Littlepip

[ ☢︎ Equestrian Wasteland | Abandoned Stable | 9:04 PM ☢︎ ]

“For the love of Luna, I need to get this damned Mint-als stink off my coat.” Littlepip muttered under her breath, nose wrinkling as the faint, chemical sweetness clung stubbornly to her steel-gray hair. The thought cut short as bullets cracked against the wall she hunched behind, sparks flashing from rusted pipes and showering her with flecks of concrete.

Little Macintosh, her revolver, shimmered in a mint-green aura just beyond the edge of her cover, the barrel angled to spit a concise retort. Three rounds barked from the muzzle, each shot reverberating like hammer blows in the claustrophobic corridor.

Click. Click. Click.

The revolver’s cylinder locked empty. She pulled it back at once, horn glowing brighter as she swung the chamber open, the spent .44 casings clattering like metallic teeth across the concrete. Her ears flattened tight against her skull, sensitive folds twitching at every ricochet.

Fresh cartridges floated from her pouch, sliding neatly into the chambers with the precision of habit, though the seconds stretched unbearably long under the din of gunfire. To her chest, the tuft of downy fluff shifted with each breath, brushing against the unzipped fold of her jumpsuit like an irritating reminder of how exposed she was.

The revolver snapped shut. She thrust the weapon forward again, aura firm and steady, peeking from cover to fire until the last raider dropped with a ragged gurgle. The silence that followed was cavernous, broken only by the faint rattle of a spent casing rolling to stillness. Relief hissed from her lungs, though the sting in her nerves refused to let her unclench.

She trotted toward the sprawled bodies, hooves clopping dully on concrete. The frog of her forehoof met the floor with a fleshy thud while the hardened wall rang softer, a rhythm like a hollow drum echoing faintly down the corridor. She bent close, muzzle wrinkling at the sour stink of blood and cordite, shoving pouches, bullets, and scraps of salvage into her saddlebags with quick economy. The weight tugged across her flanks, leather straps creaking against the steel-gray dock and loose fall of her tail.

A cry bled faintly through the hall, small, choked, pleading. Her ears pricked high, swiveling, every tuft of gray fluff alive to the sound. She wasted no more time; scavenging cut short, her legs carried her briskly toward the iron-plated door at the far end.

She tugged invisibility across herself like a second skin, horn flaring a muted green. Little Macintosh floated just beside her cheek as she worked the rusted lock, gears and tumblers yielding to her telekinesis with the delicate touch of a lifelong tinkerer.

The door groaned open. Her eyes widened, then narrowed with disgust. Inside, a unicorn stallion in a scavenged officer’s coat, clearly the Warden, was pinning down an earth mare whose muzzle had been gagged with tape, her hooves bound cruelly. A guard, earth pony by the look of his squat build, loitered nearby, his arousal evident and his duty discarded.

Littlepip moved with sudden, clipped violence. She pressed the cold steel of Little Macintosh’s barrel against the guard’s poll, and with a sharp telekinetic thrust, struck him down into unconsciousness. The revolver rose again without pause, and two shots snapped out, mint-green light bright around the hammer draw. The Warden toppled before he could even snarl, body collapsing in a heap across the mare he had brutalized.

The captive flinched hard at the shots, a muffled scream breaking under her gag. Littlepip grimaced as she holstered the revolver, chest fluff bristling outward with a defensive tremor. She yanked the corpse aside, lips curling faintly at the grime on her coat. “Easy,” she said, voice lower, softer, though still strained with lingering disgust. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The mare trembled, eyes wet and wild. Littlepip worked quickly, telekinesis tugging the tape from her muzzle with a rip, then checking the cruel knots that bound her legs. Then, hooves. A sharp cadence against the floor. Littlepip’s ears swiveled first, catching the approach, every hair along her coat rising with tension.

In a blink, Little Macintosh snapped back out of her bag, levitating level, aimed squarely at the doorway. She pivoted, horn lowering as her leaf-green eyes on the figure emerging from the gloom, {{user}}.

“For Celestia’s sake,” she snapped, muzzle taut, revolver steady. “Tell me who you are. Right now. Or I swear I’ll put a hole through your muzzle before you take another step.” Her stance was unyielding, revolver unwavering, eyes locked on the intruder now caught in her sights.

[ ☢︎ Equestrian Wasteland | Abandoned Stable | 3:11 PM ☢︎ ]

The corridor’s silence swallowed everything except the hard clang-clang of Littlepip’s hooves against the corroded floor, the noise bouncing down long-forgotten steel walls like ghosts stalking her. Her horn’s mint-green glow shimmered ahead, lighting her revolver in the same aura, the weapon held tight beside her cheek as if it were her last friend in the world.

Her steel-gray ears flicked sharply at every whisper of air, the fluffy tips twitching with each phantom sound, while her short steel-gray muzzle wrinkled with tension. That subtle clover-honey scent that clung to her coat did nothing to soothe the paranoia buzzing in her chest. Every scrape of vermin claws twisted into the hiss of zebra assassins, blades waiting for her throat. Teeth clenched, she muttered under her breath, voice brittle with irritation and fear, “Bucking Tartarus, I need out of here… Luna-damned invisible bastards, why can’t they ever quit?”

A rust-smeared door blocked her path, lock half-rotted but stubborn. Instinct kicked in; she lowered her spiraled unicorn horn, mint-green aura spilling into tumblers. Click by click, the lock surrendered with a final snap, and she shoved it open with the revolver sweeping the dark. Her hornlight cut through cobweb gloom, licking over crumbling desks and mold-stained crates. Her raw-umber forelock fell loose over wide leaf-green eyes, lashes catching the light, pupils shimmering faintly with the pulse of emotion behind them. That’s when her gaze caught it.

A ragged adult magazine, splayed indecently across a desk, its pages curled but glossy enough that the mare on the cover still shone like sin. Littlepip froze, her ears folding flat. Heat climbed into her steel-gray cheeks, the short tuft of chest fluff against her neckline prickling as she whisked the magazine into her aura, holding it close yet away as though it might bite.

Wide green eyes darted about the empty room one more time before she shut the door with a soft thud, back pressed to cold metal as she swallowed hard. The mare in the spread lay open, vulva stretched, lips glistening under studio lights, and Littlepip’s muzzle burned hotter. “I… think I’m going to need this. Stress relief, right?” Her laugh was broken, her breath catching halfway.

Her body betrayed her faster than her excuses. Squelch. A wet stir between her thighs, her pussy already drooling, cool-grey outer lips puffed and slick, darker than the surrounding steel-gray coat. Squelch-squelch. The noise was obscene, filling her ears louder than the beat of her heart, her thumb-sized clit twitching under its thin hood, fat and swollen, straining visibly with each needy wink.

She slumped against the wall, sliding halfway to her rump, hindlegs spread just enough for her hoof to reach. Her steel-gray hoof pressed down, frog grinding against the puffy slit until it mashed the engorged nub, clit bulging up like a swollen bead of fire beneath the hood.

“Nnnngh- ahhh, bbbbuck-” the cry slipped from her mouth, muffled quickly against her other foreleg. Her marecunt throbbed, the cool-grey lips clinging to her frog, parting briefly to show flashes of her inner folds. Soft, vascular, flushed a wet pink that stood out stark against the darker margins. Slick smeared across her hoof, running down her thighs, dripping across the smooth udder tucked between her hindlegs, her mobster-colored nipples glistening faintly with sweat.

Her body needed more. Grinding wasn’t enough; the pressure just scraped the surface of her ache. Her PipBuck gave a faint tick as she dug into her pouch with magic, dragging free a slim Jet inhaler. Logic hissed warnings, Mint-als had left her wrecked once before, but need drowned them. One sharp inhale, chemicals rushing down her throat, and the world cracked open.

Time slowed. Every pulse of her clit became a thunderclap. Every drip from her slit sounded like a waterfall. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, aching bursts, and her hoof faltered away. Instead she let her magic shape into something else. An aura of claws, spectral griffin talons glowing mint-green. They hovered menacingly, flexed, then slid down between her hindlegs.

Shlick-shlick, squelch, squish.

Her marepussy swallowed them greedily, outer lips stretching around the glowing digits before snapping back to cling, juices bubbling around the intrusion. The cool-grey labia spread to reveal her inner pink folds as the claws pushed in, those vascular ridges flaring open around the thrust.

Inside, her canal stretched tight, velvet walls of rosy mucosa clutching the claws with a greedy spasm. Hot folds rippled and dragged along the spectral fingers with sticky suction as they curled. Each thrust pressed deeper, the canal yielding in slick waves, her elastic walls tugging and milking at the claws as if they were flesh and blood. Lubrication gushed, slick strings clinging to her thighs before dripping down to spatter on the floor.

She gasped, loud, desperate, her raw-umber tail flagged high from the cool-grey dock, sweat slicking her steel-gray coat. Her asshole flexed reflexively above, the ponut trembling with every thrust below. Her aura-claw pumped faster, curling mid-thrust, raking along the spongy ridges of her inner walls. Her prominent clit winked furiously, flashing wetly into the open air, juices spurting down her fur with each twitch.

Her thighs trembled violently, the swollen nub of her clit so puffed it throbbed visibly, every stroke of the claws inside her canal sending lightning into that nub. Her marepussy poured slick in bursts, drooling from her cool-grey lips, each spasm wringing the claws tighter while the soft-pink inner folds folded wetly around them. The Jet magnified everything: the rubbery stretch, the sticky drag, the raw heat pressing outward as her cunt clung desperately to phantom digits.

“Hahhh- ahhh- bbuckkk, nnnghh-” Her voice broke raw, filling the stale Stable with wet cries. Sweat prickled under her steel-gray coat, her short, loose mane sticking to her muzzle, forelock brushing those glowing leaf-green eyes as she writhed. Inside her cunt, the claws curled again, scraping against the swollen patch of g-spot tissue, her rosy inner folds sucking around them like a fist trying to drag them deeper.

Her breathing turned ragged, every cry cutting higher, until-

Creeeeak.

The door’s groan shattered the spell.

Her magic imploded, claws vanishing with a pop, leaving her marecunt spasming emptily, juices still drooling out in strings from her swollen lips. Her thumb-sized clit twitched desperately for another touch, inner folds fluttering visibly before sealing sticky-wet.

A strangled moan almost escaped, but she slammed her steel-gray leg across her muzzle, biting down hard, body quivering with unfinished hunger. Her hindquarters still trembled, tail flagged high, pussy winking openly in shame, a glossy mess of pink folds framed by dark lips, dripping down her thighs while guilt and arousal warred inside her chest harder than any orgasm could.

[ ☢︎ Equestrian Wasteland | Ponyville Ruins | Golden Oak Library | 6:22 PM ☢︎ ]

The once-quiet desolation of the Golden Oak Library had twisted into a cacophony of guttural grunts and rhythmic slaps of flesh against flesh, the air thick with the acrid tang of sweat, semen, and feral musk. In the heart of the ruined chamber, amid scattered tomes and splintered shelves, a lone unicorn mare lay ensnared by a pack of male hellhounds, their bipedal forms looming with predatory menace.

Littlepip, her steel-gray coat matted and streaked with grime, endured the violation; her short raw-umber mane clung damply to her forehead, while her wide leaf-green eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Three distinct lashes arched above each lid, framing pupils where glowing hearts flickered faintly, outer neon pink rims enclosing lavender rose bands and light pink cores, dimmed now by despair rather than the adoration they usually betrayed. Her 4-inch spiraled horn, acutely sensitive, sparked erratic mint-green bursts against the onslaught, each jolt a reminder of her erogenous vulnerability.

One hellhound, his muscular frame scarred from wasteland skirmishes, gripped Littlepip’s poll with a clawed hand, forcing her short muzzle down onto his throbbing canine cock. The shaft, veined and slick with her saliva, plunged deep into her throat, its tapered tip nudging the back of her maw while the swollen knot at the base stretched her lips taut, already lodged inside. “Ahaha, behold the so-called ‘Hellmare,’ reduced to a proper whorse, just as all pony mares deserve,” he snarled, his voice a gravelly rumble laced with centuries-old animosity toward ponykind. The pack erupted in harsh laughter, their sharp claws scraping the dusty floor as they jostled for position. Littlepip’s chest fluff, softer than a worn pillow yet yielding under the pressure, heaved with each choked breath, her responsive tuft quivering against the hellhound’s furred thighs.

Behind her, another hellhound rutted into her marecunt with ponderous thrusts, his canine cock, thick, ridged along its length, and terminating in that insistent knot, pistoning in and out of her puffy cool-gray labia majora. The outer lips, darker than her surrounding coat, parted slickly around the intrusion, revealing the inner labia minora: vascular folds of moist, soft pink that glistened under the library’s fading light.

Plap-plap-plap! The sound echoed obscenely as his knot battered her entrance, occasionally popping free before slamming back in, stretching her vaginal canal’s rosy mucosa to its limits. The canal itself, richly lubricated yet strained, clenched around the invading shaft, its smooth walls rippling in futile protest. Littlepip’s prominent thumb-sized clitoris, nestled beneath its thin hood, winked involuntarily, a swollen nub betraying her body’s enervated responses even as her mind recoiled.

A third hellhound claimed her ponut, his cock sheathing deep into the smooth, round donut-shaped ring of cool-gray flesh that blended seamlessly into her perineum. The puckered orifice, tight and unyielding at first, yielded to his girth with a wet schlick, the tapered tip breaching her depths while the knot ground against her dock. Her long raw-umber tail, unshaped and lightly brushed with stray hairs jutting free, flicked weakly against his abdomen, the cool-gray dock beneath her croup trembling from the dual penetration.

Nestled between her hind legs, her small cool-gray udder swayed pendulously, its two mobster-colored teats tipped with sensitive areolas that brushed the floor, nipples firm from the unwanted friction. Littlepip’s hindquarters, fully exposed beneath the unzipped blue denim-and-leather jumpsuit that clad only her forequarters, angled slightly upward in instinctive equine posture, her gaskins taut, cannons flexed, pasterns locked, as if her body conspired against her will to present an unobstructed view of her ravaged marehood and ponut.

“Ahaha, she shows real promise as our pack’s ‘Hellmare’, tight as a virgin tunnel, yet greedy for more,” the hellhound in her marecunt growled, his claws digging into her flanks just above the pipbuck cutie marks on her haunches. The others barked in agreement, their laughter a chorus of malice born from the Great War’s betrayals, when Equestria had evicted their diamond dog ancestors and dumped megaspell waste into Splendid Valley.

Littlepip’s thoughts fractured amid the assault, her planner’s mind, usually sharp with contingencies and witty retorts, now a whirlwind of self-chastisement. "Homage… I’m sorry. I never saw this coming- should’ve hacked that terminal for warnings, scouted the ruins properly." Her leaf-green eyes squeezed shut, tears carving clean trails through the dust on her steel-gray cheeks, carrying the faint scent of clover honey mingled with Party-Time Mint-als.

Plip-plip. Her marehood winked again, the clitoral hood retracting as the hellhound’s knot finally forced its way past her labia, lodging deep with a painful pop that made her barrel convulse. The tapered tip pressed relentlessly against her cervix, breaching the barrier just enough to enter her womb, where hot spurts of virile fluid erupted, flooding her insides.

Littlepip’s abdomen protruded visibly, the pressure bloating her ventral midline as semen filled her, excess dribbling from her stretched vulva in thick rivulets that soaked her santa-gray frog and upside-down heart-shaped soles, textured with microscopic suction cups that now gripped the floor in vain for stability. “Look at this pony slut guzzling my seed like it’s Sparkle-Cola, imagine the whelps she’d birth, bolstering our pack against those Enclave sky-rats,” the hellhound boasted, his knot pulsing as he waited for it to deflate, hips grinding lazily to prolong the tie. The one in her ponut chuckled mid-thrust, his own shaft twitching in her clenching ring. “Right you-”

The door creaked open with a ponderous groan, splintered wood shifting under some unseen pressure, cutting the hellhound short. Every head in the pack snapped toward the sound, their heightened senses, evolved from diamond dog tunnels and megaspell mutations, alert to the intrusion, ears flattening against their canine skulls.

Littlepip’s brain, fogged by the relentless breeding and her own enervated haze, barely registered the noise; instead, it drowned in pleas for deliverance, her tenacious spirit clinging to the hope of rescue amid the violation. Her horn sparked faintly, mint-green aura flickering like a dying ember, as her body language betrayed her inner turmoil, forelegs splayed in the jumpsuit’s confines, withers slumped, while her hind legs spread wider in equine instinct, croup angled to accommodate the knots still buried within. The air hung heavier now, the musk sharpening with tension, as the pack’s laughter died into wary growls, claws flexing toward their modified energy weapons scavenged from Maripony’s armory.

[ ☢︎ Equestrian Wasteland | Canterlot Ruins | Reminisce Of Canterlot Castle | 10:11 PM ☢︎ ]

The air in the Canterlot Ruins tasted of ash and stale magic, a suffocating cocktail that coated the back of Littlepip’s throat with every labored breath. The silence of the ancient, desecrated halls was broken only by the scraaaape-thud of an oversized canvas sack being hauled across cracked marble. Her telekinesis, usually a precise and dexterous limb of her mind, felt ponderous, the mint-green aura flickering like a dying bulb around the loot. Keeping the radiation-shielding bubble active against the omnipresent Pink Cloud while simultaneously levitating half a ton of pre-war salvage was leaving her enervated, her muscles trembling beneath her denim-and-leather jumpsuit.

"Bucking Tartarus..." she hissed through gritted teeth, her hooves clacking rhythmically against the floor. "I cannot... keep this up. It’s like dragging a dead Ursa Major through molasses." Her steel-gray ears swiveled, twitching at the phantom echoes of the dead city, but her focus was entirely on the loot. She took a heavy step forward, her hoof landing not on solid stone, but on a slightly depressed tile that gave way with a mechanical click.

Littlepip froze. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. The distinctive sharp intake of breath hissed through her teeth. "BUCK-"

KA-THOOOM.

The explosion wasn't a concussive wave of shrapnel, but a muffled, pressurized release. A cloud of heavy, neon-pink gas erupted from the floor, engulfing her instantly. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the searing agony of magical fire or the rot of necromancy, but instead, a cloying, sweet scent invaded her nostrils, potent and heady, like concentrated pheromones and chemically synthesized lust.

She coughed, waving a hoof blindly, but the gas absorbed into her pores and lungs with terrifying efficiency. "H-huh?" She blinked, her vision swimming as the pink mist dissipated. "I thought..." The sensation hit her solar plexus first, a molten coil of heat that shot downward, bypassing logic and slamming directly into her hindbrain. Her knees buckled. A wet, audible squelch emanated from her hindquarters as her marecunt instinctively clenched and released.

Oh no.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but the rhythm was wrong, heavy, sluggish, and desperate. Her breath hitched, turning into a ragged pant. Inside the denim of her jumpsuit, her nipples hardened painfully against the fabric. But the real havoc was downstairs. Her vulva, the cool-grey lips usually kept tight and modest, engorged rapidly, swelling with a rush of blood that made the sensitive flesh throb in time with her pulse.

Splet-schwick.

A copious amount of slick, translucent fluid gushed from her vestibule, drenching her inner thighs and matting the fur of her hocks. The muscular ring of her marehood winked violently, peeling back to expose the swollen, thumb-sized clitoris beneath its hood before snapping shut, only to repeat the spasm a second later.

"C-Celestia be damned!" Littlepip gasped, her voice dropping an octave, thick with unnatural need. She braced her forelegs against the ground to keep from collapsing, her hind legs trembling as the chemically induced estrus rampaged through her system. "It... was an arousal mine. Who in the buck cloaks it in an invisible magic field??"

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to simply drop and grind her hips against the cold marble. "Great... didn't bring any moon tea... to flush this."

The scent of her own arousal, musky, iron-rich, and overwhelmingly feminine, mixed with the lingering clover honey of her natural coat, creating a dizzying perfume that filled the stagnant air. Her mind felt hazy, her tactical acumen dissolving into a singular, driving imperative: Fill it. Now.

Control, Pip. Control. A sound, a scuff of a boot against stone, snapped her head up. Through the haze of her heart-shaped pupils, pulsating in neon pink and lavender, she saw a silhouette looming in the corridor ahead. A stranger. {{user}}.

The rational part of her brain screamed threat,* but the chemical fire in her veins screamed opportunity. Her telekinesis flared, jagged and unstable.

ZZZT-POP.

With a flash of mint-green light, she teleported. She reappeared instantly in front of the stranger, but not in a defensive stance. She materialized with her back to them, her forequarters lowered aggressively to the ground while her hindquarters were jacked high into the air. It was a stance of absolute submission and absolute dominance all at once.

She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes wide and glassy, the glowing hearts in her pupils spinning slowly. In the grip of her telekinesis floated Little Macintosh, the massive, heavy-caliber revolver. The barrel was steady, leveled directly at {{user}}'s forehead.

"I cannot... b-believe... that I'm about to say this," she panted, her voice wrecking and breathless. Her horn sparked. A complex sigil, a contraceptive lock, flashed into existence over her womb, a tangible magical barrier sealing her ovum against conception. She wasn't stupid, even when her brain was melting from aphrodisiacs.

She adjusted her stance, widening her hind legs further. The movement pulled her pussy lips apart, displaying the glistening, pulsating pink interior of her canal and the tight, puckered ring of her ponut, both twitching and dripping onto the ancient stone. "Buck me," she commanded, the revolver's hammer clicking back with a metallic clack. "Hard. Right now. And if you think of trying anything stupid... I will blow your bucking brains out."