I might rewrite this into a proper Gynarchy In Equestria entry at some point in the future. For now, it's basically a prototype, having been written even before Flash Sentry's entry.
 
>"Tendies on the desk." Moondancer says, not looking away from this month's mmo.
>You place them there, staring with some emotion you can't even describe at the new pimples she's formed, and the glisten of sweat on her ever-expanding body.
>You *know* it's gross, but...
>It's sort of an academic knowing. Like you know it's *technically* gross, but that somehow seems divorced from your actual experience.
>"The tartarus are you staring at?" she says.
>Then she brings a hoof to her headset and clarifies, "No, not you guys. My male is standing around acting like a moron instead of being useful."
>She smiles, and turns to you for the first time today.
>"They're laughing at you."
>She leans over to the side you're standing on, one foreleg raised, and catches your head in her armpit.
>It lowers your head somewhat uncomfortably, though you're used to that.
>Moondancer loves putting you through the wringer physically when some virtual thing or other has left her upset.
>She's out of shape, so it rarely leaves bruises anymore, but it helps her achieve some catharsis. That makes it completely worth it.
>The sweater she's wearing is, well, soaked through with sweat, and the ruined quality of the fabric tells you it's been this way for years.
>As if you didn't know.
>She lowers her foreleg, locking your head in place, with one of your nostrils just barely rubbing against the crevice of her unwashed body, and the other being completely free.
>An outside might question why she didn't completely subsume your nose into her stench, but you've both agreed that neither one of you wants you to suffocate on it.
>You both prefer her pussy taking care of that.
>"Inhale." she says.
>"It turns me on when you choke on my smell."
>You obey, breathing in deeply.
>The acrid stink of Moondancer's secretions doesn't really give you pause anymore; you suspect your nosehair turned yellow from the PH of it a long time ago.
>When you fail to choke, she grimaces slightly, and returns to her game.
>But she doesn't release you.
>She keeps playing, relaying commands to her teammates, shouting curses, and shoveling those tendies you slaved over the stove to make for her into her greasy gob.
>Her chewing is loose and wet, as is often the way of someone chewing greasy food with an open mouth.
>It colors her speech as she fights through whatever it is she's fighting through - you can't really see the screen from here.
>Eventually, a fanfare sounds and she lets out a "Yesssssss!".
>It's music to your ears, slurring and all.
>She lets your head out, finally, and your neck is only partially reset to a more comfortable posture when she plants a gross, crumby kiss on your cheek, and a second, longer one on your lips.
>You're not going to lie - this is your favorite way to taste your cooking. Though you aren't particularly fond of veggie tenders.
>SHE is, and that matters more.
>And speaking of HER happiness...
>"Oh wow, guys." she says into the microphone.
>"I can't BELIEVE we're the first ones to beat this guy!"
>You smile broadly.
>Moondancer makes you so proud.
>There's no better geeky mare you can serve.
>Turning to you again she chuckles, smiling just as wide as you, and says, "They're all saying I'm the mvp."
"That's cause you're the best, honey."
>She lightly rubs your ass and says, "I know. Don't talk."
>She turns back to her game, and presses a button that toggles her mic on and off.
>"You guys gotta get male slaves of your own. I can't stress enough how much of a help it is to push mine around."
>She hits that button again.
>"Speaking of: get your face between my crotch and the seat. You don't have to lick if you don't want, but I need to sit on your head right now."
>Suddenly, a raucous, prolonged fart blasts out from under her, sounding, you swear, like a rusty trombone that's been hit by a few cars.
>When it concludes she reiterates.
>"What are you waiting for? It was a clear order."
"I'm sorry." you say, knowing it doesn't really matter.
>"Just do it."
>And you do.
>It's not easy wedging your head under her sweat-drenched bulk.
>But you manage, through a combination of practiced know-how and determined persistance.
>When you finally feel that familiar weight atop your skull, the way her soft, stretched flesh envelops it, the way the weird sliminess that happens when a mare sits in place for days without leaving for more than a few minutes - or showering more than once or twice a month - glides gently through your hair, you let a sigh.
>There is nothing like knowing your place, and then being in it.