There were multiple ways to regard the sex act. Quite a few of those perspectives tried to operate at a profit.

It wasn't just the escorts: an occupation for which training was mandatory, the license had to be kept updated, and any breach in a very strict code of professional conduct was going to leave the offender on the receiving end of a weapons-grade lecture -- if they were lucky. There were all kinds of items which claimed to improve sex. Some were enchanted, others mechanical, a number were potion-based, and they all had one thing in common: that there was a certain type of rather nervous prospective customer who never wanted to be seen buying that sort of thing.

Such sapients, when initially launching their tentative investigations into the world of artificial sex aids, tended to start with mail order. After all, going into a shop while wearing full clothing added to a features-obscuring hood would raise questions, especially from all of the nervous ponies who were dressed the exact same way -- but simply giving a distant seller their personal home address had to be more private.

Purchasing through the post was, at best, unreliable. There were some long-time reliable sellers among the ads, added to a few start-up companies which couldn't afford a storefront yet and had no idea where they would even be allowed to place one -- but there was also a different kind of operation to be found within the classifieds. In the opinion of those who ran such small businesses, the ideal number of times for any given customer to find them was 'once'.

They typically paid for advertising in magazines with reliably poor printing standards, because that was the first line of defense. A pony who'd only turned to the relevant page a few times while considering their upcoming degree of mistake would have very little trouble making out the payment address. Those who had received their purchase and found their now-blackened snouts were flipping paper with somewhat more panic -- those ponies often discovered that their frantic search had blurred the ink beyond all legibility. The few who forced their humiliation into the light cast by the average police station's fraud department would usually discover that they'd given money to a fly-by-night operation. (With the pegasi, this tended to be literal. Those responsible for moving the whole thing to the next address would generally be hired based on flight speed and fur which sported natural Lunar hues, all the better to get the kind of head start which could find a shadowed place to rest before Sun was raised again.) They were operations run by ponies who thought testing just slowed things down and viewed 'regulations' as an exceptionally long curse word. And there were always more of them, because the Herdbook Registry's foal documentation paperwork had proven there was a sucker born every minute and somepony had to make them pay the Surprise Life Entry Fee.

Such 'businesses' tried to change up their stock regularly, because getting the same pony to purchase an identical malfunctioning item twice was a little too much to hope for. And they paid very careful attention to the news, because even sex-related pieces had trends and they needed to know which buzzwords to use.

With the latest fad... well... 'buzzword' was exactly the right term, because changelings were very slowly being lured into the light (while not quite flying directly towards the source), and one of the first half-accurate rumors to reach the listening public was that the new species just might be the world's current masters of organic chemistry. This had led to some genuine scientific investigation, the first steps of establishing true trade -- and blurred-ink ads selling InsectRect, which swore that any stallion who drank the half-glowing orange concoction would find their turgescence now possessed the rigidity and hardness of chitin. This worked. In fact, it worked so well that those who wound up in the emergency room the next morning would have some questions. The list generally started with 'It's been over twelve hours and I just barely managed to stagger here with the street-length cloth draped over my spine: when does it stop working?' There would also be a few concerns on whether the affected area was actually changing color to nonreflective black, or if gangrene had begun to set in.

The best thing to do when making such purchases was consulting an expert. And Canterlot provided.

Of course, there were still some problems. For starters, you had to find the place, and that could be a true challenge. It was located within the Tangle: the oldest portion of the capital, which had been built in a time before zoning laws, regulated street widths, and the fashion for alleyways getting just enough light to tell if anypony was lurking within. There was no true sign over the door. Operating hours were posted, but the list of times failed to include any description of what the operation was. And the owner had tried to advertise, generally by putting posters on the exterior of the shop -- but that just led to self-proclaimed Moral Guardians asking whether children should know that such a store even existed.

The shop's sole master had responded to such semi-accusations through genially declaring that the posters weren't explicit in their imagery, he didn't sell to minors, and parents really should be willing to point at a given building while proudly telling their offspring that this was the place which had gotten them conceived. And then he would take the posters down anyway. For a little while.

Still... it was a hard store to locate, especially for those whose nerves had tried to create questions entirely out of uncountable nouns. Asking ponies 'Do you know where that one place is? The one which sells... the stuff? And -- the things?' could produce a few too many results. And just about none of them would be able to narrow it down via describing the owner, because they would have no idea what he looked like.

Unless they'd been to Sex Court.

As expert witnesses went, the operator of Steath's Erotica Emporium was among the most frequently hired. When it came to sex aids, he tested all new products while keeping a tight rein on quality control. He was also one of the very few ponies who possessed a mark for the occupation. He had decades of experience, along with a generational customer base because the foals he'd helped conceive had to grow up sometime. They were utterly loyal to the store, and the stallion who ran it. And he loved them in return.

In truth, he wasn't the best witness. He didn't quite have the flair of neutrality required for readily explaining the unfamiliar to groups. The stallion often became a little too... enthusiastic when talking about products, occasionally turned descriptions into sales pitches, and -- he talked. That was a requirement for an expert witness and he filled it admirably: it was just that his speeches had, after some generous rounding up, roughly a 1% chance to drive listeners temporarily insane. Those who'd taken a linguistics major in college put a significant multiplier on that, while adding an odd tendency to go after the tail.

When it came to providing clear testimony... there were still ways to improve that, and multiple ponies among the gallery and court staff wished he would start working on them already. But within the realm of sex toys, artificial aids, and the more established enchantments... nopony knew more. In many ways, 'Steath's' was a Name in Canterlot -- although for those who didn't know where the shop was, then it was a Name which first got mentioned while staring down at cobblestones and shuffling hooves a lot.

But for the season ticket holders in the court's gallery, he wasn't just a name. He was a face, a warm smile, and an only incidentally-maddening pattern of speech. And there were times when he spoke on behalf of the defense, while others would find him testifying for the plaintiff's case. He never minded, because it was a chance to speak about what he truly loved -- and so the regulars of Sex Court treated having him turn up in a paid position (as opposed to the comprehensively illustrated books of positions which he was so well-paid for) as an everyday affair.

Having a small-scale class-action lawsuit name him as the defendant was considered to be slightly more unusual. And, given natural pony proclivities, more or less inevitable.

There were certain preparations which had to be made before he could enter the courtroom. An announcement was made. Those who loved language would force themselves to clear the gallery rather than go through that again. The court stenographer, who didn't get as much of a choice in the matter, would wearily remove a hoofcuff and its short length of chain from a hidden drawer, then shackled herself to the bench. It did a lot to stop the spontaneous lunges.

Judge Heartstopper had already read the whole of what the filing parties truly wished to be a sworn complaint. It gave her time to use while the last locks were being secured, and she used it to wonder how the 'case' had ever gotten this far. Any truly competent attorney...

...but that was part of the problem. A competent, (optionally) marked, and compassionate lawyer would have made sure to prevent matters from ever reaching this stage. That pony would have taken the time to carefully explain why the case was going to fail, followed by offering the rejected parties some cold water and allowing to them to mope in the waiting area until the office closed. The other type mostly made sure to collect all fees in advance.

That was one reason for the suit to have reached her. The other was that Sex Court always had a busy traffic in Abject Humiliation, and there were times when the only way to make sure ponies learned from experience was make sure they went through it. Personally.

The plaintiffs had already testified. Her notebook was filled with fresh idiocy, and she internally congratulated the gallery on having maintained a collective straight face throughout most of it. The most she'd heard was somepony who'd been on the verge of choking on keratin, and that had pretty much been their own fault. You didn't try to stop laughter through shoving a hoof into your own mouth. It was considerably easier to use an ankle. The fit was better, and the fur absorbed most of the spittle.

She closed the notebook. Magnets clicked.

"The recess is now ended. Court is back in session. Bailiff," Impassi instructed, "please readmit Mr. Steath." Who'd been present for the testimony, and had visibly needed a break before taking the stand.

The back doors opened, and a still-confused stallion entered.

The course of his career had seen thousands of ponies seek him out, and just about none of them had been expecting the actual result: a unicorn of average size, well into the senior years. His coat was a bluish sort of grey which had a touch of curl to it, and the accent color became considerably stronger around the muzzle and ears. His manestyle could be described as 'something he clearly likes, since he didn't bothered to change it after it went out of fashion two decades ago'. The tail, which normally had a bit of upcurl near the tip, was limp. The mark displayed what initially appeared to be double-ended smooth wooden rod with rounded tips and as long as anypony viewing it continued to carefully keep their imagination shut down, that was what it would continue to look like.

His face was moderately lined, mostly with the creases of old smiles. There was a slight scent of cleaning products about him, because the store had pay-per-view exotic dresser booths in the back and somepony had to keep them up. (In a nation where most of the citizenry was fully nude at all times, it was 'exotic dresser'.) He looked somewhat confused, moderately worried, and quite a bit like somepony's grandsire.

"Go into the witness stall, Mr. Steath," Impassi neutrally told him as the slow tread reluctantly approached the front of the courtroom. "You need to be sworn in."

His joints didn't seem to be cooperating with the full climb onto the bench: the back legs wound up in something of an awkward dangle. The stallion's horn ignited, and the glowing oathbook flipped open --

"-- wrong page, Mr. Steath," the bailiff respectfully said. "That's the version for expert witnesses. You're not using that one today."

"Oh," the slightly dazed stallion replied. "Of... course. I apologize. I didn'tly mean to makely a mistake..."

The stenographer twitched, and the short chain rattled.

"Five pages back," the bailiff gently told him.

"Yes. Thank you. I'm sorry. No offense intendedly, I swear..."

Sparkle-covered pages flipped.

"Do you, Lelo Steath, solemnly swear..."

He did. A bad case of nerves kept it from being all that solemn, but he had the 'ly' part down pat.

To listen as Mr. Steath testified was to consider the exact placement of the subtle border between 'verbal nervous tic', 'speech impediment', and 'crime against the very foundations of language': those who decided he'd crossed the last tended to have the fastest lunges.

When it came to both the operation of the erotica shop and the ongoing connections with those who shopped there, Lelo Steath was extremely hooves-on. He always wanted to hear about his customer's lives. Their problems, especially those which manifested in the bedroom -- and there was nothing voyeuristic about that part. He simply believed himself to be in possession of the solutions and in most cases, he would be right. This expertise came with a reasonable profit margin, but that was how the shop made it to the next customer. And so on down the line, moving steadily across the years.

He attended just about every innovation show which could be reached, and that included the ones with no immediately visible application for sex because you never knew. He would order from blurred magazine ads because somepony needed to find the products which actually worked: anything truly reprehensible was brought directly to the police. Quite a few mares and stallions of all ages and interests had wondered exactly what a stallion with that mark and degree of experience could bring to the bedroom, and all of them were welcome to ask his spouse. Not that she was usually available, as teaching preschool occupied just about all of her hours.

'Degree of experience' was currently being entered into the court record.

"And how long has the Emporium been open, Mr. Steath?" asked the defense attorney.

"Fifty-five years," the unicorn proudly (if shakily) said. "One of my regularlies said it's our emerald year. I'm... not quite sure what to do for emerald." Thoughtfully, "I mean, in theory, you could make a dildo out of just about anything. But placing a material with the edges from facets into the body..." It was a slight, but very noticeable shudder -- followed by some very visible thought. "But that's with a pony. Dragons, do you supposedly? It could evenly be a repeating sale."

The stenographer's twitches were accelerating.

"Repeating..." the attorney said, mostly because somepony had to.

"A proper dildo, if used correctedly, can last a lifetime," Mr. Steath declared. "Especially one of mine. But with a dragon -- it would be emeraldly, after all. So if they were hungry after, it's right there --"

"-- objection," the prepaid attorney for the class-action participants called out. "Off track."

"Sustained," Impassi allowed. "Please keep your client on the subject at hoof."

"But I'm here to educately --" Mr. Steath automatically began -- then stopped, and the short-cut mane vibrated. "-- yes. I apologize, Judge."

She gave him a very small nod. It didn't seem to help his nerves.

"You're considered to be the erotica expert in Canterlot," the defense attorney said. "Isn't that true?"

"I'm always learning," the senior promptly said. "There's still things to learn. Cameras camely along in my lifetime. Sound recording. I want to reachly the future just so I can see what's there." With more than a hint of slightly-shaken pride, "I'm stillly trying to create it..."

Which occasionally turned into a problem. He didn't just test items. He did his best to innovate. Several of the store's shelves were filled with pieces which he'd invented.

And sadly, because he'd succeeded with so much else, the same could be said of the book rack.

Lelo Steath fancied himself as an author, and his self-declared specialty was Sentences To Masturbate By. So he wrote, bound, and published his own books. ('Edit' didn't get involved.) They tended to lack in certain literary categories. He could expend three paragraphs on the exact flow of an overfull tail -- but anypony searching for characterization was best advised to look elsewhere. Foreshadowing was treated as fully unnecessary: those who appeared in Steath publications were destined to have sex, and there was no point in taking too much time to reach it. Dialogue turned up here and there, generally with a near-heroic excess of vowels.

He also wrote the same way he talked. (Or vice-versa, as the shop had been open for fifty-five years and even the original customers were no longer entirely certain as to how the abomination had initially settled in.) The stallion was capable of adverbing anything, which he did with abandon, absolutely no conscious awareness, and a questionable jaw grip on what an adverb was. But because it was writing erotica, he insisted that his mark had allowed him to master this too. He just happened to be horribly wrong.

The majority of erotica readers weren't necessarily all that concerned with the niceties of delineation, plot (beyond the obvious), or grammar. The exceptions tended to hit a stray 'ly' at full speed and broke something. Like their immersion and concentration. Or, rather more often, their sanity.

(He'd been trying to expand into the newly-founded category of audiobooks. The hired readers kept stopping to gag.)

There were a few more questions. The plaintiff's attorney rose from his bench, trotted over to the stall.

"Please describe the Famous Steath Guarantee," the pegasus asked. A thin coat of audible slime applied itself to the capitals.

"'Get off or get back'," the shop owner promptly said.

"A translation for the masses, perhaps?"

The unicorn hesitated.

"I... try to match my customers to the right product," Mr. Steath finally said. "As bestly I can. Making sure they're happy is -- my life. But I'm not always right. My mark helps, but... there are timelies when I don't know somepony well enough to make a good determination, or the product doesn't exist yet. Or the customer insists on going their own way, or... well, when tiredly or distracted, it's hardly impossible for a marked pony to get something wrong..."

Something we both know, the judge thought. Something which still isn't the best idea to openly admit in court.

Except that there was a reason why the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe insisted on getting paid in advance, and this case was getting close to demonstrating it.

"So if what I sold turns out to be wrongly for the customer," the unicorn concluded, "they can bring it back. For a full refund, or exchange to something which might suit them better. If the item is reusable and can be cleaned. And there's also a quality guarantee. I test my products, I try to make sure everything works and then it hasly to work for the right pony..."

The plaintiff's attorney swished his tail in the general direction of those being represented. Five college-age ponies of limited income, dusty fur, and dubious foresight collectively glared at Mr. Steath.

"You sell a dildo which extends its length and width on command?" the plaintiff attorney asks.

"Several. They all have to be testedly, of course. The enchantments --"

"-- Exhibit Nine, please. As was previously entered."

It took a while to retrieve it.

"This is a model you sell?"

There was a long pause.

"I asked you a question."

The senior was squinting. "It just takes a while to adjust for scale... yes, that's something I carry."

The earth pony mare in the plaintiff group took a breath.

"It expands, all right."

"Ms. Forage," Judge Heartstopper cautioned, "you have already testified..."

"I'd like to know how you make it stop expanding."

"Ms. Forage --"

"-- I still can't trot normally," the angry mare said. "And everypony keeps asking me when I had my tail lifted. I didn't. It's just afraid to drop back down."

The plaintiff was warned, and the four-pony retrieval team carried the implement back out. Multiple coronas strained under the weight.

Mr. Steath couldn't seem to make himself watch.

"Uncontrolled size change," the group's attorney said. "With consequences. The other dildo, which was apparently enchanted to move on its own, did exactly that. It was the part where it tried to close into a loop which brought us here today. Then we have a potion which is supposed to increase sensation for the user. I understand that it worked spectacularly, as long as 'sensation' is confined to 'the tremendous pressure of a blanket across skin'. Plus there was the orgasm extender: as per previous testimony, it extended the orgasm into the next room and, when it came to the ejaculate, into the paint. Permanently. For both sight and what, based on the reactions from the gallery when we first brought that cross-section in, is a very enhanced smell. And we could talk about the repurposed sperm collection tube, because I'm sure we're all very curious as to how it holds the temperature." The pause was vicious. "There's also a question as to where it was keeping what we can all be thankful turned to be some rather dull teeth."

The largest stallion on the plaintiff's side nearly fainted. Again.

"And as per earlier testimony, all acquired from your stock."

"...I test..."

"Exhibits, please."

The remainder were recovered. Several gallery regulars held their breath.

"All sold in your store?"

"Yes, but --"

With a hard stomp of the right forehoof, "Have you compensated any of my clients, when your so-called quality guarantee obviously failed?"

Almost desperate now, "No, butly --"

"No further questions," the attorney smugly declared, and stepped back.

Judge Heartstopper looked at the defense's bench. A subtle head motion signaled the occupying stallion to remain just where he was. And then she glanced down at Mr. Steath, who looked -- tired. Shocked, worried, and for the first time since she'd first met him, old.

The next examination was of the plaintiff's attorney. She noted his exact position in the courtroom, along with its proximity to the main exit. And then she spoke.

"I recognize that the defense would normally wish to redirect Mr. Steath's most recent answers under fresh cross," she said. "However, at this time, if the defense has no objection -- I feel it will be more helpful to the court if we can all see the written text of the Famous Guarantee."

Nopony had a copy, which surprised her. Mr. Steath wound up having to write it all out from memory, and eventually stopped trying to do so via corona. Even the light was shaking from nerves.

The final result was passed up to her. The judge read it over.

"Very well," she nodded to herself. "Mr. Steath, I need to clarify a few details."

"...if I canly..." he forced out. "What do you need to know?"

"The quality guarantee. Given the range of products you offer, how can you make sure that all of them are functional? You can't exactly personally test something designed for a mare, and you only have so many employees. Just about all of whom are ponies, which makes examination of other-species items somewhat problematic."

The gallery listened.

"I... have testing equipment," he eventually said. "I don't have to drinkly every potion or invoke every enchantment. Small samples, devices to measure and checkly the quality of thaums. Nothing withly magic in it reaches my shelves unless I know it works. I swear --"

"-- the court recorded your oath," Impassi stated. "What happens when you get a defective item?"

That triggered a small, automatic frown. "It varies."

"The options, Mr. Steath."

"Some go backly to the manufacturer," he stated for the record. "Replacement items are issued, or I'll get a refund if too many from the batchly are bad. With others..." He hesitated. "I've been in business for a long time, Your Honorly. The sellers trust me. Some of them just want to knowly what went wrong, and it can be too much trouble to return a malfunctioning shipment. So for those pieces, I documently what was wrongly, submit my request by mail, and make sure the faulty pieces are destroyed. That's -- a special procedure. I'm not directly involvedly. There's a pickup --"

"But if something faulty did reach your shelves," the judge checked, "it would be covered by the Guarantee."

"...yes."

The judge took up her quill between perfect teeth, wrote that down in the reopened notebook. Set the writing implement down, and looked up again.

"I recognize that the parties in the class-action suit are looking for compensation," Impassi Heartstopper said. "Medical bills, cleaning costs, and of course the usual payouts to counterbalance trauma. And given malfunctioning enchantments, all of the testimonies under oath, the previously-submitted hospital documents and dorm manager complaints -- yes, the compensation request can be understood."

The plaintiff's attorney was beginning to smile.

"But I noticed," the judge continued, "that the plaintiffs neglected to ask for one crucial component of the Guarantee."

The expression froze.

"So this should be dealt with immediately," Impassi said. "Damages, compensation -- those can be settled later. But when dealing with faulty products..." She looked at the five relative youths on the plaintiff side. "Please submit your purchase receipts to Mr. Steath. And then he can give you a full refund."

Nopony moved.

...or rather, none of the plaintiffs moved. There was a sudden clattering of hooves on rosewood. And by the time Impassi looked up again, the attorney count had been cut in half.

Aha was, as purely-internally notations went, not quite a note of triumph. Judges were, after all, supposed to be neutral. Or even 'supposedly'.

"The receipts, if you please," Judge Heartstopper calmly said. "I presume they remain in plaintiff possession, since nopony entered them as an exhibit. And proof of purchase is generally required for a refund. Since you all testified, under oath, that the items were acquired from the Emporium...?"

None of the college students said anything. One mare had turned all of her attention to preening dust from her wings. Two of the stallions seemed to be searching for their attorney.

"You were asked to bring all associated paperwork," Impassi noted. "Do I have to delay the trial in order to let all five of you fetch receipts from the dorms?"

There was a long silence and for the purposes of completely escaping Abject Humiliation, there was no way to have made it last long enough.

"...we don't have receipts," the largest, previously most silent, and now proven to be dumbest college stallion said.

"Is this a confession of theft?" the judge neutrally inquired.

"NO!" yelped one of the mares.

"We didn't steal anything!" insisted the other female.

"We -- acquired everything from the Emporium," tried the lone unicorn male.

"...the alley out back is still part of the Emporium," attempted the last. "Isn't it?"

Mr. Steath blinked. Impassi's steely gaze focused on the final student to speak, and the stallion flinched.

"...we're in college," the relative youth finally said. "None of us have very much money. So we... went to the Emporium at night, after it closed. To see if anything interesting had been kicked out. And there were these full bins..."

Mr. Steath blinked again and this time, it was an expression of horror.

"The goldenly bins with the brassly locking lids? And the broken horn symbol on the sides?"

"Yes..." said the doomed stallion on behalf of the virtually-damned. "Did... did anyone see where our lawyer went? Because we paid him in advance --"

"-- those are forly disposal of hazardous magical materials! I've got the pickup stop after the Gifted School! Everything in there was something I'd alreadyly rejected and couldn't safely send back!" He was starting to tremble now: nerves, anger, and fear. "You don't know how much worse it could have been! This is why I always tell ponies to talkly to me --"

The judge's dense left forehoof rapped against wood, and the courtroom went silent.

"This does bring up the question of how you got into the bins," she said. "And whether Mr. Steath wishes to press charges for that."

Five students went pale under their fur. Mr. Steath quickly shook his head.

"No," the worried senior said. "No, they've been punished enough. Just... justly let me talk to them before this ends. I have lower-cost goods. I can find something for them. Something safe. To rummage around in the Hazardous Materials bins... Sun and Moon, I'm justly happy they're alive..."

Impassi calmly nodded.

"The Guarantee covers anything sold at the Emporium," she told the courtroom. "Famously so, and that was the basis of bringing a small-scale class action suit. Claiming fraud and broken promises -- when something plucked out of the trash after it was rejected for being unsafe... has decidedly not been sold. Mr. Steath does his best to protect all of his customers, across fifty-five years and, once the parents feel it's safe to tell their adult children where to shop, generations. Those who take faulty goods from Hazardous Materials bins? Are not customers." The forehoof rapped again. "Lack of standing applies. Preemptive judgment goes to the defendant."

Mr. Steath, already looking both younger and very much like a stallion who was trying to plan a student discount line, visibly sagged at shoulders and hips. Four of the students looked vaguely ashamed. The dumbest simply seemed confused.

"...so do we get our money back from the attorney?" he helplessly asked. "The one who left?"

"No."

"...which court do we go to for that?"

"Not mine," Impassi ruled. "Case dismissed."