“Do they hurt?” Luna demands in a cold, detached tone. No, Nightmare Moon, his Mistress, already in character.

Doug’s left hand comes up to the six colored bands secured around his upper arm. Gamboge, ivory, cerulean, gold, pale pink, and lavender, in order from shoulder to the swell of his bicep, in place as firmly as if they are welded there. In fact, they might as well be; Luna’s magic shrunk the iron until it pains him to flex, and he’ll need her help to remove them.

“Manageable,” he replies in a deeper, gravelly voice.

It had been Cadance’s idea, originally, a mere thought that might have been a passing fantasy. But it grew in Doug’s mind, festering as it melded with a certain dream, and here they are. Nightmare Moon in all her infamy, him her captured prize turned to a trusted lieutenant, confidante, and lover.

The cyan-clad alicorn lifts the final ring, brighter and more brilliant than the others, polished alabaster with a certain shine to it. “Now,” she ponders aloud, “where should this one go?”

It would struggle to fit on his right arm, if she sizes it as the others, though by whatever rule fixed lavender to the end would fix it between there and pink.

“Not around my cock,” Doug replies, though he doesn’t chuckle as he wants to. “I probably need to get some sleep tonight.”

Luna’s muzzle never moves, but mirth flirts in her eyes as she deftly maneuvers the ring around his left hand and to his shoulder. It, too, shrinks until it squeezes, tight as a marehood, tighter, only lacking the yielding and sensual gasp as he penetrates. His pulse quickens at the mental comparison, face flushing as he strains against the light tunic in Nightmare Moon’s colors of cyan and ebony, trimmed in a deep cobalt.

“Mm,” Luna purrs, stalking him from every direction. It’s rare she has to share her stallion, the others too deferential to demand his attention while he bucks the nightlights out of her, yet tonight would be special. She licks her lips in anticipation, leaving a gleam on her pointed fangs, then flicks her head at the closed door.

Armored greaves thud against the wooden floor of the Carrot House’s basement, not that the sound will travel past Luna’s wards. The fillies have been cleared out regardless; Doug doubts the precaution necessary. He pushes the cellar door open.

Trixie lays on a waist-high table, bound and gagged, muddied and disheveled. Twigs and leaves sprout from an unkempt mane, pale blue spilling over her sides like gnarled branches from the Everfree. But while her body might be dirtied and naked, a fierceness shines in her eyes, daring him to take another step forward.

It shocks Doug to see his mare in such a state. The hostility, directed at him, pains him. For a moment he stands there, stunned, studying her with detachment, removing his emotions from the picture so he can get an accurate account of what has happened. It helps, not that he likes doing so. She lacks open wounds, suggesting hard living in the forest without even the amenities provided by her traveling wagon.

It is only when the door shuts behind him, likely aided by Luna, that he remembers that they are merely acting, and she is one of the best performers of them all.

“Miss Lulamoon,” he states dispassionately, striding forward. A leering smile creeps as he traces over the curve of her flank, the teal of the crescent moon, and the arctic blue stripes of her tail.

Her violet eyes follow him until he passes behind her, then coolly return to the door, cracked open with a cyan eye peering in.

His hand passes over a set of items on a barrel set next to the table: a wide, cloth strap, folded over; an ugly metal cup, full of clear water; and a joke wand, identical to the one on her cutie mark, that turns into a bouquet of flowers when pulled right. He has no idea why she chose these items, or what exactly to do with them.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Doug continues in the same gravelly voice. “All that time spent fleeing with your tail between your legs.” He disdainfully picks a twig from those sullied curls. “And now, that tail will belong to me.”

A low, irate growl grumbles through the bit in her mouth.

“Did you finally run out of smoke bombs?” Doug asks, smirking. With a flick he removes her gag. “Or did you finally tire of stumbling away?”

Trixie coughs, glaring daggers. “So, General Gravous,” she hacks out, trading the ‘o’ for an ‘e’ and pronouncing it like two words, the destination he so mindlessly drives them toward. “At last, we meet again, for the first time, for the last time.”

“The last time?” Doug picks up the cloth strap, snapping it open against the table.

Her ears flatten at the sharp sound, afraid, then bravely perk back up.

Doug has to remind himself they are acting, that - aside from Rarity - Trixie enjoys this type of play more than any of the other mares, certainly more than himself. They can stop at any time, no safe word necessary, and he won’t actually hurt her. Well, more than she wants. He wrestles with Applejack, plays buckball with all of them, and hard collisions are a part of that game. No different here, right?

“There will be no last time.” The next snap strikes just under her cutie mark, against the thick muscle of her flank, drawing a sharp hiss of pain. He shows none of his pleasure, knowing that she enjoys this.

Trixie groans, eyes lidding as she stares up at the ceiling, not noticing as he stalks to her opposite side until he mirrors the blow to her right flank. She crumples over, poorly stifling her sobs.

“Her gracious offer still stands,” Doug continues, a fleck of hope in his voice that she would acquiesce.

“I won’t give up my friends,” Trixie states, slowly gathering her strength as she returns to ponyloaf. She coughs again, her voice scratchy. “Because what you’re doing is wrong!”

“I am not here for your friends,” Doug says slowly, shaking his head. “I am here for you. How can you claim Nightmare Moon is wrong when she has shown mercy? You dare throw it back in her face? All she requires is you bend the knee!” A finger traces along her chin, lifting her face to peer into his eyes.

Trixie laughs, high and breathy, before collapsing in a wheezing fit. “And you would not require that the Great and Powerful Trixie lift her tail for you, and take your color as you take hers?”

Doug hesitates, long enough for Trixie to perk up, much of her feigned fear dissipating.

“You don’t wear the colors of your mistress,” Trixie asks, curious. “Yet she carries your foal. Why is that?”

“Because she is not pledged to me,” Doug answers hotly. “She is not mine to command, not like the others.”

“Do they like your command?” Trixie demands, her pointed question piercing through Doug’s armor. “What a choice: death, or your tender mercies.” Sarcasm laces her words. “Trixie cannot believe she would have once counted herself lucky to be included in that number.”

“Truly?” Doug ignores the inaccuracy; if he had taken over with Nightmare Moon, the two would have likely never met. He laughs, and fishes out an azure band from the many pockets of his tunic. It thumps heavily against the table. “That option is still available.”

“You’d like that,” Trixie flirts, rasping, and raises her unkempt tail. “You’d like to do what you wish to these Great and Powerful flanks!”

“I already can,” Doug states, reaching for the cloth strap. Trixie flinches, though maintains her conceited demeanor. He goes past it, at the edge of Trixie’s vision. “But it appears there are two things that must be done first.”

She watches with gleeful anticipation hidden behind a scowl.

“First,” Doug continues, picking up the cup. Water sloshes over the sides, wetting his hand. “Are you thirsty?”

Flat teeth grind together, Trixie turning away slightly. “I-Trixie could use a drink. But she will not beg!”

“Then here.” Doug places the cup in front of her, then realizes she can’t raise her hooves enough to lift it up, and she wouldn’t use her horn. He brings it to her muzzle, but she doesn’t drink.

“Trixie doesn’t understand.” She looks up at him, confused, throat itching. “You would give it to her?”

Doug can tell from her demeanor that she wants him to go harder. Well, if that’s what she wants.

“I thought you were a little hoarse.”

He smirks despite the fury in her eyes. Too far?

Trixie scowls, but drops her head, tongue flicking out to lap up the water.

He stiffens, fast. She’s right at the level of his crotch, and he can easily imagine her licking him from balls to tip. Her hooves raise, but push past the cup, past his hands and his tunic, and find a firm grip on each side of his cock. Sensitive frogs peel his skin back, and it’s all he can do to keep from lunging forward, plunging himself into her waiting maw.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is no whorse,” she states. Her fury evaporates as a devilish grin spreads across her muzzle. “But for you?”

Doug labors, each breath a battle. She feels amazing, easily the most talented from endless hours spent practicing at sleight of hoof. But more importantly, how to read her audience, and he’s become quite the easy mark for her. He lets go of the quickly emptying cup with one hand, steadying against the table, groaning in pleasure as fast pumps turn to creeping, agonizingly measured caresses that leave him the one begging for more.

The sight of the rest of the water disappearing into that magnificent muzzle, beautiful despite the stains, is too much. Yet she slows, denying him, smirking as she displays her open, empty maw as though it is after one of her private performances.

“And the second thing?” Trixie demands, haughty, snout lifting into the air as she gloats.

She wants more than that? Fine!

It’s all Doug can do to not grip himself and finish the job right there, but he knows she’ll like it much, much more elsewhere. He, calmly as he can with a shaking hand, places the cup back on the barrel, then goes to her mane and he fishes out a twig. He flashes it in front of her eyes, drawing his attention while his other hand goes to a tunic pocket and returns seemingly empty.

“I thought you would have cleaned up better,” he states, his voice ragged. Both hands begin to straighten the tangled mane, running through the thick, curling waves. “Or brought a brush.” She moans, lightly, stifled, no longer gloating but relishing the ministrations. He matches her earlier smirk. “I suppose these will have to suffice.”

“Is this how you ensnared all your mares?” Trixie questions, struggling for every word, no longer hoarse. Her entire body shudders as his hands race across her coat, leaving her pining for more in every area he passes. Her tail flags, her invitation plain, yet he persists in avoiding her haunches.

“This is how I keep them,” Doug whispers as he digs into the base of her mane, drawing a sharp breath. He pulls away, seemingly reluctant. “But if that’s not what you want…”

“No, no no,” Trixie desperately pleads, though it turns to growls at her lack of discipline. “The Great and Powerful Trixie does appreciate your efforts. But she cannot give herself, for she knows who you claim fealty to.”

“Is that so?” Doug smiles as his fingers dance a long path across her barrel, ending at her nether lips. She moans as he sinks a finger in.

Her moan turns to confusion as he jerks away, then to stark horror at the drop of blood beading on the tip of his finger. And the razor blade between two knuckles, with its sharp, glistening edge.

“So that’s how it is,” Doug states, low and cold.

“T-the gr-, I,” Trixie stammers, dumbfounded. Her eyes go wide as saucers. “I would never-”

“Silence.” The blade tinkles against the sides of the empty cup. His hand returns to her marehood, sinking in a touch deeper this time.

Trixie’s ears fold against her head, her whole body sinking in despair. She shudders at the cold feel of the blunt end sliding against her insides as he withdraws another blade. “I swear, I...”

Doug drops this blade in the cup as she trails off, same as the last, with another tinkling sound. He moves methodically, unhurried. She’s not as large as Cadance, certainly, but her flesh yields to his searching touch just as readily. He watches her carefully, noting how quickly her despair turns to a brief flash of fury.

Man, she figured it out quick. That’s probably for the best.

“What did you hope to accomplish?” Another blade drops into the cup, tinkling again, but this time his hand goes behind her ear. She smirks, knowing he knows she knows, as his hand pulls away with a ‘discovered’ blade. It, too, tinkles against the side of the cup, never dropped but just tapped against the side. He stalks behind her. “Were you trying to stop me from this?”

Trixie gasps as he drives her muzzle into the table, his entire length disappearing inside her with one rough motion. Fingernails dig into her coat, grasping tight, alternating between shoving her forward and dragging her back. Hard and furious, never slowing, never stalling, he pounds into her, heedless of the cries and moans and shrieks.

Just the way she likes it.

Next Chapter: Ch. 91 - Malicious Intent, Part Three* Estimated time remaining: 17 Hours, 33 Minutes