Title: Octavia x SonAnon [Incest] Author: Seaswirl Pastebin link: http://pastebin.com/h1e43QRb First Edit: Tuesday 29th of January 2013 01:00:38 PM CDT Last Edit: Tuesday 29th of January 2013 01:00:38 PM CDT >Meanwhile, in Octavia's house   >Must sit with full, uncomfortable erect posture at all times >Despite being earth ponies, must struggle to eat with silverware at every meal >Mother does not tolerate speaking during meals, practice, recitals, or near bedtime >I have peers and rivals, no time for friends >Practice and perform every mundane action as though it were an art >Mother instilled a perfect sense of discipline in me >She's one of the few pony graceful enough to walk on the hindlegs >It always captivates me >Mother is so long and beautiful >None of my contemporary classmates could ever match her in beauty, skill, or grace >Mother has all the grace of the pegasus, and the elegance of the unicorn >Above all else, l was to always strive for excellent, this is how l was raised >Until l could chance upon one as perfect as mother, l could have eyes for no other mare >Became lost in thought during my usual three hour evening practice >Indulged myself, abandoned the mock concert schedule and played what came to heart >Our home resonated with one of mother's favorite deep, melancholy melodies >I had been thinking about her so deeply l scarcely realized she'd actually appeared in my room >She asked me if l remembered how she'd taught me to play that song >I wore the same mask she always bore, cold and aloof, despite the fire in my heart >I've been listening to mother play this somber tune since l was a foal in the crib, making an error was inconceivable >Mother drew near, and nearly startled me off my balance >She reared up behind me, gently leaning against my back, forelimbs wrapped around me to grasp instrument and bow >She hasn't held me like this since she first taught me to play, my young self perched atop a stool >Yet today her head resting on my shoulder gave me a profane reminder of my own age   --   >Mother's beautiful raven mane intertwined with my own >Our light grey coats seamlessly blending into eachother >There is no doubt her and l are the same flesh and blood >Yet there is contrast >No amount of clean living or discipline can mitigate the effects of age >She is still beautiful of course, appearing wise and refined beyond any of the empty headed children my own age l must deal with >Of course, the most obvious difference between mother and son lay between us, our genders >Mare and stallion >Mother and son >Her warm, nourishing body pressed against my own >Her heart and soul making such beautiful music before me >I love her >It defies me, no amount of haughty discipline can prevent this from happening >Due to mother's rigorous scheduling, l've never been this close to another living pony >Nature brings out the beast in us all >Shame sickens me to my core as l prove what little self control l have >Standing tall, unable to back down with her behind me, l have no way to conceal my growing shame >Her forelimb brushes my primal shame, and the music halts   --   >Accusing silence blankets the room >There's no mistaking this, it's nearly the size of the bow in her hoof >I had expected a sharp slap, a stern admonishment, any of the heavy discipline I'd been so carefully molded with >I had not expected her to play one disconnected, tortuously long open note >Delicately dragging one of her carefully trimmed fetlocks down the length of my offending protrusion >Then, more silence >Five empty measures of my racing heart doing backflips trying to understand what had happened >Mother delicately sets the cello and bow on their stand, her gaze cast down to avoid my own >With her back to me she sits at my window to stare at the Canterlot skyline >She asks, "What do you know of culture?" >For eighteen years this has meant, 'You are ignorant and blessed that I am here to enlighten you' >I reply, "Nothing, Mother." >"Are you familiar with the tragic play that accompanies that piece?" >"No, mother." >I had never seen it written down, after all. >As often as she'd played for herself in our home, I hadn't had to, it was deeply ingrained >"The play is about a son, and his mother." >Then, she turns to face me >Her face is almost as flushed as my own >Despite this, she struts back to my side missing none of her usual elegance >She prowls circles around me, as she had so many times when I was in trouble as a child >Looking through me, judging me, appraising me >This time was different >She couldn't hide being nearly as nervous as I was >Which emboldened me to speak out of turn   --   >"Why was it a tragedy, mother?" >She pauses in her stride behind me, again unable to look at me while speaking >Mother usually dictates with the proud overtones of a commanding officer >Now she carefully whispers, as though we were conspirators lurking in shadow >"A woman raises and delicately grooms her only son to be the perfect suitor for his prearranged betrothal. She does this too well, and falls in love with him herself." >My heart misses a note >I do know this play, I'd found it in a collection several years ago >I'd worn the binding out on those chapters rereading them so often, the book simply opens to them when dropped >At my younger age perhaps I hadn't realized exactly why the ending moved me so dearly >"How does the son feel about this, mother?" >I had expected more well timed dramatic pauses, thoughtful silences, and the usual careful delivery of mother's tutoring >I had not expected her to nearly cut me off before I could finish speaking myself. >"How -does- the son feel about this?" >Nothing is more nerve wracking than getting exactly what you've wished for >This opportunity to rewrite that tragedy will not be wasted >"I think the son would appreciate everything that his mother had ever done for him. Especially if that nurturing woman had always been a shining beacon of refined grace and elegance in his life. I think that as the son himself matured with age, he would be able to understand just how rare and unique that woman really was. I think that love, the truest sort of love, can happen between any two perfectly matched souls." >One deep breath, and then into the breach >I turn to face her, emboldened by her crimson blush >"I think I love you, mother." >Leaning forward I kiss her cheek for the first time as a man.