You love your job, mostly. You’d been dreaming of being a historian for your entire life, and after years of study, you’re living that dream. Somewhere between an equinologist and archeologist, you and others like you are the living race-memory of ponykind. Each of your peers is tasked to study and capture history, be it recorded long ago or freshly made. Some of you are writers, some are painters, others still are sculptors or study a myriad of other artistic forms meant to complement your primary function. Personally, you are in the Crystal Empire to study the library the accursed King Sombra has left, absorbing information as you go.

The one thing that irks you on a professional level is the fragmented records that have survived what you surmise to be a purge on Sombra’s end; all the slavery was well and good, but even as you poured over the scant books that are free from hyperbole and bias, all you found were more and more references to him being terrible. If the recorders had taken the time to say why he was so terrible, you’d have something to work with, instead of caricatures of a dead tyrant. But, you keep dwelling on your professional peeve, while your personal one is much more pressing.

No, fragmented records you can deal with, but the ponies you have to work alongside were another beast entirely. Having been commissioned, alongside others of your order, to record the first Equestria Games held in the Crystal Empire, you have met many new ponies, both Equestrian and their crystal counterparts. Some are helpful, many are obstructive while trying to be helpful, and a few, a thankfully slim minority, seem to actively inhibit the work of you and your colleagues. The mare you work with, or under, as she would be sure to remind anyone you were to talk to, was one Miss Harshwhinny, though you do not know her first name and aren’t about to ask. If the money wasn’t as good as it is, you would have left a long time ago rather than suffer under such a witch. Harshwhinny, as head of the Equestria Games, is directly over the dozen of you, and seems to make a mockery of your craft.

“Crimson,” Adamant Chisel begins, using your first name. She is one of your classmates from when you first began learning your work, and as her name suggests, makes her contributions with her sculpting. Like you, she is a unicorn, and the difficult task of recording the decade since your graduation is visibly weighing on her. “The boss wants to see you again,” she says in an angered tone, hand on one hip.

“Right,” you grunt, putting down your brush. This is the absolute last thing you need, and you have been making great strides in painting the stadium, too. This is your largest work, stretched on a canvas nearly twenty meters in length, while also standing tall at four meters in height. Of all of the Order of Memories, especially those in the Crystal Empire for the Games, you are counted amongst the most restless. “Any idea why? She knows we’re all very busy.”

“Not busy enough, by her measure,” Chisel replies, throwing her thumb over her shoulder. Sighing, you march from the balcony your fellow Memories use as a work area, away from the main hustle and bustle of the other Games staff. Your boots click on the crystal floor as you walk, keeping away from the most crowded paths and hurrying to the slave driver’s office. How many hours have you spent in there so far? It is beyond your ability or desire to count, but you know it is high enough to take a serious chunk from your wallet were you not paid by the hour.

Adjusting your jacket, you politely knock on the frosted glass door, sure the she-devil on the other side could already see your shadow. You barely have time to knock a second time when she speaks. “Come in,” she says, her voice just as brusque as it had always been, and once more serves to drive away the trance-like state of your creation. Entering the impromptu office, she scowls at you, looking disgusted and angry in equal parts. “Now, Mister Stone, would you mind telling me why three more marble blocks were ordered today?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t understand the creative process three sculptors go through,” you sneer, returning her gaze in full force. Were Harshwhinny much older than you, you could understand, but as it stands, the two of you are very near in age, and she has no authority over you, nor over anypony in the Order of Memories. Lacking even seniority, this philistine appears to wish to be your undoing, constantly derailing you and your fellow Memories.

“And this creative process of yours is taking far too much time,” she says, using her fingers to show quotation. She seems ignorant of the Order’s lack of a formal command structure, or a structure of any sort, and likewise seems to think that with having the largest project, you therefore must be in charge. “The Equestria Games begin in a week, and your fancy reporters have been mucking about all this time.”

“You can’t even begin to create a work of this magnitude!” you reply, raising your voice only slightly over conversational levels. It is far from a shout, but it is the loudest you’ve ever been with this mare; it is, in fact, the only time you’d said anything to her that wasn’t in a bored, offended monotone. Instead of getting mad, blowing up like you had assumed she would, she frowns at you, checking a clock on the wall.

“Nor can you, by the look of things,” she hisses. For a very brief moment, you consider murder. You are amazingly sure you could get away with it; your fellow Memories would testify that you were with them the entire time. With your magic, it wouldn’t even take that long, not if you were to choke her to death before she could scream. But no; you are an artist, a historian, not a murderer, despite how wonderful it would be. For now, you grit your teeth and bear the torment. "The crown pays for results, which have thus far been nonexistent."

She rests her elbows on her desk, steepling her fingers as she glares at you. It is quite clear that today is simply not your day.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

The stadium is dark and entirely empty by the time you get back to work, but this solitude allows you to truly imprint the memory on the massive canvas. On a small stage near the center stand Princess Cadance and her husband, Shining Armor; the detail on their regalia alone takes you two whole hours, even while using six brushes with your magic. It is the greatest part of your greatest work, and it is finally perfect. The magic taught to Memories, even the subtle magics of the pegasi and earth ponies, takes a toll on the body, aging it prematurely and leaving most Memories burned out by their third decade of service. It will not kill you, but it will render your magic as normal as any other’s in time. Earth ponies take it better, keeping their youth longer than most, but they, too, eventually lose touch with ponykind’s collective race-memory. With that in mind, you work past the thoughts of your own, inevitable, magical impotence, and turn the poignant tide into bright colors and resplendent athletes locked in the joys of competition. Tossing your own mind, your own worries, into the fires of art, you lose yourself.

Your eyes roll in skull as you grasp a dozen fine brushes in your magic, channeling the raw emotion and anticipation that permeates the air. You work like a stallion possessed, and, in some ways, you truly are. Raw creation, the raw fury and passion as ponykind’s memories assault you, is ecstasy in its purest form. Physically, it is draining, but you push on, numbing the pain in your hands as your magic grips the brushes, creating a scene on the canvas that has not happened yet, but has been repeated in other cities, other stadiums, hundreds of times. Each scene is unique, flowing through your very being as you meld the multitude into a single, composite image, changing only what must be changed for this piece. As your mind’s eye gazes over the ponies you have permanently stained onto the painted field, your trance breaks.

Everything is as it should be; Princess Cadance is entirely as she is, as you have seen her, and so is her husband, the prince-consort. Next to them are the other princesses, as well as the Memories and representatives from other kingdoms, and the head of the Games herself, Miss Harshwhinny. Angrily, you paint over her, replacing her with her assistant, another earth pony mare with similar colors, so the conversion is thankfully easy. You want to forget about the bad parts of this commission, and removing Harshwhinny from the race-memory will make it easier. Your pride as a professional hurts at the damage you have done, but anger subsides, if only slightly. As you move to pick up your tools and return to work, you groan in frustration. Spite has ruined your trance, and left you blind to history.

It will take hours to regain the connection, so for the time being, you take a seat. Checking the clock on the wall, you snort, further fouling your mood and severing your ties. it is very early in the morning, and though your trance was rest enough for you to continue the day, perhaps with a short nap in the afternoon, it left you with a void of time you are unaccustomed to having. You sit in the electric brightness and try to wait away the hours you have until sunrise, but understand it is a pointless endeavor. It is nearly four in the morning, and while part of you wishes to sleep, the greater whole realizes it would only disrupt your sleep cycle more. Knowing there was no sense in getting all worked up over nothing, nor in suffering slight discomforts for the sake of professionalism, you kick your boots off.

Your socks hardly make a sound as you walk out, being sure to hit the lights as you go. While you aren’t exactly starving, a bite and a drink sound rather nice, and you know the other Memories have a stocked refrigerator for just such an occasion. Your colleagues are refreshing to work with, suffering the same eccentricities inherent to all Memories, so a late night like this is a common enough occurrence to warrant preparation. The cache is just down the hall, barely more than a few moments’ walk, and only a handful of steps later, you’ve found yourself a refreshingly cold bottle of water and a horribly bland nutrient bar. You make short work of the snack, sating your hunger and thirst for the time being, but find the physical relief did nothing for the boredom you felt cluttering your head.

Sighing, you get back to walking, checking out the other studios; there were four such boxes, which would be used as executive seating during the Games, and three Memories were crammed into each. Like before, the lights are off, but a simple flick brings them on again, shedding light on a large sculpture of Cadance, resplendent in a dress similar to what she wore to Princess Twilight's coronation. You only saw the resemblance because you personally painted one rendition of the scene. All of these statues and paintings are complete, and the Memories who occupied this chamber are surely sleeping in their respective hotels, meaning you are probably the only Memory still in the entire stadium.

This distraction of thought has wasted only about ten minutes of your time, but in this waking restlessness, any time spent is spent well. You hit the studio lights on your way out, back to your own workspace, when you spot a curious glow from under the door at the hall’s far end. A light is on in your studio, but you distinctly remember turning them off; what’s more, judging by the softness of the glow, only about half the lights are actually powered. Somepony was in your studio, and if the twilight was anything to go by, he or she isn’t a Memory. You are not about to let some thief or assassin scope out the place, not while you yet draw breath. Thankful for your socks, you silently open the crystalline door and creep inside your assigned studio.

The intruder is a mare, judging by the curves of her chest and hip, though she has little in the way of voluptuousness. Her mane is short and her tail is well-groomed, and she stands perhaps a head shorter than you; she is too small and, if her thin limbs are anything to go by, too weak to be of any threat, but you understand she could kill you just as dead as any high-class murderer. Honestly, it is a shame she’d sneaked up on you; she isn’t all that bad looking from behind, and you can only imagine her face is something to behold.Throwing the lights on, you prepare to meet this intruder in the many to which you are accustomed.

“Who in Tartarus is there?” she shouts in a brusque voice, turning to face you. Your worry is quickly replaced by mild annoyance as you see Miss Harshwhinny standing before your masterpiece. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I happen to work here,” you reply, biting down your anger. It would not do to separate yourself further from the race-memory, and while this philistine wishes to see you fail, you have no desire to grant her wishes. You think to ask what she’s doing here as well, but you fear that you’ll strangle her if she keeps talking to you in that tone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve work to get done, work you kept me from doing yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sure painting other ponies out of the Equestria Games is important work,” she bites back, her voice dripping venom. So, she can see the obvious change in history, in the workings of your painting, which would only be impressive if she were blind or unable to distinguish colors. “I’m sure the princesses would love to hear their precious reporters are edited ponies out of history.”

“And I’m certain they’d be absolutely thrilled to learn the head of the Games was harassing their Memories, and keeping us from our work.” You may be a bit belligerent, but you are a prideful creature, set in your ways, and would as soon die as let her stomp on the works you and your colleagues have worked so hard to create. “Listen, Harshwhinny; let the Memories work without interruption, and we’ll leave you to push paper, or whatever it is a Games head does.”

“The princesses need results, and you have yet to give so much as a portrait of progress,” she nearly shouts, trying to make herself taller to intimidate you. Personally, you wish she would dim the lights and turn around so you can get another eyeful, but as nice as she had seemed in the twilight glow, she is as vile as a serpent in the light. “I was told you Memories were professionals; I see now that I was wrong.”

That strikes a nerve, one she really has no business in striking. Your hand clenches as your horn sparks a bit, barely holding back your own destructive power; she has managed to get under your skin faster than even the most determined of parasite. You hate her, a wholeheartedly as anypony can hate anypony else. Harshwhinny is your very anathema, and as terrible as it is to admit it, the paycheck she ensures gets to your account is worth most of her torment. “Get out of my studio,” you say, looking directly in her eyes.

“Beg pardon?” she growls out, looking as angry as you’ve seen her. That is a laugh, and you bite back a chuckle as you see the irony; this slave-driving bitch had probably never been told before, and you must be the very first.

“I told you to get the fuck out of my studio,” you repeat, in a calm, even voice. She stares at you, wide-eyed and incredulous, as she processes the information. She takes a few steps, walking around in a half-circle; she huffs, stutters, and even has the decency to look a little calmer, perhaps even a bit guilty. The image quickly fades as she turns around and storms off. Of course, with your luck, she bumps right into Chisel’s rendition of Princess Celestia holding a gold medal. The plinth is thinner than usual, meant to be placed in a relieved base, and the whole piece is top-heavy.

Harshwhinny barely has time to react before the statue is ready to fall, tumbling down in an avalanche of polished marble. The stone princess’s flowing tail catches on Harshwhinny’s jacket, holding her in place and sealing what very well may be her ultimate fate. Cursing your luck, you dash forward, using a burst of magic to slow the statue long enough to pull her to safety. There is the sound of tearing fabric as both of you escape with your lives, and you can already tell she has lost at least article of clothing during the ordeal. Overestimating her weight, you accidently pin her against the wall, holding her aloft by her waist; you stifle a laugh as you realize she’s wearing quite a bit less now than she had been mere moments before. Her jacket, and her skirt, had been torn off in your escape, leaving her clad in an azure bra and panties set, complete with a matching garter belt that held up her usual stockings.

After a moment, both of you are on the same page, and Harshwhinny snorts as she suppresses a smile, trying to look offended at being rescued. After a moment of awkward silence, it is too much, and you drop her to the floor. "Jackass," she mumbles, rubbing her ass as she stands again. You look at her like she's gone mad, standing in front of clad in her undergarments as though this studio was her living home. "What? Not like I haven't worn less around coltcuddlers," she says, giving you another baleful look.

"Gay?" you ask, surprised she would make that assumption. "I'm not a bit gay." You sound only slightly offended, but you're not really all that shocked; most ponies thought artists, Memories included, went after the same sex. Harshwhinny, of course, realized she was half-naked in front of a very heterosexual stallion, but didn't seem a bit bashful about it. You admit, as toned and athletic she is, added in with her haughty, grumpy attitude, that she must be a hellcat between the sheets.

"So, you're straight?" she asks, walking towards you, which isn't the strangest thing to happen that morning, but is a bit unexpected. "You're sure?" she continues, as though it isn't obvious. Annoyed, you make a show of nodding, surprised she's standing so close. You're no virgin, not by a long shot, but seeing half-naked mare in such a state of undress was enough to arouse more than your interest. "Good, then you shouldn't mind this." You barely have time to react when she pulls you head her level, pressing her muzzle against yours, and uses the shock to slip her tongue through your lips. When you fail to react, she hesitates and pulls away, angry again; you can tell it’s more at herself than you, but it’s still something you’d rather not have to deal with.

You grab her wrists and pin them above her head, returning her kiss, eager to outperform her in every way possible. She groans into your mouth, pressing back in full force, as she drapes one leg over your hip. Harshwhinny pulls your body close, grinding against your thigh as you break off. “That’s a solid bronze, Crimson,” she says, using your first name for the first time you can remember. Your hands let her wrist drop, and instead you grab her by the waist. “Feel like going for gold?”

Harshwhinny’s elbow grazes your chest as she rips her bra off, popping the hooks and rings holding it together, and tosses it aside. “Cheeky bitch,” you say in an amused tone. “So, I take it you’ve been trying to get into my pants for a while now?” Your tone is still light, but you’re very painfully aroused by her standing so bold, and you find the very pants she’s been trying to get into are rather lacking in space at the moment. The sound of ripping fabric hits your ears, and a pair of azure panties swat you in the face. You both chuckle a bit at the act, but your breath catches in your throat as both her hands fondle your growing stallionhood through your trousers. She makes no move to undo them, so you think a rather devilish thought.

You lift her up, wrapping one arm around her, and press your palm against her sex. She tenses, anticipating your actions, but whimpers lightly as you continue to apply pressure, only broken by the occasional twitch to keep her interested. Biting her lip, her hands work the top button of your shirt, jerking as you press against her clit; unlike her own clothes, she’s careful with yours, and only mildly disappointed to see you wearing a t-shirt underneath your button-up. You smile at her, before pulling your hand back and whipping the offending garments off. Harshwhinny pulls you back to her, holding the hem of your pants for leverage, before grinning up at you.

With a few quick motions, your belt buckle is undone, but she smiles at your and tugs you forward, making sure the hem never drops an inch. She stops dragging you as your reach one of the marble blocks the sculptors have yet to touch, ordered from the same quarry as all the others, so price wasn’t the issue. Only now do you realize Harshwhinny just wanted a reason for you to enter her office, if only to berate you about something meaningless. She lets your pants drop to the floor, but holds one of your legs to keep you from kicking them away just yet. Stopping, she runs a hand over your clothed shaft, squeezing just a bit. She gasps as she realizes you aren't fully hard yet, but still easily on the right side of the bell curve. She finishes pulling off what little clothing you have left, before tossing it aside herself.

“My word,” she purrs, hefting your shaft in her hand, eyes darting between you and it. “I don’t think we have a platinum medal, Crimson.” She grips and give you a decent pump, delighting as a drop of pre leaks from your tip. She plants a kiss on your head. “I guess I can think of some other prize for you.” Squeezing your cock, she draws it to her mouth, taking the first few inches without issue as you lean against the marble block to rest. She bobs over the length she can take, and uses her hands to massage the rest. At first, you aren’t entirely erect, but as she continues her ministration, you find it harder and harder to keep from grabbing her head and slapping the entirety of your length down her throat. You settle for resting one hand one her head, tousling her blonde mane affectionately.

She pulls back and takes a deep breath, then throws herself forward, sending a few inches down her throat. She grabs your hips and uses them for leverage as she finds a decent rhythm to facefuck herself. After a few strokes, she slams her onto you, bumping her nose against your pelvis, but tears form at the corner of her eyes. She gags and pulls away, going into a coughing fit as soon as she can breathe again. “Are you alright?” you ask, worried for her health; though it may have been minor to her, it certainly wasn’t a precedent you wanted to set.

“I guess deepthroating isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she laughs, coughing once or twice more. You help her to her feet, before bringing her in for a kiss; it didn't matter that you grabbed her ass as soon as your lips connected, as long as both of you enjoyed yourselves. She purrs in your ear, hand still on your cock, as she pulls you tight against her. “Hope you don’t mind our little pause, but I need your help with something.” She lies on the marble block, resting on her back, as she spreads her legs and crooks an inviting finger towards herself. She’s positively soaked, and even the fur around her sex is matted down by her juices; you even see she has a small piercing just above her clit, right through its little hood, and though you aren’t particularly fond of piercings, you admit it gives her a certain lewdness you hadn’t expected from her before this wild morning. "You see, stud, I'm a bit hot right now, and I need somepony to help me cool off."

You don't need to be asked twice. You slide a hand up her leg as you take your position, taking your sweet time; though you have never said anything that would hint at it, this is the end of a dry spell for you, so making sure to savor the moment is high on your list of priorities. Your hand come to rest just outside her sex, bathed in moist heat, as she looks up at you with an expectant gleam in her eyes. Obliging, you slip a finger between her lips, though you delve no deeper than the very beginning of her tunnel. You plant a kiss on one of her nipples as you tease her opening, enraptured entirely by the noises she makes in an attempt to deny you the satisfaction of hearing her moan. You plunge a single finger into her hot, moist depths to prepare her; she may be soaked, but you’re rather well endowed, and her body needs to be ready for penetration or you run the risk of hurting her.

You suckle on the nub between your lips as you slide a second finger in, spreading them apart to test elasticity and muscle reflex under the guise of foreplay. If your guess about her past is correct, then she evidently did not train only the muscles most used in sports; she wraps an arm around your head and you can practically hear her smirking as she flexes around your fingers hard enough to force them together. You look into her eyes as you slide your fingers from her depths, and see her ire at your inaction; you smile and nip your way back down her body, careful not to bite too hard. However, each time you pinch her skin, she gasps and presses against your mouth. Finally, your lips rest above the cleft of her sex, and you feel her every abdominal muscle twitch, tense, and relax, eager for pleasure you tease her with, but deny at every opportunity.

Finally, because you are not heartless and every bit as horny as Harshwhinny, you catch her little clit piercing between your teeth and give it a gentle tug. She bucks and grinds against your face, and you can only imagine it's from a wonderful mixture of pain and pleasure, as she groans above you. Working your way down, you slide your tongue between her lips, and lick from her button to her sensitized entrance. Her firm thighs, every bit as muscular as they are compact, clench around your head, locking you in place until she decides to free you, not that you much mind being trapped in such a way. She squeezes you head as your tongue trails back towards her clit, and a hand runs through your mane as you snort a breath over her wetness. You focus on that little nub, learning every little bump and rub that drives Harshwhinny wild.

You slip a finger in, teasing her walls as you assault her button, and move slowly to contrast your tongue’s speed. Her thighs squeeze your head as she digs her nails into your scalp; she grabs a fistful of your mane and pulls your head closer, grinding her pussy against your muzzle as she arches her back. You hear a long, husky moan before you feel her wetten around your finger and tongue; she’s no squirter, but you can easily tell she’s enjoyed your work. Her legs go limp as you pull away, certain she’s ready for the main event. Smiling, you climb back over her, careful not to disturb her afterglow too much. You position yourself as best you can, using one hand to hold yourself up while the other lifts her hips to meet you.

Harshwhinny helps guide you to her entrance, and whimpers as your tip finds its mark; for a moment, you expect her to request a change of position, but she merely grins at you and wraps her legs around your waist. You press just a bit, and she winces as you both realize that all the lubrication in the world is only going to prevent so much discomfort; you have to take this slow, or you run the risk of causing serious harm to one or both of you. You drop to one elbow as you try again, nibbling on Harshwhinny’s neck to help take her mind off any pain she may be feeling. You apply more force, hoping her tightness wouldn't work too much against you.

Suddenly, she wraps her arms around you, and her nails dig into your back; she whines a bit and her eyes water, but your head is now snug in her overtight tunnel. You gyrate what little you have inside her, easing a small portion of your length each time you think you can get away with it. With tears still in the corners of her eyes, she glares up at you, before using her legs to pull you in faster. You thrust again, pulling back a full third of your cock, and plunging in nearly every bit you have to give. Harshwhinny gasps as your flat head presses firmly against her cervix, not hard enough to be overly uncomfortable, but plenty enough to make her wary of any further impatience. "So, is that all of it?" she murmurs, looking pained but relieved at having taken your impressive endowment.

In response, with your breathing too strained by the overstimulation her stretching cunny, you raise your chest to give her a better view. Part of her looks amazed at how wide you really are, how she managed to take you without ripping open, but another part is shocked at the inch or so of your stallionhood that is still exposed. Mares who can fully take you right away are few and far between, but the fact that Harshwhinny can cope so much is in itself amazing. You pull back a bit, and sink back into her depths, delighting as her tiring muscles try to massage your cock. "Keep slow for now," she whimpers, holding herself against you as she reins in her body.

You oblige, taking long, slow thrusts as she acclimates to your presence, never taking her eyes off your shaft as it slowly draws back and plunges in. Her breath hitches every time you bottom out, and her legs twitch around your hips as you lean forward and catch her lips in a surprisingly tender embrace. She moans into your mouth, and bucks her hips against your thrusts. You break the kiss and pull away, catching a twinkle in her eye; you take that as your cue to speed up and increase force. If she wants it rougher, she’ll get it. You grin down at her and swiftly move your arms between her thighs.

She gasps as you pry her legs from your hips, and throw them over your shoulders; she screams when you use the added leverage to jackhammer at her tight sex. Years of experience keep you from using every bit you can squeeze in, careful not to hurt her too much as she howls loud enough to alert anypony who may be around. She digs her nails into your back as her tunnel spasms around your cock, gushing juices over your shaft and making it easier for you to glide through her depths. She stops screaming for the moment, content to whimper and hold you close as she comes down from her orgasm, though you brook no quarter and keep your pace, hammering away with the same measured carnality.

She is still nearly painfully tight, but the agony is blissful, and her biting nails only add to your enjoyment. Harshwhinny does her best to buck against your thrusts, even if her current position doesn’t lend her much leverage, and you can tell she isn’t anywhere near done. Or, you think so until you see her relax and drop her legs from your shoulders; you stop thrusting and wait for her to respond, only to have her smile up at you. “Roll over, stud; it’s my turn on top.”

You blink in surprise, but don’t hesitate to comply, and shoot her a grin as you pull out and lie back. Both of you shiver slightly at the other’s absence, missing the warmth you gave one another, but it is a necessary evil. You glance down when you feel Harshwhinny's hands gripping your shaft, then look to her face and see she’s biting her lip, eyes wide in amazement at how much of your length she had managed to take.

Moving up your body, she presses her chest to your crotch, the bottom of your shaft slipping between her tits. Lowering her head, her tongue comes out and flicks over your tip, and she attempts to massage your cock with her palmable breasts. She seems a bit disappointed that she cannot fully wrap your shaft in her warm flesh, but seems determined to accomplish something impressive. Her lips join her tongue and wrap around your head, taking more of your your stallionhood, moaning as the taste of her own juices graces her tongue.

Harshwhinny’s eyes meet with yours, and you can see she wants the main event back as much as you do, releasing you from her mouth as you have this revelation. Slowly sliding up your body, she doesn’t stop until her muzzle is level with yours, and slithers her tongue across your lips, teasing you with the chance of a taste, but pulling away before you can act. She moves back down you slightly, and you feel a familiar, wet warmth against your shaft. Her hips lift from your body, letting her feminine juices coat your shaft, then she lowers herself back down, her hands placed firmly on your shoulders; as she grinds against your length, you feel this is as much a show of strenght meant to keep you on your back as it is a means for her to remain upright.

Lifting her hips past her usual mark, she takes a deep breath as your tip probes at her dripping pussy; she lets out a loud moan as she pushes down your shaft, digging her nails into the fur of your shoulders. You hiss in pain as they scratch the skin underneath, looking up to see Harshwhinny biting her lip as she slowly inches down your length, testing her inner limits while remaining eager to outdo your earlier penetration. She kneels as straight as she can, keeping her knees close to avoid falling too far down your shaft to avoid painfully spearing herself. Moaning, she rolls her hips forward as she runs her fingers through the fur of your chest; as she slides back, she takes as much as she can, coming to rest only after as much of your cock as possible is firmly buried in her hot, wet sex.

You trail your hands up her thighs, barely touching her, and bring them to rest on her hips; she smiles her response, slipping her arms around your neck, and pulls your head up to press her lips against yours in a passionate, deep kiss. She moans into your mouth as her hips roll over yours, her walls clamping firmly onto your shaft to hold you in, even as she pulls away to prepare for the next thrust. One of your hands slides up her stomach, tickling over her sensitive skin and trailing over the fur between her breasts. You grasp one of the tender orbs, and massage it as you rock against Harshwhinny’s grinding.

Pulling away from your lips, Harshwhinny presses her body closer to yours, her arms tightening as she moans in your ear; her warm breath makes you shiver against her, and you groan through clenched teeth as she nips at your jaw. You swivel your hips underneath her, hitting nerves you would otherwise miss, as a familiar pressure builds in your abdomen; you groan as you realize you are very near your climax. Moving your hand back down to her hip, you began to thrust harder and faster; the mare above you gasps for breath as your shaft resists the command of her tight, warm walls to remain still.

The edges of your vision grow white as a the tightness in your stomach grows nearly painful in its intensity. You move both hands to lift Harshwhinny off your cock before you erupt inside her, but she pushes back down and forces your hands onto the plinth. “Don’t you dare pull out!” she nearly cries as you start to flare. What parts of your mind still thinking cumming inside her is a bad idea are crushed, and you offer no resistance as she slams herself down on your length, and your groins finally meet as every inch of your shaft is buried deep inside her. She screams as your tip expands, and your girth seals her passage; sputtering, she goes limp and lies on top of you, her every muscle entirely unable to maintain control as her nerves send lightning up her spine.

With a few more strong thrusts, you force your hands free and place them back on her waist, holding tightly as your body tenses up. You growl as you fire your first spurt, a massive amount that distends your cock as it travels to its destination. Your second shot is equally as plentiful, and joins the first in Harshwhinny’s deepest recesses. You keep spraying inside, planting your seed in the soils of her womb. You’re unsure how long your orgasm lasts, and how long it takes you to come down from your high, but when you do, you’re left panting for breath just as surely as the mare lying atop you.

Harshwhinny moans and rakes her nails through the fur of your chest and wiggles a bit to the side to lie next to you on the plinth with her head on your shoulder. Her mane is tousled, and you busy yourself by twirling one of her short locks with a finger as she nuzzles against you. You have no idea how long you lie upon the cool marble; not until a thin ray of light breaks through the gap in the curtains. You dumbly realize it’s dawn, or may have been for some time if the sun has broken the stadium’s rim; you aren’t worried about being discovered, though, because it’s the off day for most of the nonessential staff. The cleaning crews know not to enter the Memories’ studios, so the two of you have the room to yourselves for as long as you wish.

Those comforting thoughts come to a screeching halt as the door clicks open, and you both turn to see who’s violated their contract and overstepped their bounds. The pony in question, however, is a bit beyond the reach of most of the stadium’s rules and regulations. You just stare at her with wide eyes as she walks past, seeming not to notice you as she approaches the curtains. Her horn glows a soft gold and the parts the fabric, making the both of you wince as light floods the room; you hear the interloper’s heels click on the floor as she turns around.

“Crimson Stone,” Princess Celestia begins. “It never ceases to amaze me how much you produce.” As the princess smiles, Harshwhinny gasps and presses a hand to her stomach, and you can’t help but look for yourself. Her taut stomach sports a bit of a bump where you assume her womb is, heavy with the seed you’d spilled only a short while before. “Honestly, I can’t say I’ve seen a canvas this large, with so much detail, in years.”

“Thank you, Princess,” you reply, as nonchalant as you can be. Honestly, this is the third or fourth time Celestia has caught you in such a situation; you’re beginning to think she has a sense for it or something. With a glance at Harshwhinny, you see her frowning at you, and gave her a shrug, then look to the princess; she has a very familiar smirk upon her lips. “You know as well as I that I take pride in my work, Princess.”

“I take it my niece has kept you and the other Memories busy?” she asks, taking a seat on another open plinth, the very same her statue previously rested on. “This room’s filled to the brim with half-finished projects.” She glances down to the shattered marble, and makes eye contact with her stony self. “I trust Chisel is trying for a more impressionist piece this time?” she asks with a laugh. “And Miss Harshwhinny, may I say that is a rather strange fashion choice for summer? Blue is more a spring color.”

“P-please, call me Bridle, your highness,” Harshwhinny stammers out, and you’re a bit surprised to learn her first name. Honestly, you were close to thinking it was Miss for all she mentioned of it; you suppose there was little time for talk earlier, though. You have to withhold your amazement as the usually-fierce mare tries to hide behind you to preserve her dignity, all while Princess Celestia meets your gaze.

“Now, Crimson, I think you need to give Bridle one of your shirts so she’s decent,” she says in a maternal tone that leaves no room for argument. You comply without hesitation, and levitate your buttondown over to Harshwhinny, who wastes no time in putting it on. “Now, Bridle, would you mind very much if I sent both of you to your suite to avoid a walk?”

“No, your majesty,” she replies, still looking like she could crawl into a hole, and probably preferred that to remaining in the princess’s gaze. WIth a nod to the two of you, she sparks up her horn; you hold up your hand and get out of the way just in time to avoid a premature transportation. Not meeting Celestia’s gaze, you amble over to your painting, and undo an error you made, the error that previously severed your connection with ponykind’s race-memory.

“I expected you to be a bit less juvenile than that, Crimson,” Celestia says, disappointed but not angry. You studied under her for a long time, as had all the Memories, and she is like a second mother to you, so her words cut deeper than you like to admit. “I trust you won’t do something like this again?” You stand there for a moment and briefly wonder if she’s taking that particular idea a little too seriously. Still, she smiles at you, and before you can react, the world spins, and you find yourself somewhere you aren’t familiar with.

Immediately, you find yourself shoved down, onto a well-furnished bed; you can only tell it’s a bed and not some awning from the sound of springs creaking ever so slightly under your weight. You don’t even need a moment to recognize the mare straddling your hips as she glares at you. Bridle Harshwhinny, as docile and dopey as she had been in post-orgasmic bliss, seemed pretty mad at you, for very obvious reasons. “Asshole,” she say through clenched teeth. “You owe me for that, big time.”

While she is angry, the look on her face tells you this won’t be much of a punishment.

It’s that time again, with the Equestria Games starting in a few weeks, you and a handful of other Memories are in Manehatten to record them. Part of you is glad to be working the Games, but another part is rather apprehensive about the entire ordeal. Once again, it is not your colleagues, a bunch of newly minted Memories, that have you on edge. You run the chance of seeing Bridle again, and as wonderful as it would be to catch up, both of you realized your respective works would draw you apart again much too soon. Both of you are a little too old for a random fling, so maybe it would be best to avoid one another? You sigh as you realize that may not be possible, given that you have to mentor these raw Memories in their creations.

It seems nothing will ever be easy for you, not if you keep on your current career path, and it wasn’t like you have many other skills. You’ll waste away at this rate, but that’s a worry for the you of the future, isn’t it? You chuckle to yourself as the stadium meant to house the Games comes into view; it dwarfs the one in the Crystal Empire by what you assume to be a league of magnitude. With a couple weeks until the Games begin, most of the ponies who swarm the massive complex are workers, cleaners, and reporters, meaning you have little to worry about as far as interruptions go. Or, at least that’s how it works in theory. You see a number of flags are already being flown from nearby hotel windows, meaning a few teams are already here, if not the entire representation of other kingdoms.

Your trainees should already be within the studios, but the number of practicing flag crews and cheerleaders doesn't exactly fill you with enthusiasm as you recall most of your batch happen to be young stallions. As a matter of fact, you see one of your own, a pinto colt who was fresh from school, chatting up an orange pegasus, probably one of the spectators who arrived early. You nearly shout at him to get inside when you catch sight of the stunning ass of a mare, which stops you dead in your tracks. Only with this pause do you recognize who the pinto is, and nearly kick yourself at not remembering him. The colt is none other than Pipsqueak, a young, famous cartographer you've worked with on a few occasions, though he’s probably rather unknown to anypony who isn’t interested in maps or history; the orange pegasus is neither worth your attention more than any other bystander nor does she seem to warrant it.

“Hey Stone, been a while!” Pipsqueak calls to you, over the noise of other ponies as you walk up to him and his little group. The orange mare turns and waves to you, which you politely return, but the other mare with the rocking ass keeps her back to you. Well, at least the view from behind is nice enough; she’s wearing a pair of black slacks that may be a bit too small. Pip gives you a look as your eyes dart back to him, but he says nothing.

“Yes, well, Memories travel a lot; I won’t be able to retire for a while yet,” you reply, chuckling. Truthfully, you’d be retired and living on a damned fine pension before you reached forty, and would then probably take up training newer Memories, rather than just overseeing their first works when they’re fresh from the Order’s academy in Canterlot. Pip and the orange pegasus look between you and the other mare, a small spark of curiosity visible in their eyes, as she finally turns to face you.

“Crimson Stone, of the Order of Memories,” she says as she turns, in a voice you know all too well. “It’s been a while.” You’re about to greet Bridle Harshwhinny as you would greet anypony you knew so well, but stop when you see how she’s changed over the years you’ve spent apart. Her breasts, for whatever reason, are noticeably large, and her hips stick out just a bit farther than you recall. You recant your earlier thoughts of avoiding her; even looking at her is enough for your appetite right now.

“It’s good to see you again, Bridle,” you say, stepping closer to hug her. Sudden motion at the bottom of your vision stops you in your tracks, however. A colt hides behind her, maybe three or four years old, with a little horn parting his dark red mane. His coat nearly matches Bridle’s, and that mane of his is only a shade or two darker than yours. Seeing your apprehension, Harshwhinny embraces you like an old friend, but beckons the foal to come closer. She kneels down to his height, and pull you with her, so the three of you are on equal ground.

“Crimson, this is Brushed Honor, your son.”

Author's Notes:

And this has a minor tie-in with Lucky424's Cutie Mark Crusaders... Non-Escapre Artist? and it's as yet unreleased sequel.
If this generates interest, I can think of a few other things I can do with this.