>Trooper, you mean Big Mac, keeps you in a hug, sobbing
>Then just sort of snuffling and sniffling
>All the while, you're hugging him back and stroking his ears and neck softly, running your fingers through his shortened mane
>The pony finally falls asleep after half an hour.
>Slowly escape the ponybeast's clutches with a cunning Indiana Jones style body pillow switch
>Yes, you own a body pillow, it's good for hugging
>Sneak to your laptop and start googling talking ponymonsters
>And symptoms of a concussion or sudden schizophrenia

>Google tells you that there are, in fact, talking ponythings for sale for godawful amounts of money
>And that you have brain cancer twice
>According to most of the FAQ sites the ponies are intelligent, but are raised to always want to be a pet
>You use your google-fu to try and find out why this has never been on the news
>Oh, Real Jersey Shore Troll Edition premiered the same week these things went public
>Ponies need about as much attention as most dogs, and can handle simple tasks
>They aren't allergic to anything strange and can live for around 70 years if cared for properly
>Almost no ponies are in the adoption system, most owners are vetted beforehand and the ponies tend to learn what their masters want very quickly
>Definitely not telling Mac about that
>You bookmark some suggested recipes for treats and ideas for games and activites
>Close the laptop, walk by the sleeping mac and gently ruffle his mane
>He makes a soft sound and lifts his head into your hand for a moment
>Pick up the ragbeast Smarty Pants and gently push it down between his chest and the pillow

>You have some mostly-fresh salad mix in the fridge
>Pour that into a large bowl and leave it on the floor near your couch where Mac could see it
>Pick up the garbage, sweep and start mopping when Mac finally opens his eyes and looks around


>"S-Sir ya didn' need ta' I was gunna clean that up..."
>You look a little confused at the pony
"You clean?"
>"Anythin' you need Sir" Mac quickly says, struggling to get out of the blanket you had wrapped him in, gingerly setting Smarty Pants aside on the couch cushion
>He gets down, foreleg not giving him any trouble, he sits on his haunches and looks anxiously at you, ears half-splayed out
>"Ah didn' mean ta make a mess ah was just tryin' ta get Smarty Pants back..."
"You could have asked"
>You finish drying the floor after the mopping, and it looks as clean as a 70's era floor can
>"Ah figgerd people didn' like pets talkin'... after ah..." The pony closes his eyes and hangs his head
>"Ah can' get anythin' right..."
>You walk over to the pony and softly stroke his ears
"Mac, it's okay. I got some salad from the fridge if you're hungry"
>The pony perks up just slightly, casting a glance back at the bowl on the floor "Thank ya' Sir"
>He trots over to the salad, sniffs at it and starts eating like he hasn't seen food in weeks, inhaling the leaves rapidly
>You sit on the couch and watch the pony as he eats, tail swaying slowly; if he was a dog you'd think he was more happy with that salad than anything
>You are not sure how a pony is meant to look but he's a little on the skinny side, but you think with a few weeks of proper food he should look great
>Wait, no, he'll look normal

>You flip on the television and watch some rerun of star trek
>Mac returns to your side and sits on the floor, watching the screen intently
"Mac, you can sit on the couch if you want"
>The pony looks up at you "Ah-ah can?"
"Sure"
>You pat the open spot next to you, the pony scrabbles up grabbing his teaddything and, leaving his head in your lap as you stroke his neck gently
>You prop up your legs on the coffee table, which squeaks
>Mac perks up "Sir do ya have any tools around?"
>You'd gotten a tool kit as an apartmentwarming gift from your parents


>The only use it sees is in spider extermination
"Yeah, over in the closet"
>Mac slides of the couch, trotting to the closet, opening it with a deft twist of his hooves and pulling out the small kit with his teeth, which he sets down nearby
>"Sir, can ya clear off the table please?"
>You don't know where this pony is going but you move everything to the floor as he removes the screwdriver with his mouth
>If he goes postal on your $25 Ikea table, you will certainly feel ambivalent
>He gets his back under the table, trusts out a leg and flips it, catching the table on his leg and lowering it carefully so the surface rests on your floor
>The pony looks around for a moment, foreleg testing the table for loose parts
>One of the leg wobbles like a politician's stance on healthcare
>He holds it still before you can even offer assistance, and manages somehow to screw the leg back in flush, holding it with a hindleg and using both forelegs and mouth to operate the screwdriver
>Pony should qualify for some kind of contortionism award
>He sets the screwdriver back into the kit, nuzzles it into it's clip and flips the table back over, catching and lowering to avoid slamming it on the ground
>"There ya go, Sir."
>You set your feet on it
>Not a squeak to be heard
>You look at Mac with surprise

>"Wh-what'd ah do wrong? Ah triah'd Sir Ah Did!"
>The pony looks ready to start sobbing again
"Mac, Relax, I like it."
>"Ya do?"
"I do, I promise"
>Mac smiles and nuzzles your leg, then closes and returns the toolkit to the closet, even shutting the door behind him as he returns to your side, sides heaving a little with heavy breaths as he rests his head on the armrest.
>You stroke his mane and ears, and feel a little sweat
>He must've atrophied in the deathpit, even your shriveled frame can move that table easily
"Mac, you can still sit on the couch"
>"Thanks Sir" He says, trotting under your legs and getting on the cushion next to you after you clear the detritus


>He's still panting heavily and sweaty, you can feel it as you stroke his ribs
>He rests his head in your lap, and suddenly you realize you're sporting an uncomfortable halfy
>Shit, missed the morning session
>Never miss your morning session

>Mac shifts his head around in your lap, trying to find a comfortable spot
>Try to think unboner thoughts as something warm, soft, and endearing twiddles around your junk
>That's just making it worse
>"Uh... Sir?" Mac Says curiously
"Yes, Mac?"
>"Yer... ah, well... ah learn'd a pet aint got no right tellin' their owners want to do with them an' if ya wanna..."
>He gently nuzzles the crotch of your pants, breathing slowing down, eyes looking to you with something like worry
>"Ah... ah can h-help ya with that..."
"L-look Mac, I like girls, but thanks"
>"Ma old owner tol' me it wasn' gay if it wasn' a dude..."
>You stop. Sheesh, maybe his name should have been trooper, most people with his issues started tumblrs.
>You go back to petting his side, feeling the slight uneveness of his coat
>"Ah-ah just wanna show ya I appreciate everythin' you' done."
>He nuzzles just below your belt
>Huston we have full strength

>You lay a hand on his side. You definitely do not want any of the house-cleaning, table-fixing, sweaty, powerfully built, grateful, submissive, southern-accented
>Who are you kidding
>Mac keeps nuzzling softly, MiniAnon more then enjoying the attention
>You let the pressure on his up, look around to see if anyone has entered your home lately, and undo your belt
>Mac scoots a little closer, undoing the button and zipper with his mouth
>You move around, back on the armrest, legs on either side of the warm, slightly heaving Mac
>The pony takes your underwear band in your mouth, pulling it down, warm breath brushing your shaft the whole way down
>And he even does it slowly
>MiniAnon is ready to go as Mac nuzzles your balls with gentle care, warm soft tongue tracing the line back up


>His nuzzling moves along MiniAnon
>His nose and lips are soft, gentle, like velvet
>His deep, regular and slightly moist breaths brush you like a rainforest breeze
>His tongue wraps around the whole front half, surface gentle, warm and wet
>By the time he's at the top he's licking up a bead of slick pre and smiling contently
>His soft lips brush the head of MiniAnon, breaths still warm, wet and slow as he kisses and carefully moves down onto to your flesh

>Holy crap this feels amazing, his tongue cradling the whole underside, his fuzzy, strong lips sealing around the base of your shaft, more like a pair of velvet fingers then anything
>His breath never stops, hot and wet as he starts bobbing along your shaft
>Mother earth herself could not do this
>You shiver as he increases his pace, lips exploring every inch of your shaft, tongue slowly exploring your head, practically milking you
>Your hands rest on his head, one in his mane, tangling with the hair carefully, the other getting a grip on his collar, being just careful enough to not choke or pull on him
>His bobbing continues, lips pressing and squeezing, tongue and breath wetting your shaft
>You don't even know how long it goes
>His lips keep pressure, a warm velvet grip
>His breath and tongue are...
>Are...
>Before you can think of anything else, you feel the shocking bliss of orgasm

>Mac continues, lips stroking, tongue lapping, the whole time pressing you deeper into the afterglow
>He lifts his head, looking tired but content, your already half-limp MiniAnon done.
>You stroke his mane softly
"Th-that was... great"
>"Ah triah Sir" He says, settling his head down, nuzzling your hands gently and you let go of his collar
>You take a few deep breaths, getting your pants back on with shaky hands
"Do you need..."
>"No, Sir. Ah'm alright" He says dreamily, nuzzling your thigh
>You lean back, still petting his ears and cheeks


>Mac cuddles up to you, and you feel...
>Oh, jeeze, this pony has a fifth and a half leg prodding you gently
>You really should do him a solid
>But your head is clearing and you REALLY WANT A GF, RIGHT?
>You settle with hugging him close, rubbing his sides
"You sure you're alright Mac?"
>You gently brush Big Mac 2.0 with your knee
>His eyes snap open
>"Ah-Ah'm sorry Sir Ah'm alright I promise that jus' kinda happened an' you don' need to..."
>You lean down, nuzzle his forehead and hug him tightly
"Mac, it's alright"
>Between the offer to clean, the fixing the table for free and, that brain-melting experience you do owe him
>You lay him on his back

>Mac looks alarmed
>"S-sir ya really don' need ta"
>Judging by that civilization ending pillar, you should
>You lean down, nuzzling his already hard shaft
>It smells like hay and hard work
>Mac twitches gently, hindlegs pulling in
>"Sir..." He says in a trailing whine, ears laying flat
"Mac, it's alright"
>You lick from the middle of his shaft to the tip, the whole thing oddly shaped but tasting kind of pleasant
>It's like that dream you keep having, but with a bright red horse
>It takes a lot of work, but you manage to get the tip and a few inches in your mouth
>Mac gasps, twitches, and slowly relaxes, nickering a gentle nothing
>You take a long lick, the pony's flesh tasting of salt, an honest musky something, and a grassy flavor
>Mac bucks into your attention, thick, salty pre flooding your mouth.
>With a little work you swallow it, the flavor bizarre but like Mac, honest and earthy.
>The swallow drives Mac into another loud moan, and you feel the first fitful spurts of ropey cum on your tongue.
>Wheat, grass, salty sweat
>You have just enough time to think and pull your mouth off, quickly moving your hand in and stroking as your pet cums
>The red pony moans and writhes slowly under your attention, his hooves pressing against you softly
>His chest is coated in white, thick liquid


>And his chin, you bought a shooter

>"Thank you S-Sir..."
>Mac is panting as his hooves work at the air in slow motion
>Your mouth is still full of his seed, and your lips feel feel heavy as well
>He leans up, licking your lips to clean you off
>Not sure if... eh, it's actually rather nice
>You swallow, which is kinda gross but at leas it tastes okay
>Mac licks you, then himself clean, flexible enough to get his whole chest and belly

>The pony rolls over to his belly and rests his head in your lap, tail swaying as you stroke his ears
>You both watch the end of that episode of star trek
>Big Mac has his head on your chest, forelegs around your middle, nickering softly content nothings
>The time is ten in the morning