Abused Horse General - Trixie

"Cigarettes are unhealthy."

 

The smoke stick between your lips slowly slid to the other side of your mouth as you stared at nothing in particular. Normally Trixie's nagging would have annoyed you, but you felt guilty enough to not say anything about it this time. The matter-of-fact statement blew off into the evening wind, along with the tangy byproduct of your cigarette.

 

You could hear her hooves clacking against the cobblestone road as she moved closer to you. You briefly wondered why you parked the wagon in town rather than on the outskirts as you normally do, but it wasn't a big enough concern for you to vocalize.

 

"Anonymous?" Her voice was unusually soft, especially considering the night's chain of events. You wondered if she was going to try to hit you with something.

 

You'd deserve it. People who abuse other people are absolute scum.

 

Surprisingly, she slid her head between your arm and torso, sidling up against you. You could feel something hot and wet stick to your arm, but you didn't dare complain, instead bringing your hand up and fondly giving her a scratch behind the ears. Your heart fluttered as you heard that familiar sigh, the one that reminded you of aluminum wind chimes. Remembering times like those almost made you forget how angry she could make you.

 

You began to run your hands up and down the length of her neck. Heat radiated from where you had grabbed and throttled her, and you could see the scars from the cigarettes you jammed against her. She didn't hesitate to rub her head into your palm, leaving more residue. Always loved attention, this one. Your girlfriend looked up at you, cocking her head to the side slightly. Her muzzle was tinted red from the nosebleed. So were her teeth.

 

You slid to the ground, back pressed up against the wagon home you shared. Tossing the only half-smoked cigarette aside, you scooped Trixie into your arms. Fighting aside, your relationship has always been largely physical. Holding, touching, bumping. Thankfully, she didn't object, laying her head into the crook of your neck. Her nose crinkled a bit because you smelled like second-hand tobacco, but it was okay because she smelled like copper.

 

You really did love her. Bad attitude aside, she was probably the funniest and sweetest pony in the world. Forward, confident, and definitely capable. She was all you'd ever wanted.

 

Trixie stretched out on top of you, groaning a bit as little pinpricks of pain reminded her of her injuries. "You now have massage to rub me," she stated importantly, carefully making sure to pronounce the 'g' incorrectly. You laughed at this, and decided to humor her. Sliding a hand downward and pressing your lips against her neck, you began to rub her belly, nipping gingerly at her flesh. Giggling, she craned her bruised and scarred neck upward, and just barely brushed her lips against your cheek before moving to whisper something into your ear.

 

"I'm sorry I keep making you so upset, Anonymous."

 

And hell, did she ever. For all of the things she did that made your heart soar, she did just as many things that made you erupt like a volcano. Arrogant, snide, condescending, elitist, and self-entitled were a fraction of the entries on the list of things that made Trixie Lulamoon a bitch. You didn't want to justify the fact that as a grown man you couldn't control your temper and hurt people because of it, but wow, did she ever know how to push your buttons. She could turn you into a frothing animal in less than a minute, and she relished in that.

 

As much as you felt bad about hurting her, you wouldn't lie; sometimes, it felt really good. At least in the heat of the moment.

 

"I shouldn't egg you on as much as I do. I'm also really mean to you. I'm sorry, I really am."

 

She was being disturbingly modest. On one hand, you were touched that she had dropped the conceited attitude and was admitting that she was wrong to you. On the other hand, it bothered you to hear her trying to take responsibility for you pummeling her like you do, even if a part of you agreed with what she was saying.

 

"Don't be sorry, it's just as much my fault," you said, as you started to make work on a hickey.

 

Trixie let out a squeak that arouses you more than it should have. "Okay," she said, beginning to exhale sharply, "It's both of our faults. So, all we need to do is stop being an abusive asshole and an instigating cunt, respectively." She flashed you a cheesy grin.

 

This was the first time that you and Trixie had actually talked about the increasingly abusive activity that has been going for the past few months on with her. So long pretending that it wasn't an issue... It made you feel even guiltier than before. "I can do that." You said it genuinely, separating yourself from the now pulsing mark on her neck. A strand of saliva still connected you until you brushed it away with your tongue. "I promise," you added haphazardly.

 

"How about we make a deal," Trixie proposed, simultaneously adopting her third-person prose and a wicked case of bedroom eyes, "You stop beating Trixie within an inch of her life, and she will not only stop provoking you, but she will also allow you to roughhouse more in the boudoir."

 

The way she said the French word that she probably didn't even understand made your cock lurch. Fucking Trixie. "Deal," you chuckled, pulling her in for a chaste but meaningful kiss.