Be Velvet Sparkle.

You are bored.  

And you are severely frustrated.

This season’s heat has been merciless.  
Worse than last year. Worse than any in the past decade.  

It’s as if your body has decided to remind you—with cruel precision—that you are still a mare in the prime of her maturity, even if no one looks at you that way anymore.

You squeeze your thighs together tightly on the living room sofa, the same sofa where Night Light used to sit reading the newspaper while you prepared tea. Now it’s empty.  

The house is silent except for the ticking of the wall clock and the soft, ragged breaths escaping you every time you try to ignore the burning pulse between your legs.

Your children don’t live here anymore.  
Shining Armor is happily married to Cadance, busy with the Crystal Empire and his own family.  

Twilight… Twilight is a princess. Princess of Friendship, of all Equestria. Her visits are short, filled with hurried hugs and promises of “I’ll come stay longer soon, Mom.”  

And Night Light… your beloved husband, the stallion you swore to love forever…  

You love him. Truly.  

But his work keeps him out until late at night. He comes home exhausted, slips into bed beside you, kisses your forehead, and falls asleep.  

There’s no time. No caresses. No relief for the fire consuming you from the inside.

One year.  

A full year dealing with heat alone.  
Your hooves are no longer enough. They never really were.

You let out a long, shaky sigh that echoes through the empty house.  

One forehoof drifts downward almost on instinct, brushing the swollen edge of your marehood. The contact is electric, but also pitiful.  

You rub slowly, clumsy familiar circles, trying to trick your body into calm.  

A low moan slips out when you press against your engorged clit.  

It’s so sensitive it hurts and soothes at the same time.  

You close your eyes, imagining a different hoof—stronger, more determined—but the fantasy shatters when you remember you’re alone. Again.

The relief lasts only minutes.  

A weak, trembling orgasm that leaves you emptier than before.  

The heat recedes slightly, like a tide pulling back only to return stronger.  

You lie there, panting, hoof still slick, staring at the ceiling.

You have a meet-up with your friends this afternoon.  

Silk Ribbon insisted. Said you “need a distraction, Velvet.”  

That “there are things a mature mare deserves to experience before it’s too late.” Her tone carried a strange, almost conspiratorial edge.  

You didn’t ask.  

But now, with your body still quivering from the failed attempt at self-comfort, you wonder if you should have.

You rise from the sofa on unsteady legs.  

You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror: lavender coat slightly disheveled, silver-streaked mane that no longer shines quite like it used to, violet eyes tired but still beautiful.  

You are still attractive. Still desirable.  
And that is exactly what hurts the most: knowing it, and being powerless to do anything about it.

You bathe quickly, fix your mane, slip on the favorite necklace Night Light gave you years ago.  

You step out of the house with your heart pounding too fast.

Silk Ribbon is waiting at the door of the discreet little café at the end of the street.  
She smiles in that elegant, secretive way of hers.  

“Velvet, darling… right on time.”

You don’t know what comes next.  
But for the first time in a year, you feel something close to anticipation.

And fear.

And a desire so deep it almost makes you sob.

- - -
- - -

Be Velvet Sparkle.

You step through the door of Mirror’s Rest behind Silk Ribbon, the little bell above jingling once—soft, almost apologetic.

The scent hits you immediately: fresh coffee undercut by something warmer, muskier, faintly metallic. Not unpleasant. Just… unexpected in a café.

Truffle Badge is behind the counter, polishing a mug with a rag. The chocolate-brown earth pony looks up with her usual polite smile—until her eyes land on you.

“Welcome to Mirror’s Rest, ladies,” she says, voice steady. Then she sees Silk Ribbon’s expression and adds, more quietly, “And company.”

Silk Ribbon returns a warm, practiced smile, the kind that usually disarms anypony.  

“Truffle, darling, I’ve brought a very good friend. She’s… going through quite a difficult time right now.”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks.  
“Silk Ribbon!” you hiss under your breath, mortified. “That’s hardly—”

Truffle Badge’s polite mask cracks. She sets the mug down with deliberate care and stares at Silk Ribbon like she’s grown a second head.

“You’re joking,” she says flatly.

Silk Ribbon blinks, confusion flickering across her mint-green mane and blue coat. “I… beg your pardon?”

Truffle Badge sighs—a long, bone-deep sound that carries years of dealing with this exact situation.  

She glances at you—really looks—and recognition dawns.  

“Velvet Sparkle. Twilight’s mother. Married. To Night Light. Living husband. Family intact.” Each word is enunciated like she’s reading from a rulebook. “Silk Ribbon, are you serious?”

You shrink a little under her gaze.

Silk Ribbon opens her mouth to protest, but Truffle Badge raises a hoof.  

“Vestuario. Now. Both of you.” Her tone has gone from polite to steel. “And listen carefully: do not put on anything. Nothing. The matriarch will see you both personally.”

Silk Ribbon pales—actually pales—and nods once.  

“Of course,” she murmurs. “Come along, Velvet dear. Best not to keep her waiting.”

You follow her down the narrow hallway behind the counter, heart hammering against your ribs. The door at the end opens into what should be a changing room—but isn’t.

It’s a shrine to indulgence.

Racks line the walls: sheer lace teddies in every shade of sunset, leather harnesses polished to a mirror sheen, silk stockings with garter clips shaped like crescent moons, corsets boned to cinch waists and lift teats, collars studded with discreet gems, tail plugs with jeweled bases that catch the low light. There are even full-body suits—some glossy latex, others soft velvet—cut to frame every curve, every sensitive place.

The air smells faintly of polish, rose attar… and leather.

Leather.

Your breath catches.  

You haven’t smelled real leather since your university days—those reckless months traveling through minotaur territories, before Night Light, before children, before responsibility. Back then it had felt dangerous and thrilling. Now it feels like a memory you buried long ago.

And then you see them.

Mares—some Twilight’s age, others your own or older—lounging on velvet benches or adjusting straps in front of tall mirrors. A few have streaks of silver in their manes, laugh lines around their eyes, teats fuller from years of motherhood.  

Yet they stand there in scandalous outfits: one in a black lace bodysuit that leaves nothing to the imagination, another in thigh-high boots and nothing else, a third wearing only a collar and a coy smile.

The scent of heat rolls off them in waves—thick, fertile, shameless.  

They’re smiling.  
They’re anxious.  
Eager.

One of them—a graceful pegasus with salt-and-pepper wings—catches your eye and winks.  

“First time, darling?” she asks, voice warm. “Don’t be shy. We all started somewhere.”

Something twists in your chest.  
Not disgust.  
Not fear.

Envy.

Sharp, sudden, aching envy.

These mares—your age, older even—have come here to be seen. To be wanted. To be taken care of.  

And they wear their desire without shame.

You swallow hard, hooves frozen just inside the doorway.

Silk Ribbon touches your shoulder gently.  
“It’s all right, Velvet. Just breathe. The matriarch will explain everything.”

But you can’t look away from the mirror across the room, where your reflection stands beside a rack of leather collars.

You look… small.  
Tired.  

And far too prudish even if you aren't wearing clothes at the moment.

The door at the far end opens with a soft click.

A gray unicorn with a dark blue mane steps through.

Ice Pebble.

Her sapphire eyes sweep the room once—then lock on you.

And the temperature in the changing room drops ten degrees.

- - -
- - -

Be Velvet Sparkle.

The changing room falls silent the moment Ice Pebble steps fully into the light.

Every mare present knows exactly who she is.  
Her mere presence demands absolute respect and instant obedience.  
Second only to the founders themselves, her word is law in these halls.  
The air thickens with sudden tension; conversations die mid-sentence, straps are frozen halfway fastened, tails stop swishing.  
Even the most veteran mares—those with silver in their manes and multiple litters behind them—lower their eyes and step back instinctively.

Ice Pebble does not look at them.  
Her sapphire gaze is locked on you and Silk Ribbon.

She stops directly in front of you both, tall, gray coat impeccable, dark blue mane not a strand out of place.  
The temperature in the room seems to drop.

“Silk Ribbon,” she says.

The name is spoken calmly, quietly—almost gently.  
It still makes every mare in the room flinch.

Silk Ribbon’s confident smile crumbles.  
She shrinks visibly, ears pinning back, mint-green mane falling across one eye.  
The young widow—who four years ago walked away from her own herd to reclaim her independence—now looks like a filly caught sneaking sweets.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ice Pebble asks, voice level. No shout. No growl. Just cold, measured disappointment.

The room is deathly quiet.

Silk Ribbon swallows hard.  
“Matriarch… I only meant to help. Velvet is suffering. She’s been alone with her heat for a full year. Her husband is always away, her children grown and gone. She needs—”

Ice Pebble lifts one hoof.  
The motion is small.  
It might as well have been a hammer.

“Enough.”

Silk Ribbon’s mouth snaps shut.

Ice Pebble exhales—a long, heavy sigh that carries the weight of centuries of decisions just like this one.

“Go join the others,” she says. “I’m not angry. You will not be punished tonight. But I am disappointed. Deeply disappointed. That you would beg for an exception—for a married mare with a living husband, a family still intact—shows me you’ve forgotten why this place exists.”

Silk Ribbon’s face drains of color.  
She turns to you, eyes wide with guilt and pain.  
“I’m so sorry, Velvet,” she whispers. “I thought… I thought it would help.”

Then she lowers her head and walks away—head bowed, tail tucked—disappearing through the inner door toward the stables proper.

You feel fury rise in your chest like bile.

“How dare you speak to her like that?” you snap, voice trembling with outrage. “She’s my friend. She was trying to—”

Ice Pebble turns her gaze on you.

The words die in your throat.

She steps closer until her muzzle is inches from yours.  
You can smell the faint rose attar she always wears, mixed now with the sharp edge of her authority.

“This place,” she says slowly, each word deliberate, “is not a brothel for bored housewives. It is not a playground for married mares who miss the heat of youth. It is a sanctuary. A carefully balanced solution to a crisis that has already cost Equestria generations.”

She leans in until her breath brushes your ear.

“Yeguas happily married—with living husbands, intact families, children who still call them Mother—are not welcome here. We will not service you. We will not allow you to use this place to undermine the very thing we exist to protect: love that has already borne fruit.”

You feel small.  
Humiliated.  
Reduced to a trembling mare in front of a room full of strangers who suddenly won’t meet your eyes.

Tears burn behind your lids.  
Your voice cracks when you speak.

“Please…” you whisper. Then louder, raw, desperate: “Please! I can’t—I can’t bear it anymore. A whole year. Alone. Night after night. My husband loves me, but he’s never there. My body is on fire and nothing—nothing—helps. I’m begging you. Just once. Just enough to make it stop.”