spun rose quartz. He’s only six, but he’s already tall for his age, legs wrapping around your barrel as he buries his face in your neck. You laugh despite yourself, the sound tired but genuine. “Hey, sweet star,” you murmur, nuzzling his cheek carefully—always careful with your horn. You lift him higher with a gentle telekinetic field, letting him cling like a koala while you kick the door shut behind you. The bakery is quiet except for the low hum of the cooling ovens and the faint clatter of trays in the back. You carry Radiant toward the kitchen, his little hands tangled in your pink mane. And there he is. Timmy—your Timmy, though you still call him Radiant’s dad in your heart—stands at the steel table, apron dusted with flour, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s pulling a sheet of star-shaped cookies from the oven, the golden edges perfect, just how you taught him. He looks up, sees you both, and the tired lines around his eyes soften instantly. “Hey, you two,” he says, voice warm and rough from hours of talking to customers. He sets the tray down, turns off the oven with a practiced flick, peels off the oven mitts, and walks toward you. You feel your throat tighten. He’s changed so much since that first night in the Stables—broader shoulders from years of kneading dough, faint laugh lines from Radiant’s endless questions, a quiet strength in the way he moves now. But his eyes are the same. The same eyes that looked at you like you were something sacred when you were still just another mare begging for release in a dark alcove. He reaches you in three strides. Before you can say anything, he lifts you—carefully, always carefully—arms sliding under your barrel and around your back. Your magic flickers; Radiant’s field wavers for a heartbeat as your concentration slips, but you reassert it instantly, keeping your boy safely floating beside you. Timmy pulls you against his chest. One arm stays around you; the other reaches out to ruffle Radiant’s glowing hair. “Rough day?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your ear. You press your face into his neck, breathing in flour, sugar, and him. “Rough week,” you whisper. He doesn’t push. He never does. Instead he holds you tighter, lets you feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest. Radiant giggles, floating closer to wrap his small arms around both of you, making a little family knot in the middle of the kitchen. You close your eyes. This is what they’re trying to take. This quiet, impossible life you clawed out of nothing. The nights you cried because you thought you’d never have this. The mornings you woke up terrified it was all a dream. The years of fighting—fighting doubt, fighting the nobles who sneered at a human stallion behind a bakery counter, fighting your own body when it screamed for more than one child. And now New Eve wants to poison the well. You feel your hoof tighten around Timmy’s arm—harder than you mean to. Years of practice keep your grip from bruising him, but he still feels it. He doesn’t flinch. He just rests his chin on your head and lets you hold on. “They’re not taking this from us,” he murmurs, voice low enough that Radiant can’t hear. “Not while I’m breathing.” You nod against his shoulder, tears stinging. “I know,” you whisper. “I know.” But the fear is still there—cold, sharp, real. You lift your head just enough to look at him. At the man who chose you when he could have walked away. Who stayed through every heat, every doubt, every nightmare. Who learned to bake cookies at 3 a.m. because your pregnant cravings demanded it. Who named your son Timmy Jr. And never once complained when you called him Radiant instead. You lean in and kiss him—slow, desperate, grateful. Radiant makes an exaggerated “ewww” sound and floats away giggling, giving you a moment of privacy. When you pull back, Timmy brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “We’ll fight it,” he says simply. “Together. Like always.” You nod. And for the first time in two weeks, the rage inside you feels… focused. Not just anger. Purpose. You have a bakery to run. A son to raise. A husband to love. And somewhere out there, someone thinks they can take that away. They’re wrong. You press one last kiss to Timmy’s jaw, then turn to Radiant. “Come on, little star. Help Mommy decorate the cookies.” He cheers and floats back into your arms. And as you walk to the decorating table—your family whole, warm, alive—you make a silent promise. They will not touch this. Not while you still have breath. Not while love still has teeth. - - - - - - Be Sprite Will. The second floor of the bakery is quiet now, the kind of quiet that only comes after the last customer has left and the ovens have cooled. Downstairs, the scent of sugar and vanilla still lingers, but up here it’s softer—your home. A small living room, a dining table for three, Radiant’s room with its star-patterned curtains, and your bedroom at the end of the hall. You step out of the bathroom, steam curling around your hooves. The red silk leggings hug your flanks like a second skin, the fabric so thin it’s almost obscene. The matching panties are even worse—high-cut, barely there, the lace trim digging gently into the full, rounded curve of your ass. Childbirth had been kind to you in that department. Your hips had widened, your rear had grown plush and heavy, the kind of generous swell that made stallions (and your husband) stare. You’re proud of it. It’s proof you’re still a healthy, fertile mare. Still capable of carrying more. And tonight, you’re going to. The cooler sphere had been hell to remove—cold, slick, and humiliating—but you’d done it anyway. To the Tartarus with caution. You’re in the absolute peak of your heat. Your body is screaming for another foal. Another little miracle like Radiant. You adjust the black leather collar around your neck, the one you only wear for him. The same one you wore the very first night he claimed you in the Stables—when you were just another desperate mare begging for release. The fabric corset cinches your waist, pushing your crotch teats down and forward, the boning biting just enough to remind you who you belong to. You step into the bedroom. Timmy is already in bed, propped against the headboard in nothing but his sleep boxers, scrolling through his phone. The moment he looks up and sees you, his mouth falls open. You laugh—soft, low, wicked. With a flick of your horn, the room goes silent. Soundproofing charm. You do the same to Radiant’s room across the hall, then set the intruder alarm—a gentle pink rune that will wake you both if anything so much as breathes wrong near the bakery. Then you turn back to your husband. You lift your tail high, slow and deliberate, presenting yourself fully. Your panties are already soaked, the silk clinging transparently to your swollen, dripping marehood. Thick strands of your heat-slick run down your inner thighs, glistening in the low lamplight. You look over your shoulder at him, voice dripping with need. “I’ve been a very bad mare tonight, Timmy…” The words come out husky, trembling, the kind of tone that always makes his hair stand on end. “I need to be punished. Please… punish your naughty wife.” He doesn’t speak. He reacts. The phone hits the nightstand. The boxers are ripped off in one savage motion, his cock springing free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. He’s on you in two strides. Strong human hands grab your hips. You squeal—half surprise, half delight—as he lifts you clean off the floor and throws you onto the bed. The mattress bounces under your weight. You land on your back, legs splayed, silk-clad ass up in the air, tail still lifted like an offering. He’s on top of you before you can even catch your breath. His mouth crashes against yours—hungry, possessive, tasting of the sugar from the cookies he baked earlier. One hand fists in your pink mane, the other yanks the panties aside with a sharp rip of fabric. You moan into his mouth as two thick fingers plunge straight into your soaked heat, curling hard. “Bad mare,” he growls against your lips, voice rough with lust. “You want punishment? You’re gonna get it.” You arch under him, already trembling, the collar tight around your throat like a promise. And you smile. Because you know exactly how this night is going to escalate. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. - - - Be Sprite Will. You can’t stop moaning. His fingers are buried deep inside you, thick and relentless, curling just right against that spot that makes your vision spark white. He’s not even thrusting yet—just holding them there, letting your walls clench and flutter around him like they’re trying to trap him forever. His mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking hard enough to leave dark, possessive marks blooming across your lavender coat. Not enough to bruise permanently. Just enough to claim. And it sets you on fire. Your pussy is soaked, slick dripping down his wrist, your inner muscles gripping him so tight he can barely move. He takes his time, biting and licking along the curve of your throat, growling low against your skin like he’s savoring the way you tremble. Your eyes roll back. Your belly is a furnace. The heat that’s been building for days finally snaps. You cum hard—shaking, squirting, soaking the sheets beneath you in a hot, messy flood. A broken cry rips from your throat as your whole body convulses, thighs quivering, tail lashing wildly. He pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch. They’re glistening, coated thick with your viscous juices. He brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Such a filthy little slut,” he murmurs, voice dark and rough. “Look at you. Married mare, mother of my child, and you’re still dripping like a desperate whore in heat.” Your lower lips twitch and wink furiously at his words, another gush of slick sliding down your thighs. You need him. Now. He grabs you by the hips and flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing. Your face presses into the pillow, ass lifted high, tail yanked up and out of the way. He spreads your cheeks wide, exposing everything—your soaked, puffy marehood, your tight little pucker, everything on display for him. Smack! Smack! Smack! His palm cracks across each cheek in rapid succession, the sound echoing obscenely. Each strike is harder than the last, the sting blooming into white-hot pleasure that makes your eyes water. You cry out, half pain, half bliss, pushing back into every slap like the greedy mare you are. “That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with lust. “Take your punishment, you dirty little wife. You wanted this. You begged for it.” Your belly clenches hard at the words. Tears of overwhelming pleasure spill down your cheeks. “Please…” you sob, voice wrecked and needy. “Please, Timmy… punish me. I’ve been so bad… give it to me. Please.” He doesn’t make you wait. One brutal thrust and he’s inside you—buried to the hilt in a single, savage stroke. You scream into the pillow, the stretch burning so perfectly, his thick cock filling you completely, the head kissing your cervix with every inch. He doesn’t go slow. He fucks you like he owns you—deep, punishing strokes that make your whole body jolt forward. Your walls try to cling to him, milking desperately, but he pulls out almost all the way just to slam back in harder. His hand fists the base of your tail, yanking it up high, using it like a handle to drive into you even deeper. The pressure on your spine is uncomfortable at first—then it melts into pure, aching need. The way he dominates you, the way this human—your human—has you completely at his mercy… It breaks something beautiful inside you. You were the indomitable unicorn. The feared baker. The one stallions of your own kind whispered about—rude, powerful, untamable. And here you are: collared, spanked raw, getting railed like a cheap whore by the man who chose you anyway. The he explode inside of you... You cum again—harder this time—your magic flaring under your belly in a soft pink glow. A rune ignites just above your womb: two intertwined stars. Twins. The realization hits you like a second orgasm. You sob openly, tears soaking the pillow, body shaking as he keeps pounding into you, chasing his a new release. He feels it too—the magic, the meaning. His rhythm falters for half a second, then he growls your name like a prayer and buries himself deep, flooding you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He doesn’t pull out. Instead he carefully turns you onto your back, still buried inside you, and kisses you—slow, deep, possessive. His hands cradle your face, thumbs wiping away your tears. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his waist, the collar still snug around your throat. This is everything. The cruelty. The love. The pain that somehow makes the pleasure sweeter. You never want it to end. And as he starts moving again—gentler now, but no less deep—you smile through the tears. Because this is your life. Your family. Your everything. And no one—no company, no noble, no force in two worlds—is going to take it from you.