Broken Incentives - Chapter 4: From Mare to a Doll A pegasus mare from the Allied Equestrias touches down lightly in front of a towering human office building—one of the few corporate monoliths that survived Zero-Four. Her coat is a vibrant orange, mane and tail a deep crimson red, styled in a sleek ponytail that sways with her confident stride. She wears a short skirt that hugs her flanks just enough to accentuate her curves, paired with sheer black stockings that climb her hind legs and custom boots designed to lift her rear into a provocative arch. Up top, a fitted blouse clings to her barrel, topped with a matching vest. Round black-framed glasses perch on her muzzle, giving her an air of sharp intellect and unassailable superiority. She enters the lobby with her head high—wings folded neatly, steps precise and arrogant. The automatic doors hiss shut behind her. Another day negotiating resource deals for her reality's benefit. Another chance to prove Equestrian superiority in this twisted alliance. Then the sounds hit her. Moans. Wet slaps. Grunts of effort and release. She freezes mid-step, ears pinning back. The open-plan office floor is a den of depravity. Cubicles buzz with activity—not work, but play. Human employees—men and women alike—lean back in their chairs or bend over desks, using their incentive ponies without a shred of discretion. A gray earth mare is pinned under her owner's desk, muzzle buried between his legs, slurping obediently while he types one-handed. Nearby, a unicorn filly (adult, of course—guilty reality stock) is mounted from behind by her mistress, horn ringed to suppress magic, body rocking with each thrust from a strap-on. The air is thick with the scent—sweet, heady, engineered pheromones from the trained slaves. Musk and honeyed arousal that floods the room like incense. "S-Yes! Master, don't stop—destroy me!" The cry comes from a corner office. A rainbow-maned pegasus incentive is splayed on a conference table, legs wrapped around her human owner as he pounds into her with mechanical rhythm. Her eyes are glazed, body arching in conditioned ecstasy, walls clenching visibly around him. No resistance. No shame. Just programmed bliss. The orange pegasus clenches her jaw. Her thighs squeeze together involuntarily. The aroma is insidious—designed to spike fertility in humans, but it doesn't spare ponies either. Heat builds low in her belly, a unwelcome flush spreading to her marehood. Slick begins to gather, soaking her panties beneath the skirt. Even the few human female employees watch with naked envy—bites lips, shifted in seats, one discreetly slipping a hand under her desk. They glance at the incentives with resentment: those broken mares get what they crave, day in, day out, while the free ones wait for scraps. The pegasus quickens her pace, wings twitching. She needs to get out—away from the moans, the scents, the sight of Equestrian sisters reduced to living sex toys. But as she rounds the corner toward the elevators, she spots her colleagues. Three Allied Equestrias—two unicorns and an earth mare, all dressed in professional attire like her—huddled in a side alcove. Their faces are flushed, manes disheveled, forehooves working frantically between their hind legs. Masturbating with desperate fury, eyes locked on the office floor spectacle. The orange pegasus grits her teeth. The laws have loosened since the alliance. What was once scandalous in Equestria is now... tolerated. Encouraged, even. Humans don't do it on purpose—their incentives are just tools for productivity, for repopulation. But the pheromones don't discriminate. And the envy... it's starting to burn. "Ladies, if you could—" A human secretary—young, flustered, tie askew—steps into the alcove, perhaps to redirect them. The words die as the earth mare tackles him to the floor. The unicorns follow in a frenzy, pinning him down with magic and hooves. One unicorn straddles his chest, grinding her soaked marehood against his shirt; the other yanks at his belt with glowing telekinesis. The orange pegasus sighs—resigned, amused, aroused. She glances around. No one's paying attention. The office is too lost in its own rhythm. "Fine," she mutters, reaching under her skirt. She hikes it up, tears the stockings with a sharp rip, exposing her black thong and the sanitary pad beneath—already soaked through with her own slick, absorbing the overflow triggered by the incentive pheromones. In old Equestria, this might have been violation. Assault. Taboo. Here? Just another day in the alliance. The secretary gasps as the earth mare frees his cock—hard, throbbing from the ambient scents. The pegasus joins her colleagues, dropping to her knees. Her muzzle dives in alongside theirs—tongues lapping greedily at his shaft, swirling the head, tracing veins with wet heat. One unicorn sucks his balls into her mouth, humming vibrations; the earth mare takes the base deep, throat working with practiced swallow. He groans, hands grabbing for purchase—fingers tangling in crimson mane, pulling the pegasus closer. He yanks her up by the collar of her vest and kisses her roughly, tongue invading with possessive hunger. She whinnies into his mouth, hips bucking against nothing as her marehood winks desperately. The free Equestrias are different from the incentives. No blank devotion. No programmed whimpers. They take what they want—aggressive, envious, alive with resentment and need. They ride him hard, rotate turns mounting his cock, grinding until he fills one, then another. Slick coats the floor. Moans mix with possessive growls: "Mine now... you humans think you're in control?" The incentives in the office? Passive vessels. Trained to receive, to beg, to break without fight. These allied mares? They claim. They conquer. Even if it's born from jealousy. The pegasus climaxes first—rubbing frantically against his thigh while her tongue laps cum from his tip. The others follow, bodies shuddering in shared release. They leave him spent on the floor, tie crooked, face smeared with lipstick and slick. The pegasus straightens her skirt, adjusts her glasses, and walks on—satisfied, for now. But the envy lingers. The incentives get it every day. She wants that too. And in this alliance, she's not alone. --- Broken Incentives - Chapter 4: From Mare to a Doll Tags: anon, /spg/, submission is magic, SiM, slave pony general, grimdark, Quartz Cup, remote work, scent dependency, directory pastel, professional breaker service, nsfw implied, AU, dark You sit at the kitchen table-turned-desk, laptop open to the remote monitoring dashboard. Four-hour shifts, half-time pay, but no commute. The world lost billions of hands in Zero-Four, so machines took over the heavy lifting—drones, exosuits, automated refineries. You just watch feeds from three continents: pressure readings, output logs, anomaly alerts. Make sure the system stays within parameters. Tedious. Mind-numbing. But it pays the rent and keeps the government off your back. A soft weight shifts against your thigh. Quartz Cup is curled on the couch beside you, head resting in your lap, fast asleep. Her gray coat is warm, mane spilling white across your jeans. Every few breaths she nuzzles deeper—nose pressing firmly against the crotch of your pants, inhaling long and slow. Deep, rhythmic pulls, like your scent is the only thing anchoring her to the world. Even through the fabric, she finds it. And calms. Tch. Government of perverts. You sigh, reach down, and stroke the top of her head absently. Her ears flick once in contentment. She sighs in her sleep, a small, happy sound, and presses even closer. You glance at the clock. Shift almost over. You close the dashboard, mute the feeds, and pick up your phone. The site loads almost instantly: Directorio Pastel—the ironic name everyone uses for the post-Zero-Four services directory. Clean interface. Categories divided neatly. - Allied Mares: Profiles of free ponies from allied Equestrias looking for human partners. Photos in professional attire, bios full of “seeking meaningful connection” and “cultural exchange.” - Magical Homes: Rent-a-unicorn to enchant your apartment—self-cleaning spells, temperature regulation, rustic wooden furniture conjured from thin air. - Special Services: The section you’re here for. “Professional Re-education & Conditioning.” Sub-categories: basic obedience, advanced breaking, doll conversion, incentive optimization. Prices listed in credits—high. Very high for your case. You scroll through sample videos—short, censored previews. A defiant earth pony being walked on a leash until she stops pulling. A unicorn with inhibitor ring reciting mantras in monotone. A pegasus posed like a statue, eyes glazed, vibrating plug keeping her on edge for hours. Your thumb hovers. A soft moan drifts from the couch. “More… Master… I will obey…” Quartz Cup shifts in her sleep, hind legs twitching, marehood winking faintly under her tail. Another deep inhale against your crotch. A contented sigh. You feel yourself harden despite everything. The scent of her arousal—sweet, musky—mixes with the lingering trace of last night’s breeding. Your body reacts before your mind can stop it. You switch the phone to silent. Fast. You exhale slowly through your nose. You open the chat window for “Professional Services – Urgent Case.” You type: “Two incentives. One fully conditioned (earth pony, Quartz Cup, serial [redacted]). One newly acquired fugitive (earth pony, Limestone Pie, unprocessed, defiant). Need assistance breaking the second without permanent damage. Budget limited. Photos/serial attached. Urgent.” You attach the collar scan of Limestone—shaved neck, barcode, her furious glare captured mid-photo. Send. The typing indicator appears… disappears… appears again. Minutes pass. You set the phone face-down on the coffee table. Carefully, you slide out from under Quartz Cup’s head, replacing your lap with a throw pillow. She whines softly in protest but settles, muzzle still seeking the warmth you left behind. You stand. Stretch. Head to the kitchen. The fridge hums. You pull out eggs, ham, bread. Something simple. Something normal. Behind you, Quartz Cup sighs in her sleep, tail flicking once. Your phone vibrates once—soft chime. You glance back. A response. You don’t open it yet. You crack an egg into the pan instead. The sizzle fills the silence. Two ponies under your roof. One dreaming of you. One chained and waiting. And a professional on the way. You really hate how normal this feels. But the phone is still glowing on the table. And the chat is open. You flip the eggs. Whatever comes next, it’s going to cost you. And it’s going to hurt someone. Probably Limestone. Probably you. You sigh again. Breakfast can wait two minutes. You pick up the phone. The message is short. “The Great and Powerful Trixie accepts your case. Arrival tomorrow, 10:00. Fee: [amount]. Deposit required. Prepare the subject. She will be a perfect doll by week’s end.” You stare at the screen. Then at Quartz Cup, still nuzzling the pillow like it’s you. Then at the hallway leading to the spare room—where Limestone is chained, stimulant coursing through her veins, pride still intact. For now. You set the phone down. The eggs are burning. You turn off the burner. Tomorrow. Trixie. A doll. And whatever’s left of Limestone after. You rub your face. This world doesn’t give second chances. It just gives invoices. And you’re already in debt. --- Night falls heavy over the private conditioning suite—rented by the hour, paid in full by the client. Dim red lights bathe the room in crimson. Mirrors line three walls, reflecting every angle. No escape from the sight of what’s being done. Trixie stands behind her latest commission: a sky-blue pegasus mare, adult, from one of the guilty realities. Wings bound tight with silk ropes, forelegs cuffed to a padded bench, hindquarters raised high on a custom mount. Tail pulled aside and secured. Marehood already swollen, dripping, prepped for hours with slow-building stimulants. The Great and Powerful Trixie wears nothing but her signature cape—draped open like a curtain—and a double-ended strap-on harness. One end buried deep inside her own marehood; the other—a thick, ridged silicone shaft—sheathed inside the pegasus. Every thrust rocks both of them. Trixie’s horn glows soft azure. A small handheld taser levitates beside her—government-issue model, low-voltage setting, perfectly calibrated for “sensitivity training.” She drags the prongs lightly across the pegasus’s left nipple. Zap. A controlled spark. The mare jolts, muffled scream vibrating around the bit gag. Her nipple hardens instantly, darkening to a deep rose. Trixie’s own clit pulses in response—the harness grinding deeper inside her with the motion. “Mmm… such a responsive little toy,” Trixie purrs, voice low and theatrical. “The client specifically requested nipple sensitivity. Trixie delivers.” Another pass—right nipple this time. Zap. The pegasus arches violently, wings straining against the ropes. Slick gushes around the strap-on shaft. Trixie rolls her hips once, slow and deep, savoring the dual friction. In her old reality, they called her abuser. Pervert. Monster. Here? Necessary. Valued. Paid premium rates. She increases the pace—short, sharp thrusts that slap wetly against the pegasus’s flanks. The taser dances again—nipple, nipple, then a teasing circle around the swollen clit. Each zap draws a choked whine, each thrust a fresh flood of arousal. Trixie’s breathing quickens. Her own climax builds fast—coiled tight from the harness grinding her walls, from the power, from the broken moans beneath her. She tosses the taser aside with a flick of magic. Both hooves grip the pegasus’s hips. “Time for the finale, darling.” She mounts hard—frenzied, feral. The double strap-on pistons deep, stretching both of them. Trixie’s cape flares behind her like wings of dominance. The pegasus’s body rocks forward with every brutal thrust, bench creaking, mirrors showing every obscene detail: the shaft disappearing inside her, the harness disappearing inside Trixie, the slick strings connecting them. Trixie cums first—back arching, horn flaring bright, a triumphant laugh turning into a shuddering moan. Her inner walls clamp down on her end of the harness. The moment she peaks, her magic presses a hidden button on the strap-on base. A soft click. The inner chamber releases: a thick, warm, red-tinted fluid floods forward—special formula, client-specified. It coats the pegasus’s cervix, seeps into her womb, marks her reproductively. The dye is temporary but vivid—visible proof of “completion” for the buyer. The pegasus convulses. Her orgasm hits like lightning—body seizing, marehood spasming violently around the shaft, squirting in forceful arcs that splatter the bench. Eyes roll back. Tongue lolls past the gag. Full ahegao: crossed eyes, drooling, cheeks flushed crimson. A high, broken whinny escapes around the bit—pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Trixie rides out the aftershocks, grinding slow circles until the pegasus goes limp—still twitching, still leaking red-tinted slick. Finally, Trixie pulls out with a wet pop. The strap-on slips free from her own body with a reluctant drag; the pegasus’s marehood gapes for a second, red fluid dripping in thick strings. Trixie laughs—low, satisfied, cruel. She leans down, muzzle close to the pegasus’s right ear. “Good girl,” she whispers, voice velvet-soft and venomous. “Such a perfect little doll now. You’ll make your human so happy. You’ll spread your legs whenever he wants. You’ll carry his foals. You’ll smile while he uses you… because that’s all a good doll does.” The pegasus shudders again—a fresh, weak climax rippling through her from the words alone. The conditioning phrases sink deep, etched into her rewired mind. She gurgles around the gag, eyes half-lidded, expression vacant and blissful. Trixie straightens, adjusts her cape with a flourish. “Another satisfied client.” She levitates a wipe and cleans the strap-on casually, as if it were a prop from one of her old shows. In the mirror, she catches her own reflection: mane slightly mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming with sadistic pride. In her old world, she was hated. In this one? She’s essential. And tomorrow she has another appointment. A stubborn earth pony named Limestone Pie. Trixie smiles wider. The Great and Powerful Trixie always delivers. Especially when it comes to turning mares into dolls. --- The bar is tucked in a quiet corner of the allied district—low lights, polished wood, the faint hum of enchanted crystals keeping the air cool and scented with lavender. No humans allowed after 10 p.m. Pony-only space. Safe. Private. Or as safe as anything can be in this fractured alliance. Trixie steps through the door, mane perfectly coiffed, cape folded neatly over one shoulder like a trophy. Her coat gleams—freshly washed, lightly perfumed with something expensive and floral. She carries herself with the same theatrical confidence she always has, but tonight there’s a subtle weariness in the set of her shoulders. The group is already there. A diverse circle of mares from the allied Equestrias: two pegasi (one sky-blue with a storm-cut mane, the other soft lavender), three unicorns (including a stern silver-maned one who handles the most difficult cases), and four earth ponies (strong, stoic types who specialize in physical conditioning). They look up as she enters. Smiles. Warm ones. Genuine. “Trixie!” the lavender pegasus calls, waving a wing. “You’re late. We were about to start without the Great and—” Trixie raises a hoof, smirking. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is never late. She arrives precisely when she means to.” Laughter ripples around the table—soft, tired, but real. They make room. A fresh cider is slid toward her. She sits, cape draped over the back of the chair like a queen claiming her throne. For a few minutes, it’s easy: shop talk. Who broke fastest this week. Which client paid extra for “doll finish.” A shared eye-roll over a particularly stubborn griffon incentive that needed three sessions instead of two. They are good at what they do. Very good. The pay reflects it—credits flow in from elite humans who can afford the premium service. The ones who want their incentives not just obedient, but artistic. Sculpted. Perfect little living dolls. But the laughter fades. One of the earth ponies—sturdy chestnut coat, faint scar across one flank from an early “resistant” case—sets her mug down harder than necessary. “Any of you… actually succeed?” she asks quietly. The table goes still. Success means different things to them now. Not the credits. Not the praise from clients. Not the satisfaction of watching a guilty-reality mare go from snarling defiance to glassy-eyed submission. Success means something normal. A partner. A herd. Foals. Silence stretches. The silver-maned unicorn finally speaks, voice flat. “My last offer was from a council member. Said I could be his ‘primary consort.’ Promised foals—said he’d pay for the compatibility spell himself. But only if I signed the ownership clause. Full transfer. No outside contact. No herd. Just him. Forever.” She looks down at her cider. “I told him I’d think about it.” The sky-blue pegasus next to her snorts—bitter. “Mine was similar. Elite trader. Said my ‘skills’ would make me a perfect broodmare for his line. Offered a private estate. But I’d be property. No rights. No name on the birth certificates. The foals would be his. Not mine.” Tears well in her eyes. She blinks them back furiously. “I almost said yes.” Another earth pony—younger, mane braided tight—whispers, “I keep telling myself we’re better than them. The incentives. The broken ones. We’re free. We have pride. We choose.” She laughs—hollow. “But every night I watch them get filled. Again. And again. And I hate them for it… and I hate that I want it too.” Trixie hasn’t spoken. She stares into her drink, swirling it slowly. In her old reality, she was reviled for her tastes. For wanting control. For enjoying power. Here, those same tastes made her rich. Respected. Necessary. But no one wants a sadist for a partner. No one wants a mare who breaks others for a living to carry their foals. The elites might offer contracts—cold, transactional—but never love. Never a herd. Never equality. The lavender pegasus reaches across the table, hoof on Trixie’s. “Tri… you okay?” Trixie looks up. Smiles—small, sharp, practiced. “The Great and Powerful Trixie is always okay,” she says lightly. But her voice cracks on the last word. She lifts her mug. “To success,” she says. They all drink. No one meets anyone’s eyes. Outside, the city hums with distant moans and the soft clink of collars. Inside, a table of mares who break others for money sit in silence—rich, powerful, envied by the incentives they despise… and starving for the one thing the system will never let them have. Foals. A family. Something real. And tomorrow, Trixie has another appointment. A stubborn earth pony named Limestone Pie. She’ll break her beautifully. And when it’s done, she’ll collect her fee. And go home alone. Again.