>She was only ten.
>That's what’s scrawled on the cardboard sign she’s holding up.
>You almost missed it.
>Hidden as she is in the dark alley, it was hard to read.
>"Will do anything. $10."
>Mare probably has no idea what she’s doing.
>Certainly the cheapest you’ve ever seen a whore.
>Every other pony you'd approached tonight was out of your price range.
>You don't even know why you came down here.
>Your wallet is thin, just a few bills stuffed in it.
>Maybe enough to buy a blowjob, if you were lucky.
>Well, apparently you are.
>Anything.
>$10.
>You’ve got $10.
>Hell, you’ve got $50.
>That can buy you a whole lot of anything.
>She looks at you over the edge of her sign as you approach, streaks of dirt marring the pale streak of cream on her muzzle, turning it nearly the same dingy chocolate brown as the rest of her coat.
“Anything?”
>”A-anything,” she answers, shivering in the cold air.
>She’s tiny.
>Her face is thin.
>So is her body.
“So… like… seriously?”
>Damn near the body of a supermodel.
“Anything!?”
>”Yes, sir.”
>This is more than luck.
“What about your owner? I’m not going to have some pissed off asshole after me because I was a little rough with you, will I?”
>She shakes her head, sending strands of her honey tan mane waving wildly in the dim light.
“Really? Because –“
>”I’m a free pony, sir. I don’t have an owner.”
>Tonight is your lucky night.
>She lets the sign fall to the side, giving you a clear view of her body.
>Thin.
>Petite.
>Oh fuck yes.
>A pegasus.
>Damn birdpones never ended up in this place.
>Free ones could always get jobs as couriers if nothing else.
>Never so desperate as to rent out their bodies to men like you.
>And the few slaves that were forced down here against their will?
>Scarcity drove up the price.
>This is your lucky night.
>A god damn pegasus.
>Her wings are folded tight against her sides.
>They’re large, seemingly oversized for her tiny body.
>You have never gotten this lucky.
>Fucked a few mudpones and once a unicorn, but never a pegasus.
>You don’t think you’ve ever gotten this lucky in your entire life.
“What’s wrong with you?”
>”N – nothing, sir. Nothing’s wrong with me.”
>There has to be something.
>Some trick or flaw.
>False wings?
>They look real, but hidden as she is in the shadows of the alley, you can’t be positive.
>Well, she’s still absurdly cheap, even for a mudpone.
>A trap?
>That… entirely depends on what kind.
>Pony prostitution isn’t illegal, but…
>You look up and down the street, but nothing stands out. No one watching you. Everyone has eyes only for the whores.
>No muggers waiting for you to be distracted by their bait.
>None that you see, anyway.
>The other kind of trap…?
>Even a stallion has holes you can fuck.
>”Sir…?”
>STDs?
>Shit, you have condoms. You were going to wear one anyway, even if you’d gone to one of the reputable brothels.
>Monthly testing doesn’t mean shit if the guy before you went bareback.
>”S-sir…?”
>Golden, caramel eyes stare up at you through the ragged fringe of her mane.
>She’s shivering.
>Well, it is cold out here, but…
“You’ve never done this before, have you?”
>She’s scared.
>”No, sir,” the mare answers, ducking her head to stare at the cracked concrete. “My first time.”
>Lucky. Fucking. Day.
>”My name is S’more, sir. What’s yours?”
“That doesn’t really matter, does it?”
>”N-no.”
>Not yours and certainly not hers.
>You’ve never bothered to learn a whore’s name before today.
>Not going to learn one now.
“Good, let’s do this.”
>Trick or not, this is happening.
“Where? You got a place around here or…?”
>Definitely doesn’t have a room at any of the reputable places, but the pony slums aren’t far.
>She slowly raises her head again, until she’s peering up, almost pleadingly. Her cheeks are flushed and rosy, as much from the shame as they are from the cold.
>”Your place…?”
>What?
>She frames it as a question, but there’s more to it than that.
“How about yours?”
>Not like you have anything worth stealing, but you’re not letting a whore into your place.
>She hesitates, looking back down the alley before shaking her head slowly.
>Yeah, probably doesn’t want some anonymous john at her place either.
>And you don’t want to be there.
“Fine. Here. Let’s just…”
>You motion for her to go back down the alley, away from the street lights and blazing neon signs and customers looking to buy a few minutes of fun.
>”It’s… it’s cold,” the mare mumbles, taking only a few hesitant steps. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at your place?”
“Probably, but I’m pretty sure your insides are warm enough to keep my dick from freezing.”
>She nods and takes a few more steps, never quite turning her back to you.
>”What are you going to do?”
“Whatever I feel like. Anything. That’s what your sign said, right?”
>”Yes – yes, sir.”
>The tremble in her voice mirrors the one in her body, the first barely discernable because she says it so softly, the latter because of the dim light.
>It’s so dark, you don’t notice the blanket until it’s tangled around your foot.
>Only by sheer luck do you remain upright.
“Shit! Fuck!”
>”What? What! Oh! No!”
>The mare lets out a soft whine as you kick the blanket free, sending it flying into a puddle.
>Fuck it.
>Fuck them.
>Fucking hobos.
“Fuck this. I’m going home.”
>You turn and walk away.
>It’s cold. It’s wet. Too damn dark.
>Fuck this.
>You’re almost to the head of the alley without hearing a single hoofstep following.
“Well, aren’t you coming?”
>You turn to glare at the mare, but you can barely see her in the dark, her chocolate coat blending in all too well.
>”Ye – yes!”
>You keep walking.
>She catches up with a quick trot, the wetness coating her muzzle shining as she nears the bright street a half-step behind you.
>The way it should be.
>And then you’re stepping out into the lights and she… she is not.
>The mare freezes just shy of the glow, one hoof hovering at the edge.
“Well? You said you wanted to screw at my place, so –“
>She nods and takes the first step into the light.
>A second later, another.
>And then… and then you see her.
>She’s not petite; she’s a child.
>She’s not thin; she’s starving.
>Wings flare out instinctively to catch her balance as she missteps, revealing her sharply defined ribs.
>She’s not a supermodel.
>She’s a starving child.
>Shit.
>Her breath fogs the air as she pants to catch up.
>”Where… where are we going?”
>Shit.
>Fucking SHIT.
>FUCK!
>You knew this was too good to be true.
>”I mean, sir,” she mumbles, casting her eyes about warily, “where do you live?”
“That doesn’t matter right now.”
>”B – but –“
>She cowers with a low moan, practically falling back onto her rump.
>”I’m… I’m not too young…” she whines. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
“Yeah. I know.”
>It’s what her sign said.
>$10.
>Anything.
>You fish into your wallet and pull out a pair of fives that her eyes follow like moths drawn to a lantern.
“You’ll do anything for these, right?”
>Her head bobbles up and down, her gaze never straying from the cash in your hand.
“Then you’ll let me buy you a meal. Come on, there’s a McDonalds down here.”
>She’s on her hooves before you take your second step, at your side by the third.
>Following you or the money, it doesn’t matter.
“So… what’s your name again?”