All good-natured teasing aside, Twilight knew she had a fixation (which was putting that mildly, to say the least) bordering on an obsession (there we go) with perfectionism. Even something as simple (or should be, anyway) as purchasing a greeting card would send her into a nervous swivet. If there were a poster pony for “spontaneous” . . . she’d never make the cut, even if she were the last pony on Equestria.

For the last several months now, Twilight had been secretly observing Trixie. Well, more specifically, observing, as well as studying, the oblivious unicorn as Trixie, ummm . . . “stress relieved”. Except . . .

Except that Twilight had, in her past, spent several very intensive months researching the wide variety of the often-erotic practices or roleplaying involving bondage, discipline, dominance and submission, sadomasochism, and other related interponyal dynamics. She’d learned about the difference between kink (an enjoyable indulgence, but not absolutely necessary for sexual fulfillment) and fetish (something integral to that pony’s sexuality), a differentiation that was often misunderstood —and usually talked about in blushing whispers. And so, Twilight understood that more had been going on in some instances than mere "stress relief".

Honestly, if Trixie had had any idea of the empirical knowledge that Twilight possessed regarding matters, she . . .

. . . well, she didn’t have any idea, and so . . .

Because of that exhaustive research, once puberty had hit —and, just as she’d explained to Trixie— Twilight had immediately correlated those new “tingles” being tied up sometimes created with the heading of “arousal”. Those were nice feelings, true, but she’d never felt the need, or desire, to push the intensity further than “warm and glowy”. Her personal preference had always been the Zen-like state she could only achieve once secured in her customized sensory isolation suit.

But —and again, because of that exhaustive research— Twilight sensed that Trixie’s wants and needs —her daydreams, desires and fantasies— seemed a bit more, ah . . . cosmopolitan. Based upon her notes —and charts, and graphs— Trixie seemed evenly divided between simply being restrained (as Twilight had “found” her) to more erotic, if not outright sexual, situations . . . like when she used her sawpony.

All Twilight had originally pictured —planned . . . plotted . . . schemed . . . histogrammed, pie charted— assuming the unconventional introduction had succeeded, was finally having a special somepony (not that kind of special somepony though!) that she could talk with. She’d imagined Trixie and herself sharing secrets, their likes and dislikes . . . their fantasies, even. And, perhaps —just perhaps!— reaching a point where they would take turns tying each other up; maybe even exploring, and expanding, their shared interests.

Yep! That was all Twilight had dreamed about. Nice and neat and complete; utterly and completely satisfactory and satisfying. But . . .

But something had changed that night, and even more so the following morning.

That night, Twilight had been trying to reassure Trixie —honestly; no fooling!— that she knew, really knew, what Trixie was feeling . . . how that was making her feel . . . and want.

It's hard to feel really helpless when you can simply magic everything right off, isn't it.

You'll never feel this helpless ever again, you know. Even if, one day, you find a special somepony you can trust, somepony you entrust a ring like this to them so they can remove that last little bit of control from you . . . You will always have permitted them that control. But . . . not tonight.

You can't get free, can you.

It feels good, doesn't it.

Squirm for me. Mmmm . . . yess . . . like that. More. Squirm for me some more. I want to see just how helpless you really are.

Twilight swiped her lips with a dainty curl of her tongue, fidgeting a bit as she recalled that night. She had started out just wanting to assure, reassure, and comfort Trixie, as she snuggled the helplessly restrained unicorn against her, just as she had been doing for those previous few minutes. But, while it had started out that way . . . it certainly hadn’t ended quite that way.

Twilight? Please let me go now? Trixie had pleaded.

No, had been Twilight’s response . . . and she’d been utterly, and completely serious, too.

Those five minutes had been the catalyst to a surprising change within Twilight, rousing a host of desires from embryonic nascence to unblemished fruition. Sensations and needs that flashed from mere desires to almost cravings.

Unfortunately, Twilight hadn’t been able to fully parse those new feelings that night, what with being in minor agony within an hour of sitting in that awkward position.

(Besides, she hadn’t any quills, inkwells, or parchment, either)

It was barely possible that, like a seed sprouting on hard-packed clay, that those intriguing new sensations might have fallen dormant rather quickly. However, Trixie —completely unknowingly— assured that would never, ever happen, when, the following morning . . .

And Trixie would also like to point out that, as the situation currently obtains, what Twilight plans on doing 'afterwards' is, ah . . . entirely in her own hooves, as Trixie is in no position to gainsay her

. . . entirely in her own hooves, as Trixie is in no position to gainsay her . . .

. . . as Trixie is in no position to gainsay her . . .

. . . no position to gainsay her . . .

Something deep inside Twilight, something fierce, something primal, had roared to life at that.

She had absolutely no idea what might have happened next, had her back not chosen that exact moment to knot up and spasm, striking Twilight with almost crippling pain. And she was absolutely grateful beyond words that she hadn’t found out, too, because, as distressing as it was to admit, Twilight wasn’t sure there had been a “slow” button there, let alone an “off switch”.

That had been something that, for the last almost-two weeks, had troubled and disturbed her . . . well, had been doing more than just “trouble and disturb” if she was honest with herself. However, by now, Twilight wasn’t really sure she’d felt what she’d thought she’d remembered feeling.

However, she was absolutely sure of the feelings she’d felt exactly a week ago, when she’d “suited up” to show Trixie the most special, most favorite way, she had of relaxing. Twilight gently wriggled, clearly remembering the moment she’d felt Trixie slide her ring down her horn . . . the moment she’d, for only the second time in her life, had been rendered utterly and completely helpless. And, since she hadn’t remembered the ring was there . . . again, for the second time in her life, she’d had no warning before being ringed. . . and neither had she given permission nor consent.

Twilight’s nostrils flared as that memory —so strong, so vibrant!— blossomed in her mind once again.

However, as eager as she was to experience that again, she found herself anticipating even more so her next turn with Trixie . . . assuming, of course, that Trixie was willing to agree to another turn, that is. All things considered, Twilight wasn’t at all sure if Trixie would want to do so, or would simply be content with “We’ve each had a go now; let’s just keep it to chatting”.

Having Trixie as a guest the last two days hadn’t made the pressure inside Twilight ease one bit; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect. Even with her deep concern about her friend’s health, over her state of mind and body, all that happened was those insistent-and-intriguing feelings were more simmer-y than boiling.

It is said that timing is everything, and so it was with what finally transpired.

It hadn’t taken very long —once the studious alicorn had gathered sufficient data, that is— for Twilight to discern patterns to Trixie’s “activities”. For instance, data interpretation showed correlations between “stress relief/relaxation” with “straitjacket and wraps”, and between “erotic/sensual arousal” with “sawpony”. There had been a few outliers, but those two combinations dominated the Pareto chart. Unfortunately, without being able to read minds —and, no, alicorns could not do that . . . or so they said, anyway— Twilight had no real idea what particular fantasy —or fantasies— might be the allure.

Having said that, however, Twilight had —once again, plotted, charted, ad nauseam— systematically considered a legion of potential erotic fantasies, including roleplay scenarios. It seemed as if all that prior research years ago was finally going to be put to practical use after all!

Doctor/Nurse/Patient . . . Escort/Client . . . Teacher/Student (that one made Twilight furiously blush). . . Executive/Secretary . . . Handypony/Housemare . . . Master/Slave . . . Photographer/Model . . . Erotic Dancer/Client . . .

And that was just scratching the surface of the potentials and possibilities!

Weeks before Twilight had actually taken the bold step of foalnapping Trixie, she had already prepared a list of the more interesting, and intriguing, scenarios, that, given the chance, she’d like to discuss with Trixie and, should the unicorn desire, explore in addition to discuss. She’d not only prepared a list, but had additionally scripted out settings, narrations, and the like.

Although everypony might twit Twilight over her obsessive behaviors, her adorkable quirks, her unique point-of-view, one thing nopony would accuse Twilight of would be sophistry. Self-deception simply was not part of her nature, and ran completely converse to everything she stood for and believed.

Until now.

It had been exactly a week ago today that Twilight had introduced Trixie to her special room. A week ago since Twilight had reached a new pinnacle of Zen. And as strong as she desired to repeat that . . . she was driven even stronger to have a second opportunity with Trixie; this one, by its very nature, being fully consensual.

Twilight was not noted for patience, although that was mostly associated with research and study. Many a pony would claim to bear the Princess’ hoofprints on their backs, imprinted there from where she’d trampled them on her way to a particular book, encyclopedia, or tome. So waiting a week normally would have wound her up tighter than Pinkie Pie after consuming twenty-four ice cream sundaes . . . one-after-another. However, that internal simmering had been tempered with the intense worry and concern she’d had for her unicorn friend, after she’d had a breakdown.

But that had been three days ago, and if Trixie was feeling well enough to conduct research and study . . .

Twilight had readied a list of six interesting scenarios to test and try out, curious to see which ones registered the greatest interest . . . and, well, the most intense response, too. Since Twilight had, on more than one occasion, idly daydreamed about being caught in extremis (and, well . . . had the interesting incidence of actually experiencing that one time), she was curious to see how Trixie responded to playing that out. Granted, like Twilight, she, too, had experienced the reality of that. But, this time, she could simply relax and “enjoy the show”.

And, in fact, Trixie had enjoyed it. Twilight distantly noted her reactions, her responses, and was quite pleased and happy at that success . . .

. . . for quite a different matter than originally intended.

She’d had to giggle along with Trixie at the second one. That hadn’t had a high probability of success, but, like all experiments, one simply didn’t “stack the deck”.

Twilight had glanced over numbers three, four, and five, which, like the previous two, had been previously scripted, and were ready and waiting in the wings. And then, there was number six.

Number six, which Twilight had dismissed as simply being one among the “most-likely-to-succeed” . . .

Number six, just an innocent scenario possibility, nothing more, and nothing less, than any of the others.

At least, that’s what Twilight kept telling herself . . . studiously ignoring the real reason for her including that. . .

. . . because all those other "reasons", as justifiable as they sounded, weren't anywhere close to the truth.

As the bidding went on, Twilight felt her insides tensing, felt racing little sharp jolts throughout her skin and muscle. There was a tightness in her belly, a glowing warmth in her core, as she watched, as she listened, to the captive unicorn being auctioned off as a slave.

She licked her lips, then her breathing whuffed as Trixie surged against the straps that rendered her helpless, as she pathetically whined in futile denial of her inescapable fate.

. . . no position to gainsay me . . . no position to gainsay me . . . no position to gainsay me . . .

“Twenty thousand,” she growled, right on cue, while, not at all scripted, I would pay that for real, if for real . . .

“Now, get on with it.” There was no acting there; Twilight’s patience was fraying, drawn deep into the scenario . . . which was growing less and less a story line by the heartbeat.

“Twenty thousand once . . . twenty thousand twice . . . sold!” At that “sold”, Twilight’s legs almost buckled, as a fire surged within her. Nostrils flared wide as she slowly paced around her new possession: her toy, her pet. So very helpless (. . . no position to gainsay me . . .); completely defenseless (. . . no position to gainsay me . . . ); impotent and powerless (. . . no position to gainsay me . . .)

Slowly circling, utterly patient, no need to hurry (. . . no position to gainsay me . . . ), Twilight appraised her new possession, her heart suddenly hammering as she spotted the unmistakable sign of arousal glistening beneath the captive unicorn’s tail.

Without thinking, she swatted her flank when her pet tried speaking up. “Keep quiet,” Twilight rasped, and another jolt of delicious fire surged through her upon seeing the shivers her voice invoked.

“Aren’t you just the pretty little pet?” Twilight murmured. “Awwww,” she cooed. “Does my little pet not like being tied up? Is that it? Does she want to be freed?” In a very distant part of her mind was the shock at speaking, and acting, this way.

But it was very distant. Very, very distant.

And when Twilight removed the blindfold, and gazed deeply into her pet’s enormous eyes, pupils so wide and dilated . . .

. . . that voice was no longer heard.

Twilight slowly circled her pet, saying not a word, but it was impossible to mistake what she was doing as she made pass after pass . . .

She was appraising her new possession.

Every few steps she’d pause, reaching out a hoof and gently stroking, lightly caressing. Unlike before, Trixie trembled in realization, when Twilight had done this, during The Discovery, these touches weren’t intended to soothe . . . they were intended to claim. Each stroke, each caress, simply confirmed, and displayed, ownership.

Nostrils flaring, Trixie’s breathing was growing faster, the rhythm jerky and rapid. She desperately needed to swallow, and all the more so because of the saliva pooling around the ball in her mouth. But that same ball made swallowing difficult.

It also muffled her whines and whimpers, which, somehow, just hearing those sounds was simply adding fuel to her internal fire. She’d only called out Twilight’s name one additional time, but the swat she received, coupled with the stern injunction that “if a pet spoke up again, she’ll find out what it’s like being really gagged, and paddled as well” . . .

Leather creaked and she fidgeted and squirmed, tensing against the straps, pulling against them. Against her will —and she truly did try very hard, indeed— her tail started lifting, rising up in presentation, and, as it did, her face flamed in intense embarrassment . . . which, to her immense shock, only stoked the fires of her arousal.

For she was undeniably aroused.

“Does my little pet not like being tied up? Is that it? Does she want to be freed?” Twilight repeated . . . her lips just brushing the fine inner hairs of an ear, her voice a husky, heated murmur . . . heated literally; her breath felt like a furnace.

Piteously whining, Trixie nodded her head up and down. Then whined even harder as she felt, as well as heard, an impishly naughty chuckle right against her ear. “Then all my sexy little pet needs to do is . . . hold completely still.”

A moment later, and all four limbs tensed, as Trixie struggled to hold still, even as sweat rolled down her forehead and cheeks . . . and she trickled elsewhere as well.

The helplessly restrained unicorn’s muscles vibrated like one of Octavia’s strings being plucked, as Twilight returned to her predatory —honestly, that was the only word that fit— circling stalking. Pausing a few moments, she nuzzled behind an ear . . . a few steps, and nuzzled behind the other . . . a few steps, then nuzzled the base of the neck . . . then nibbled. Trixie tensed even tighter, whining again and again, her breathing increasingly staccato.

And when Twilight paused, right behind her . . .

Trixie’s hips rocked as Twilight’s furnace-hot breath caressed between her hind legs; specifically, against the glistening, slick folds her betraying tail had exposed. She whimpered, mortified and humiliated. No, she couldn’t help being seen like this, but, even so . . .oh . . . ooooooh . . .

Twilight exhaled again, followed by a vibrant, deep, rumbling purr. “Mmmmmmm,” she hummed, unquestionably pleased! And, at that moment, humiliation . . . changed; altered. The heat of that still blazed, but instead of that being crippling, it felt . . . good? Yes . . . good. Trixie was helpless, a pet totally controlled by her owner. There was no shame, no guilt; only freedom.

“Mmmm . . . yessss,” another purr. “That’s my good little pet,” she praised, caressing her croup. “Squirm for me.”

Trixie paused, eyes wide and round. B-b-b-ut if she squirmed . . . she couldn’t hold still and squirm after all! How could she earn her freedom if she squirmed?

That . . . was a rather moot point, she realized moments later, for her double-crossing body was no longer paying attention to anything as trivial as freedom. Closing her eyes, Trixie gently squirmed atop the sawpony, and as Twilight kept purring, kept stroking and caressing, both with hooves and with horntip, as she kept encouraging and coaxing . . . consciousness started receding, as long-dormant desires roused . . . stretched . . .

Still squirming, hips started rocking up and down, rhythmically thrusting against the top rail of the sawpony. Her whines grew more desperate as she sought more sensation, more pressure . . . and couldn’t find it.

“Hold still.”

Trixie whined, loud and long, at that order. But, even through the pounding surf of her pulse, even with the snorty, panted gasps . . . even through the mindless need that consumed her . . . she heard the gentleness of that command. Violently shuddering, she struggled to comply, even as her body screamed Don’t stop!

She had no idea how long her owner had been toying with her. It felt like hours, but it couldn’t possibly have been that long.

She’d never have survived hours of this!

She had never been this aroused, not in her entire life. And “aroused” was such a pitifully inadequate word for what she was feeling. Her coat was lathered as if she’d been racing; sweat freely dripped from her, streamed down her legs. As for the rest of her?

Her tail was hiked up and curved, in blatant invitation to mount. She could feel how wet she was; forget wet . . . she was a sopping, soaking mess. She could clearly smell the scent of her arousal and need!

Biting down hard on the ball, she choked back tears and sobs. She wasn’t holding still; she couldn’t hold still. Her body simply wouldn’t let her!

Twilight had read enough “romances” to easily picture “the throes of passion and desire”. This, however, was not print on the page. This was real. This was intense.

Her pet wasn’t holding still. Fair enough; neither was Twilight; her hips were gently circling and rolling as she watched her toy disintegrate into a hot, wet mess of need.

Long enough

With no warning, Twilight slipped her hoof between top rail and unicorn, wedging it between her pet’s wide-spread rear legs . . . and pressed firmly between swollen folds.

“Now!” she growled.

Trixie had a moment to be startled as she felt something pressed against her. Before she could figure out what that might be, she heard her owner command, “Now!”. Immediately she began thrusting . . . then grinding herself against that support.

Within seconds the room echoed with snorty panted breaths, with the creak of leather straps, with wet, rhythmic slapping. Trixie’s consciousness had receded way way back; all that existed was need, was want . . . fire and pressure coiled tighter and tighter inside . . . strained . . . strained . . .

. . . then burst.

Trixie’s head rocked back, her neck corded, veins throbbing. Her body convulsed, straining against the straps as wave after wave after wave of molten sunlight, of honeyed heat, exploded outwards.

And then she collapsed, panting hard, feeling a welcoming blackness envelop her, sweeping her away into unconscious bliss.

Author's Notes:

Well, I suppose it has taken a while to reach this point.

If it isn't too much trouble, I would appreciate your thoughts on the story so far.

A-aaand . . . I think it is safe to say that certain horizons have just been expanded.