09-11-2016, 08:04 PM
Pollute didn’t know he could love as many fairies as he does. At every twist of his head, they appear (they’re dancing for him, swinging glittering hips and rubbing their noses against his shoulders) and his eyes widen each time. At first it started with the Playground fairy, all motherly and careful and strict. He likes to watch her heal the scabbed knees and kiss the ‘booboos’ (and he’s got a booboo for her, but she’d think it too inappropriate to kiss) and it became his favorite pastime.
And then he found out there were more – so many more. His chest swells for all of them (all of them in their glittering, dazzling, magical beauty) until he feels as though he might burst. Pollute, in his year-old adolescence, clearly has a very illegal desire for fairies. He hopes, one day, they might grant him his one eternal wish in life – to fly. It’s always been his dream; he’s always soared above heads and carved trails into the clouds while he sleeps.
Today isn’t any different. His legs twitch as he imagines running across a thundercloud. The sound resonates in his sleepy head, a thud beneath his hooves that turns into the thunder accompanying the lightning. He laughs, tossing his reckless head back in a trumpet of glee. As he closes his eyes, he is suddenly somewhere else. His feet are on solid ground (insert a groan of dismay here) and there are horses packed around him on all sides. They are crowding, fierce, and many hands taller than him. He hasn’t had a growth spurt yet, give Pollute a break.
There’s emptiness before him, a racetrack crafted of clouds. And at the end (oh God she’s beautiful – his young man parts spurt some pubic hairs just by looking at her) a fairy. A quest fairy. Pollute is awake instantly. Her soft voice (she could sing for him all day and he would sit there, crying in happiness) echoes across the expanse, explaining the rules and beckoning for him to win. He hears it in his head, her magical words, “Win for me, Pollute, and you can fly,” and he nearly moans. Oh yes he’ll win for you, baby.
The sound of a lightning strike sets off the runners and he’s scrambling to catch his footing. Gotta win gotta win gotta win. He cannot lose, not for her. Pollute’s legs pump faster, his breathing thunders, his neck lunges to move his body. Gotta win gotta win gotta win. He keeps his eyes on the prize (the fairy turns briefly and he spots that magic gluteus maximus and he nearly trips over his, ah, fifth leg if you know what I mean) as he runs. He doesn’t focus on anyone else. He tunes out the others racing for his sexy girl. He simply runs for her.
When he crosses the finish line, his heart explodes with relief. “Baby, did I win?!” He’s almost shaking with hormones (you know young colts, on the brink of puberty) and he inches closer to the quest fairy. Pollute tries to touch her – if only he could feel her side. He’s always imagined it to be sexy and soft and hot as fuck, but he wants to find out for sure. I mean, he’s run and sweat and panted and fought for her – the least she could do was let him touch her so he can savor it later when he satisfies his premature sexual desires…
And then he found out there were more – so many more. His chest swells for all of them (all of them in their glittering, dazzling, magical beauty) until he feels as though he might burst. Pollute, in his year-old adolescence, clearly has a very illegal desire for fairies. He hopes, one day, they might grant him his one eternal wish in life – to fly. It’s always been his dream; he’s always soared above heads and carved trails into the clouds while he sleeps.
Today isn’t any different. His legs twitch as he imagines running across a thundercloud. The sound resonates in his sleepy head, a thud beneath his hooves that turns into the thunder accompanying the lightning. He laughs, tossing his reckless head back in a trumpet of glee. As he closes his eyes, he is suddenly somewhere else. His feet are on solid ground (insert a groan of dismay here) and there are horses packed around him on all sides. They are crowding, fierce, and many hands taller than him. He hasn’t had a growth spurt yet, give Pollute a break.
There’s emptiness before him, a racetrack crafted of clouds. And at the end (oh God she’s beautiful – his young man parts spurt some pubic hairs just by looking at her) a fairy. A quest fairy. Pollute is awake instantly. Her soft voice (she could sing for him all day and he would sit there, crying in happiness) echoes across the expanse, explaining the rules and beckoning for him to win. He hears it in his head, her magical words, “Win for me, Pollute, and you can fly,” and he nearly moans. Oh yes he’ll win for you, baby.
The sound of a lightning strike sets off the runners and he’s scrambling to catch his footing. Gotta win gotta win gotta win. He cannot lose, not for her. Pollute’s legs pump faster, his breathing thunders, his neck lunges to move his body. Gotta win gotta win gotta win. He keeps his eyes on the prize (the fairy turns briefly and he spots that magic gluteus maximus and he nearly trips over his, ah, fifth leg if you know what I mean) as he runs. He doesn’t focus on anyone else. He tunes out the others racing for his sexy girl. He simply runs for her.
When he crosses the finish line, his heart explodes with relief. “Baby, did I win?!” He’s almost shaking with hormones (you know young colts, on the brink of puberty) and he inches closer to the quest fairy. Pollute tries to touch her – if only he could feel her side. He’s always imagined it to be sexy and soft and hot as fuck, but he wants to find out for sure. I mean, he’s run and sweat and panted and fought for her – the least she could do was let him touch her so he can savor it later when he satisfies his premature sexual desires…
pollute.