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Bellisma
The painfully small, beaten woman wasn’t certain what response she expected; she wasn’t sure what she had even wanted. This was entirely new to the mare: this brazen courage and these brash words. Though, despite this sudden bravery, her fragmented mind wasn’t at all prepared for what happened next.
He was crowding her; his taller body suddenly even closer in her space— and his muzzle was reaching out closer and closer. Then it was on the apex of her neck, sending heat and blood rushing to the surface to meet those lips. And while her body wished to instinctively recoil from such a touch, she didn’t—because Kianzo’s scent swamped her. It was a safe and non-threatening smell; one she had been able to relax around. So only a small shudder rippled her thin, delicate hide around where the young stallion’s lips gently pressed.
There had never been an act of intimacy she had chosen. Never a time where she had been dominate, where it had been her wants and needs that dictated what and how things would be done.
There was some part of her mind that whispered of wrongness. It hissed that she had seen, done, been subjected to things that this young stallion should never know of—that she was somehow dirty, and should not share this passionate, primal act with him.
But there was another part, a (surprisingly) louder part, that claimed she should be the one to show Kianzo this. She had taught him so much already; showed him parts of himself that could combat his innate darkness. Was not this intimate act part of a stallion that could culminate in absolute darkness? The mare knew it could be, she had seen it, had been beneath it—had felt it.
It was this louder, stronger voice that won (no matter how right or wrong). It silenced those dastardly hisses in her mind, and pushed her into the ashen gold prince. “Step back,” her voice was quiet and still dulcet, but barely recognizable by the sudden huskiness that swamped it.
Her tail flagged, traitorous body already prepared for him by years of pavlovian conditioning—testosterone, a stallion's touch, heat; it was all her body needed to brace itself for whatever beating or pounding may come next. She turned, haunches presenting— nearly trembling now, for this was in equal parts alien and disgustingly familiar.
“Gently,” she said softly, a hoarse whisper. How many times had she uttered that plea to whatever hulking man stood behind her? How many times had it been ruthlessly (brutally) ignored?
Not this time. Never again.
————fade———
He was crowding her; his taller body suddenly even closer in her space— and his muzzle was reaching out closer and closer. Then it was on the apex of her neck, sending heat and blood rushing to the surface to meet those lips. And while her body wished to instinctively recoil from such a touch, she didn’t—because Kianzo’s scent swamped her. It was a safe and non-threatening smell; one she had been able to relax around. So only a small shudder rippled her thin, delicate hide around where the young stallion’s lips gently pressed.
There had never been an act of intimacy she had chosen. Never a time where she had been dominate, where it had been her wants and needs that dictated what and how things would be done.
There was some part of her mind that whispered of wrongness. It hissed that she had seen, done, been subjected to things that this young stallion should never know of—that she was somehow dirty, and should not share this passionate, primal act with him.
But there was another part, a (surprisingly) louder part, that claimed she should be the one to show Kianzo this. She had taught him so much already; showed him parts of himself that could combat his innate darkness. Was not this intimate act part of a stallion that could culminate in absolute darkness? The mare knew it could be, she had seen it, had been beneath it—had felt it.
It was this louder, stronger voice that won (no matter how right or wrong). It silenced those dastardly hisses in her mind, and pushed her into the ashen gold prince. “Step back,” her voice was quiet and still dulcet, but barely recognizable by the sudden huskiness that swamped it.
Her tail flagged, traitorous body already prepared for him by years of pavlovian conditioning—testosterone, a stallion's touch, heat; it was all her body needed to brace itself for whatever beating or pounding may come next. She turned, haunches presenting— nearly trembling now, for this was in equal parts alien and disgustingly familiar.
“Gently,” she said softly, a hoarse whisper. How many times had she uttered that plea to whatever hulking man stood behind her? How many times had it been ruthlessly (brutally) ignored?
Not this time. Never again.
————fade———
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