Cont.

The public stable is a sensory assault—air heavy with the cloying tang of feminine musk, mingled with the sharp bite of leather polish and the acrid sting of latex paint, a heady cocktail that burns your nostrils and coats your tongue with every breath. Leather straps creak rhythmically, their taut snap echoing like thunder, while floggers whistle through the air, landing with a crack that paints flanks crimson, the scent of heated coats rising in waves. Mares’ lustful cries of more, harder blend into a primal chorus, their voices raw, their heat spilling in glistening rivulets that glint under the torches, pooling on the straw-strewn floor

Tonight, Trixie Lulamoon and the brown-coated earth pony mare face their green card punishment, their bodies trembling under the twins’ unyielding magic, the air around them crackling with arcane energy. Trixie’s silver-blue coat is drowned in slick, cold latex, its glossy sheen swallowing her star-patterned cutie mark, the paint’s chemical reek clinging to her as it dries into a suffocating second skin, every shift pulling taut against her flanks. Vinyl patches coat her hooves, their slippery texture numbing her touch, forcing her to wobble on unsteady legs, the slick scuff of each step a humiliating stutter against the stone floor. The coarse burlap sack over her head rasps against her face, its musty fibers scratching her muzzle, trapping her in a stifling darkness where her claustrophobic gasps taste of dust and panic, her once-boastful voice reduced to muffled whimpers that vibrate in her throat. The abrasive collar around her neck grinds with jagged edges, its rusted weight biting into her skin, the metallic tang of blood faint on her lips as she shudders