Time passes. It’s like a river, a constantly flowing river of soft, sinewy pony hair. It resists the crush of your teeth; its expected keratin taste diluted by something else. Your nostrils flare, and a flowery scent drifts into you; cradling your brain with cyan hooves.

You are so high right now.

Actually, you’re not, but you are on the way back from the bowling alley, and there is a police officer right on your tail, so to speak. You noticed him start to follow you as you stepped out of the bowling alley’s parking lot, and since then, he’s been silently, but very obviously, tracking you. You’re not afraid of getting arrested. You know that Pon-E isn’t illegal to take, only illegal to own, and your hooves—ugh, hands—are empty. You don’t really want him knowing where you live, though.

Still, bathed in the fading sensations of your transformation, you find it difficult to care very much at all about whether or not the police officer sees your obviously incredibly incriminating urine-stained bedsheets. Most of the awkward walk home was spent with your head in the clouds. You are only forced out of your reminiscent daydream by the familiar sight of the decaying Coca-Cola advertisement limply hanging on the side of your apartment block. Right. It was time to lose this guy.

You look behind you. The officer is still there, but, upon seeing you turn around, he fumbles and holds his phone up to his face as if he’s taking a call. You roll your eyes and pick your pace up a bit. The coffeehouse next to your building looks crowded as ever. Perfect. You make a sharp left turn and bury yourself in the tall, hipstery crowd.

The smell of burnt coffee hits your nose, and you frown as it chases away your happy daydream. More than that, the smell reminds you of every other time you evaded police officers using this coffeehouse. This time, at least, you weren’t being actively pursued, but you couldn’t help remember the time you almost didn’t make it out of the bathroom in time and the officer’s stagnant breath rolled down the back of your neck.

You shake your head. Enough of that. You push your way through the sea of baggy pants and ridiculously high collared shirts into the bathroom, wherein a small window lay unlocked as always. You grin, lift yourself up onto the toilet, and crawl through the window. Your breasts complain, threatening to draw you back in, but you suck in your chest as much as you can and push your legs against the other wall of the very small bathroom. With an “oof,” you find yourself lying on the floor of a dusty alleyway. It’s only a few moments before you round the corner, enter your apartment block, and press your back against the front door, eyes closed in the glow of your success.

“Hello sweet thing.”

Your eyes grow wide. All lasting bliss from your high vanishes. A groan escapes your lips as you open your eyes to find yourself face to face with the landlord’s son.

“Aren’t you looking good today?” he asks, smirking. Was he kidding? You were wearing unlaundered clothes radiating with the smell of spaghetti and your hair was practically glued to the back of your neck from sweat. Every second you spend looking at his smug grin amplifies the urge to sock him in the face.

But you can’t. Because he’s the landlord’s son. And other things.

“What do you want, Jim?” you ask.

“I was just wondering if you were up for a little fun later,” he says, leaning on the wall in a manner that he obviously thought was cool. “I’ve got some booze, maybe a little E, you know, just some fun.”

“A little E and then a little D?” you respond, rolling your eyes.

He frowns. “I think you mean a massive D.”

“And I think you need to leave me alone right now,” you snap back. “Can’t you see I’m not in the mood right now?”

“Hey, hot stuff,” he snarls, grabbing your collar and pushing his head into your ear. “You know the deal. You do the hippity dippity with me, my dad lets you live here for free. It’s been like two whole weeks now, my dick is practically crying.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did you just say hippity dippity?”

“Whatever, bitch,” he scoffs, turning around. “I will see you later, though. You better shave. Last time your butt was so fucking hairy I could’ve sworn you were trying to grow a tail. Jesus.”

He walks away, and you smack yourself in the face. How the hell did you get yourself involved with this? Sure, okay, addicted to drugs, no job, barely any friends, yeah, you weren’t going to get an ideal apartment. But this jokester? Homelessness was seeming pretty luxurious right now.

You sigh, and ascend the stairs to your apartment. It was the same dark hole you returned to everyday. In your bedroom, you strip naked and sit in front of your mirror. The familiar sensation of phantom limb starts to emerge from the unwanted lips of feminine spoils.

God, being a stallion was nice. Even if sexual acts were forbidden.

It had been a month since your first witless encounter with Pon-E, and the highs had only gotten stronger. You actually found part-time work at another gas station just so you could afford to go back more often. The only problem now was time. Between work and 12-hour highs, your schedule was getting pretty cramped. But you needed more. Much much more.

As you try to wash your mind of the dim landlord’s son, the trip you had just left started to float back in. The familiar walls of the tiny changing room, the feeling of freedom when you stripped your clothes, sat on the bench, and eyed that little, saucy pill.

The changes always started at the extremities. The memory engulfs you. Your hands and feet starting to shake violently, flesh whipping and melding together into hard hooves.

The CRACK as your legs shorten and bend, forming the hock and gaskin of your hindlegs.

The moan that escapes your pursed lips as the base of your spine unfurls and your long, blue tail crawls out to say hello.

Squirming as pinpricks fire all over your body and short, orange fur infects every inch of skin.

Yelping as an invisible hand reaches out and pulls your face forward, pushing your nose and mouth into a long, furred muzzle.

Panting as your ears are kneaded to a point and jerked upward to the top of your head.

You never even notice yourself getting smaller. But you do notice, every single time, you do notice a silent mouth zipping its lips and pushing outward, upward, majestically and arousingly.

Melanie may have your best interests at heart, but it was becoming more and more difficult to follow her advice. You were alone this time—Snips hadn’t come with you—and you sought out some ponies to play with to distract yourself from giving your stallionhood the attention it—and you—craved.

But it was easy to “accidentally” find oneself curled up in the corner of the room, hooves hidden and back to the crowd. Just as easy as it was for Melanie to walk over, pick you up, and laugh as you frantically try to hide your boner. Her fingers carried with them a different magic, and for the most part, they were able to sooth your savage appetite. A few yanks on your mane and all else was forgotten. But still, the thoughts of dancing mares floated back to you.

No. God damn it, what the hell is your problem? Bestiality is fucking disgusting.

You snap back to the present and stare at yourself in the mirror. What the hell were you doing? Horses? Really? What happened to your dignity?

Oh yeah. You didn’t have any dignity.

You run your hands over your fleshy human body, pausing at the two spots that caused you the most discomfort. They were disgusting, but they were human. They were yours. Weren’t they?

But you hate them….

How bad… how bad could being a horse really be if you got to be loved all the time and if you got to be yourself?

Did you… how much did you actually care about being human?

Oh god. You’re an addict.

You clamp your eyes shut and push your forele—HANDS into your temples. It’s no use. Snips’s bobbing flanks swim into view, her tail swishing side to side.

“Stargaze, my strong stallion…”

You can literally feel her rump rubbing up and down against your cheek.

Your mind completely blanks. You awkwardly stand up, stumble over to the phone, and dial the number.

“Snips,” you breathe. “Can we… can we meet up?”

The voice at the other end giggles, and a smile breaks your lips.