“That the last one?” Doug asks with a twinge of hope, barely able to see in the dark orchards. The blackened moon shines above, but even in the clear night it has trouble piercing the shady canopies. He stretches up, grunting as he loads what is hopefully the final set of baskets onto the cart. Even before the last couple of trees it was piled higher than any of his previous carts, and the wood creaks and groans under the strain.

No more echoes of hoof meeting trunk ring through the orchards, instead the scrape of a basket dragging along the ground. “Eeyup,” Applejack wearily replies, glad she doesn’t have to angle the basket with a kick of her sore legs. Even the straps at the front of the cart just look like a tangled mess, barely able to separate the backband from the backstrap. She gamely tries, though her eyes keep closing at the worst possible times. She finds the straps wrapping around her hooves, threatening to envelop her like Big Mac’s last Nightmare Night costume.

“Hey,” Doug cautions as his hand rests on her mane.

She struggles against him, bent on getting this done and done right, but he firmly pulls her away.

“Don’t worry,” he says, but she can hear the fatigue in his voice. “I got this.”

Applejack opens her mouth to object, but Doug has already slipped past her. He grips the posts, wrestling the cart forward. She can’t help but smile; not at him, but the effort he’s putting in to spare her doing the same. She moves to the back, pushing the overloaded cart, if just to get it started. She yawns as she trots next to him, directing him with sleepy eyes to the sorting barn. “Just leave it inside,” she says, going around the back to grab a small washbucket, “and you can help me wash up.”

“Sure,” Doug says, the light at the end of the tunnel giving him a bit of energy. He starts unloading baskets, it taking Applejack a lot longer than he thought to fill the bucket with water. Until a disgruntled throat clearing from the entrance gets Doug to sheepishly glance over, Applejack impatiently waiting with a short bristled brush in her hoof.

“Done this before?” Applejack asks, hoofing over the brush.

“Well, not on a pony,” Doug says, “but I’ve brushed a dog. And I can wash myself off.” He glances down at his skin, shuddering at the thought of running the rough brush all over his body.

“Ah can brush myself, too, but it’s quite a bit easier to work in pairs. Ah bet Big Mac got Granny to help him wash up, since we worked late.” Applejack yawns again, wanting to just hit the hay and be done. “It’ll be quick. Just start brushin’ my coat, careful on the belly and legs.”

Doug starts at the back of her head, just under the mane, steadily working his way back. His hands complement the brush, Applejack closing her eyes and relishing the soothing motions. It doesn’t take long for Doug to get to her back, brushing down her legs. She hoofs him a second brush, this one much softer, and he goes over her coat a second time, leaving a shine that competes with the stars above. She grabs a hooked metal pick, holding up her hoof so Doug can dig out the mud caked in her hooves and shoes.

Applejack grabs an orange sponge and washes off her face, snickering when Doug dunks his head in the bucket and scrubs his body with a darker orange sponge. When he makes to leave she clears her throat. “One more spot,” she says, motioning to the sponge in his hand, then turning around to face away from him. Her tail flags up, giving a sultry shake of her flanks.

“Seriously?” Doug says, staring at the dark orange sponge that, now that he takes the time to smell it, has likely been used many a time on that particular part of the mare. “Didn’t want to warn me?”

“Ah thought you’d like it,” Applejack says defensively, though her anger lessens as Doug dutifully cleans off her intimate spots. Her tail drops back down almost immediately, curtailing any other ideas he might have had. “Sorry, partner,” she says as she returns the grooming tools to their spots, “but a show is all you’ll get tonight.”

“Aww,” Doug replies, accompanying his fake cheer with a deep rub of her mane as the two walk back to the darkened farmhouse. “Sure I can’t convince you?”

“Sure am,” Applejack says, her voice lowering as they get inside, heading to Applejack’s room. She flops onto the bed with a massive yawn. “Ah’m too tired.”

“I’ve heard,” Doug says as he climbs into bed, pulling just the top sheet over the two of them, “that sex gives you vitality.” He smiles at his suggestion, but only gets Applejack’s soft snore as a reply. “Already asleep, huh,” he says wearily, laying an arm over his mare and tugging her close. “Goodnight.”

Applejack shifts slightly, a pleasant smile spreading across her muzzle, and lays still.

Doug sighs to himself. Maybe I should have taken Rarity up on her offer. He rapidly drifts off to thoughts of the two mares snuggling next to him, smiling happily.

*

High in her Cloudominium, this time over Fluttershy’s cabin, Rainbow Dash sleeps, snoring like she’s felling an entire forest with just her trusty rusty shoe. She dreams of her Wonderbolts routine, though this time a certain spectator keeps distracting her. She grits her teeth as she does her best to ignore him, focusing instead on the spirals of smoke from her fellow Wonderbolts and the intricate path she needs to weave her rainbow contrail through.

*

“Anything interesting happen at work?” Filthy Rich asks as he takes off his tie, setting it on the dresser. He winks to his lead mare through the mirror as she walks out of the bathroom, Silver Set already in bed.

“Talked with Applejack briefly,” Spoiled Rich says with a haughty scowl, pink hooves resting on the edge of the bed. “Apparently things between her and that creature progressed faster than anticipated.”

“Hmm,” Filthy Rich murmurs, though he doesn’t seem terribly crestfallen. He walks up behind his lead. “Unfortunate, that. But she’s a stubborn mare. Hopefully, she can make it work.”

“The odds are against her,” Spoiled Rich says, grunting as Filthy mounts her. “You should be ready to pick up the pieces.”

“You shouldn’t plot against her, especially if she might pull out of her zap apple contracts,” Filthy Rich warns, even as he lines himself up. “Not everything is going to spoil, and there’s no sense in crying over missed opportunities.”

Spoiled Rich scowls at the reminder of her maiden name. “That doesn’t mean we can’t plan for the eventuality.”

“True enough,” Filthy Rich says readily. “And that sense has helped make Barnyard Bargains the regional powerhouse it is today.”

Spoiled Rich grins at the reminder, her mind whirring through contingencies as her stallion pushes into her.

*

Rarity takes a deep breath as she finally gets around to working on her side projects. The ‘backpack’ for Doug looks a lot like a saddlebag, but the lack of a counterbalancing second half keeps bothering her. Perhaps if she thinks of it as a pack that would strap over the top of a mare, uncomfortable as it might be riding on your spine? Well, that and the straps will distribute the weight across his broad shoulders. For his upright posture. Hmm.

She stands up in the middle of her workroom above the main store. Fabrics and half finished dresses line the walls alongside her extra ponnequins while her sewing machine station sits by the window. A few standing closets round out her storage space, at least on this floor, and she goes to the middle one.

“I need to sew on the pattern he requested,” Rarity remarks to herself as she pulls out eight vibrant bobbins of thread. Her eye spots the nondescript box at the bottom, partially concealed by a stack of fabric. A thin smile crosses her muzzle as her horn shuts the window shades, neatly lines the thread next to her sewing machine, and slides the box out. What’s the harm in taking a little break, yes?

“Let’s see,” she says, popping the top off. Which one is most like him? She sifts through the toys, a mix of balls and gags and various replicas - some nearly as large as her foreleg! Her eyes brighten as she spots one; it’s one of the plainer models, a bit on the smaller side. And - unlike the others - not her own. I’ll need to return this to Rainbow Dash at some point. Cleaned, of course, which is certainly not the condition in which she left it.

The white unicorn settles down, her blue aura slipping a dab of lubricant onto the eight inch cylinder behind her. She closes her eyes, imagining those fiendish hands of his rubbing into her flanks, preparing her for the inevitable push. Her marehood parts, the cooler forcing its way into her unprepared tunnel. Her breath escapes her lips at the intrusion; she might find some of her other toys more pleasurable, especially once she’s warmed up, but the roughness of the cooler against her unwetted insides brings her to that delicious blankness far quicker. Just like it’s supposed to. She feels the grasp of her horn around the cooler falter, pulling it out lest it get uncomfortably stuck inside. “Now put the cooler in,” she fantasizes, replacing the cylinder inside herself. Slower this time, but just a hair, and she rapidly brings herself to that delightful peak.

She gradually comes around, gasping on the ground, the cooler having slipped out again. “Again? Already?” she pants out with a wide, mischievous smile. Rarity, you naughty, naughty mare. “This time,” she says, laying back down and pushing the cooler inside her, “you don’t have to swap out for the cooler.”

*

“Alright, Namby,” Piminy says as she walks into the kitchen. Much as she would like to fly, but the ceilings are uncomfortably low. For a pegasus, at least, but that’s what you get for living with unicorns. “It’s time for bed.”

“Five more minutes?” the white filly asks, looking up from the article she is writing. She’s standing on a stool next to the table, pencil in wing. “I’m nearly done!”

“You said that last time,” Piminy says, though with a smile. She nuzzles her filly before pulling that vexing textbook out. I suppose it can’t hurt to refresh my memory one more time. She flips it open to the end, a wing rubbing at her forehead as the equations quickly swim together. A glance to her filly gives the same impression, a small white hoof pressing against her temple as her pencil taps against the paper.

A door opening after what is considerably more than five minutes surprises the two, jolting both from their activities. “Now it’s certainly been five minutes,” Piminy says, and Namby dutifully tidies her papers up. Her small wings, not quite considered undersized, buzz as she flies from the table to her schoolbags, tucks the papers inside, then flies back to her dam. A quick nuzzle later and she’s heading to her room, Piminy calling out, “I’ll be right there to tuck you in!”

Rarity steps inside the kitchen, looking slightly disheveled. “Evening,” she greets her dahm. She glances to the textbook. It’s the second volume. “There’s another one?”

“Evening,” Piminy returns, gathering her study notes with a long sigh. “They didn’t cover during our introductory class years ago that weather crafters don’t get to stop at two body problems.” She sniffs at the air, a sidelong glance at the white unicorn. “I heard you went on an expedition with that Digger creature.”

“Doug,” Rarity replies, nodding. “Very lucrative, though I couldn’t find the perfect set of chrysoberyls, even though I spent a lot of time looking. We may need to head out again.”

“Again.” Piminy sucks at her teeth, trying to hide her scowl. “You want to see that creature again.”

“Of course,” Rarity says defensively. “He’s a good companion. Easy to talk to, if you give him a chance.”

“A chance on a companion?” Piminy scoffs. She glances at the stairs where Namby left, her voice lowering. “I also thought I’d take a chance.” Her harsh gaze returns to Rarity. “And look where that’s taken me.”

“It’s my choice who I go on these trips with,” Rarity spits out, drawing herself up. “If you’re frustrated and struggling with the advanced material, and it isn’t working out, don’t take it out on me. And if that’s the case, why continue with it? I thought you could advance quickly in Ponyville regardless.”

“You think I’m busting my feathers studying this,” Piminy shouts, waving the second volume of Intermediate Weathercrafting in the air, “because I like it? Just to advance?” A hoof slams down onto the thick textbook, splintering the wood underneath.

“Well, yes,” stammers Rarity, taking an unsure step backward. “I thought you wanted to climb higher, and-”

“I’m happy with my life!” Piminy’s wings flare out, expelling a hot blast of air through her nostrils. “I’m doing it for her!”

Piminy points a hoof at Namby Pamby’s door, but the sniffling filly gets in the way.

Tears bubble to the amber eyes. “I’m sorry,” croaks out Namby, wings doing a poor job of concealing them. “I’ve been trying to get my cutie mark in writing, but it’s so hard to come up with ideas, and…”

“There, there,” Piminy coos, a burst from her wings bringing her next to her filly. She wraps a hoof and a wing around Namby, gently holding the filly to her chest. “It’s okay. That’s why mommy’s learning this. So she can help you.” The white pegasus hobbles back on three awkward hooves. Her voice softly states, “We know you aren’t the best flier.” A loud sniff interrupts Piminy, her hoof stroking the filly’s mane. “And that’s okay. But, if you get a weathermare cutie mark, then you’ll need something that keeps you from those long distance cloud runs that tire you out so badly.”

“I know,” Namby sniffs out, hugging her dam close.

Piminy fixes her gaze on Rarity; she states, her voice hard. “I’m lucky I didn’t take my chance with an earth pony.” She scowls, out of view of her filly. “And you should think long and hard about what kind of choices you want your filly to be able to make, before you take a chance, too.” She spins, wing counterbalancing as she half trots, half flies to Namby’s room.

Next Chapter: Ch. 34 - Brightbeak Estimated time remaining: 11 Hours, 39 Minutes