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// I// Story: What You Can't Tell Anypony Else, or Rumble's Reluctance// by The Elusive Badgerpony//------------------------------//

If there was any world record in clock-staring, Rumble was quite sure that he had earned it.

The hard, highly polished faux-wood of the desk had been making his backside sore for about the past hour, his usually slicked-back mane now erratic, strings of it hanging down over his forehead. At least that year was better than the previous, as the schoolhouse only recently had gas heating installed. The winter before, Rumble was certain he’d freeze to death in the one-room place where he was bored to tears on an annual basis. Now he was mostly worried about getting boiled alive. Rumble put out his wings and gently fanned them through the air, an attempt to cool him down, but all he managed to do was to make it seem hotter every time he pulled them back again.

Rumble closed his icy blue eyes, as if he could telepathically will the clock to move faster. Maybe he could. Most likely not, but it was worth a shot. Anything to get out of the domain of an overenthusiastic heater, that turned his surroundings into a prepubescent boiler room. On the bright side of things, the heat, as uncomfortable as it was, was like a smothering blanket, and Rumble almost felt like curling up in it and falling asleep. It certainly would make the time go by faster, he mused sullenly, his chin planted on top of a hoof in an expression of total apathy.

Rumble felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see Dinky Doo Hooves slipping a note in his feathers. Grabbing it in his mouth, he put it on his desk, unfurled it and bega-

A ruler smacked onto the desk, causing Rumble to cry out and jump up, and the ponies around him to giggle. Ms. Cheerilee stood over Rumble, an eyebrow cocked upwards and her head tilted towards him, a ruler clenched between her teeth.

“Are you alright, Rumble?”

Rumble glanced at the note he’d been handed, and swiftly moved to try and hide it.

“Rumble!”

Rumble stared up blankly at Cheerilee, who has a disapproving glint to her eyes.

“Have you been paying attention to any of the material we’ve been going over today?”

 “Naaah,” he slurred, dumbly, half-awake, and he shut his eyes again, just for a moment, so that he could get his bearings. “I’m sorry, Miss Cheeril-“

“Rumble.” She sighed, and eyed him with no small degree of disdain. “What is that thing in your hooves?!”

“Uhh, well…” Rumble started to rub the back of his neck, searching every corner of his brain. “Uhh, it’s a note.”

A few titters escaped from a few different lips, a couple of ooos from a few of his classmates.

“Rumble, what’s our policy on notes in this schoolhouse?”

“Uhhhhm…”

“See me after class, Rumble.”

She ignored the long, droning “ooooo” that the class let out, instead turning back to the board and the lesson. After he was certain that he’d lost the heat (metaphorically, as literally it was more problematic to try and do so) he picked up the note where it had drifted to the floor and began to read.

Meet us after school. Tree house, Sweet Apple Acres, ASAP. Tell nopony.

CMC

There was no proper reaction but to blink. Who was this CMC? Why were they so keen on meeting him? Why the secrecy? Was it those three Blank Flank fillies? They called themselves something, like the Cookie Maim Crunch-Raiders or something. His interest was piqued, for certain. Rumble stared at the clock and started willing the minutes away again. Slowly. For every minute that passed brought the meaning of the secret meeting closer.

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The talk with Cheerilee had been the standard, crappy fare Rumble was used to. It was an exasperated evaluation of his life as a student. Rumble had failed a series of quizzes, had not completed about a week’s worth of homework, his grades were rapidly dropping and Cheerilee wasn’t sure if he could raise them by the end of the winter semester, blah blah blah. Rumble did what he usually did. He looked Miss Cheerilee in the eyes, zoned out, and nodded constantly. It was enough to satiate her need to express her frustration with his poor scholar skills.

The snow was falling, gently, white flakes wavering in the breeze, and most of the other students had made themselves quite scarce at this point, so Rumble was left to his own introspection. His mind wandered to his callers.

The Blank Flanks. That was the name the rest of the school called them, even other “blank flanks” like himself. Some sort of three-person club, the foil to the Crusts. The Crusts, Rumble knew like the back of his hoof. Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon. Beautiful, talented, and overall, horrible, horrible ponies to spend too much time around, self-obsessed and destructive to anypony who they found distasteful. The Blank Flanks, now, he was familiar with. Their misadventures were well documented in the Equestria Daily archives. They weren’t bad ponies like the Crusts, only troublemakers.

Their names escaped him.

There was a pegasus. Scuttlebucket? Maybe that was it. There was a unicorn, Sweaty Ball or something, really a distasteful name when you thought about it. There was an earth pony, Appleblossom, maybe, perhaps? Rumble shook his head. Whatever. Their names would become apparent enough as the meeting went on. Rumble didn’t particularly care about what Thunderlane thought if he came home late, and he didn’t particularly care if Thunderlane freaked out. It was likely that his older brother was out with some mares like usual. They would hog the game room a lot and make a lot of noise, so that Rumble couldn’t sleep, and whenever he went down to ask them to be quiet, Thunderlane would give him a cross look and send him back up. It was maddening. As far as Rumble figured, Thunderlane could go suck it.

And there he was. His destination.

><><

A small bell went off as Rumble entered the clubhouse. Anyone who would have a club meeting in the dead of winter in this place was absolutely insane. There was no heating, and the addition of a draft sneaking in between the cracks in the walls and floor made it seem even colder than the world outside. The room was relatively dark, lit only by the sunlight outside, which was dulled by the grey, cloudy skies. Rumble had to peer to look inside, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow, hoping his eyes would adjust to the light levels soon enough.

“Hello?”

His voice cracked on the last syllable, ringing out through the small space, and the floorboards creaked underneath his hooves.

“Is anypony here? I’m sorry I’m late, I got caught up in stu-“

“Hey.”

Rumble whirled around. There was Scuttlebucket, but the other two seemed awfully absent, and she had a look on her face that would have killed lesser ponies. It was disconcerting to the colt, and he looked away from her.

“I’m sorry I’m-“

“Do you know how long I’ve had to wait here? It’s freakin’ cold out!”

“I’m sorry-“

Scooterfood scoffed. “Yeah, not yet, buddy, but you’re gonna be.”

Scampalon started approaching, and Rumble took note of the rather hostile glint in her eyes. He backed away, slowly, but she kept the distance, as if they were fencing, matching every one of his backwards steps with an equally sized forwards one.

“I-I-I-I’m sorry?...”

Scatagoo gave him a smirk. “I just wanna take what I want from you.”

Rumble noticed her hips swaying, her eyes half-shut in a way that he didn’t recognize, equal parts warm and threatening. He gasped as his flank bumped against the wooden wall on the further side of the room, cold and rough to the touch, and he realized with horror that he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He’d heard stories about bullies who’d sucker kids into someplace secluded and then beat them up. His eyes went wide with realization, and he internally cursed himself for his naivety.

His back went up against the wall, pressed there by Scotalong’s proximity, and she giggled. To the already frightened Rumble, it made her even more intimidating, and he squeezed his eyes shut as she pressed her chest against his.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? This is gonna feel good!”

Rumble almost whimpered. A beating and the word “good” didn’t go together in the same sentence. It was the typical thing he’d heard of about bullies, that they twisted meanings and told lies in order to make you feel worse. She pressed further into him, nuzzling into his neck. Rumble could feel her breathing through her nostrils, hot air hitting the back of his neck, and she seemed to almost purr.

“Wh-wh-what are you doing?!”

“Shhh,” Scorchamoo murmured, pressing her lips against his neck, making Rumble cringe at the cold feeling where her lips had been. She seemed to press further into him, rubbing against his chest. Rumble wasn’t fooled. This was a trick, getting him to feel nice and cozy before she started wailing on him. He knew it. He struggled against her, but she was definitely stronger than she looked, and pressed him further into the wall. She kissed his neck again, and Rumble grimaced. And then she kissed it again.

“Stop it,” he pleaded.

Scottydoo giggled again. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

Rumble had to think for a moment. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was just unwanted; unexpected, undesired, not really thought about. All of Scottydoo’s attentions felt… Off. They felt like something Rumble hadn’t really experienced before, and didn’t want to experience. They confused him. It seemed like she wanted to beat him up, but the most she was doing that hurt a bit was pushing him into the wall, keeping him from getting away. That was all he needed to do, then. Get away and think about it for a while, if only Scanadoo would make him think about it-

Rumble cried out as Scalachoo grabbed him along his neck and wrestled him to the floor, flailing his limbs out in a poor attempt at self-defense. Scandanavoo pushed him down by the shoulders, her rear legs spread out inside of his and keeping them out, thrashing about uselessly as Rumble shouted out and squirmed underneath her. She grunted, her teeth clenched, holding him down, his wings beating meaninglessly on the floor.

“No! No! Don’t!” Rumble pleaded. “Let me go! Please!”

“Stop moving!” Scampergoo commanded, through clenched teeth. Tears were forming at the corners of Rumble’s eyes as he tried to shake her off, but Scattlewoo was firmly planted on her victim, the glint in her eyes that Rumble noticed earlier seemingly even brighter. He cried out in agony. If it was another colt, he might have fought back, but Thunderlane, as much of a douche as the guy was, had always reminded Rumble to never hit mares, even if they weren’t nice to him. Rumble thrashed about, but to no avail, and eventually, he could no longer do so. He held back his unstallionlike tears to try and save a little bit of face, and then he gasped as his assailant’s hoof traced down his body.

“I-I-I give,” Rumble sobbed, shivering weakly in the cold. “Uncle, please, just let me go…”

“Shut up,” Scuntajoo growled.

And then she touched him.

There. Where nopony was supposed to touch him. Rumble started to panic, but being held down as he was, there was nothing he could do except struggle.

“Wh-what are you doing?!”

Her hooves ran around his… What did they call it? It was a long time ago, they had a class about body parts, and it was one of the few classes Rumble decided to pay attention to, and it was there that Rumble learned that nopony was supposed to touch him there, except himself on occasion and his very special somepony. Celestia, what did they call that part? He started feeling stiff down there, his head wracked with frightening, unfamiliar sensations, the hoof rubbing against what Rumble decided was best called it roughly, slowly, as she looked down and blushed. Rumble whimpered. Not only was she touching him there, she was looking at it, too, and if the class was right, it was even worse if ponies were looking at it. He wanted to bat her hooves away, but the one pressing into his chest made it impossible.

“St-stop it! You’re not suppose to-“

“I said shut up,” Skotalkoo grunt, giving him a rough stroke. Rumble whimpered in response, laying his head back. So many feelings ran through his young head. He was humiliated and intrigued and frightened and curious all at once, and it gave him a tremendous headache. He couldn’t think, the blood seeming to flush out of his brain, and down… Down there. He couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt, and how guilty he felt for feeling it. It was a vague, cloudy feeling that Rumble couldn’t define.

“C’mon, come out of the sheath, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon…”

Sheath. That was the word they’d used to describe it. Ponies weren’t supposed to touch your sheath, but it was even worse if they touched what was inside. Sheath was bad, the thingy in the sheath was even worse. Rumble grunted. Her hooves were rough on his… Sheath. He could feel it getting stiffer, longer, stretching out, and Rumble whimpered, trying to will himself to stop. But the hoof at his sheath refused to relent.

“There we go… Wow…”

Rumble turned his head away, flustered and humiliated. He was certain she wouldn’t let him go now. Soon she’d start beating him up, and he’d be destroyed in every single way. He wouldn’t be able to escape with any dignity, but at least he should be able to escape. Or so he hoped. Rumble sobbed openly, tears streaming down his face, and Scruntlefoo, seeing this, gently stroked the colt's cheek.

“Shhhh,” she murmured, “it’s okay, Rumble, I don’t wanna hurt you…”

“J-j-j-just… Please…”

“Yeah,” Scaffletoo replied hoarsely, “I’ll help you with this, okay? You’re really cute when you’re all flustered, but not when you’re crying like that… Calm down, I’m not gonna hurt you…”

“M-M-M-M-Miss Ch-Cheerilee… She… She said that y-you can’t touch p-ponies there, b-because it’s not… It’s not…”

“Yeah, well, Miss Cheerilee said that ponies that love each other can touch each other there,” Scaatolaa replied, with a bit of sing-song that served to further Rumble’s emotional maelstrom. “And I love you, so I can touch you there, right?!”

Rumble felt something moist traveling down his unsheathed… Thing. He cringed.

“Dude, you’re even leaking that stuff dudes leak when they want it! So you want it!”

Rumble shook his head, which felt light, which pounded with distress. What was it? It wasn’t the same it, he now knew the name of that it, but this new it… There was another moistness, traveling up and down the length between his legs, and Rumble looked down. Scamperdoodle was rubbing her crotch against his, biting her lip and cooing, holding him down with both hooves now. Rumble didn’t know what to make of this. What was the filly doing? It felt so weird, Rumble just wanted it to end…

He felt her lift up her hips, freeing him slightly, and Rumble almost cried out for joy. She was letting him go!

But he felt the rough hoof grab his thing again, and he swallowed the cry before it even left. Scattlewoo looked down on him, a look on her face that he couldn’t describe, and Rumble squirmed weakly, a last act of defiance, easily deferred with the hoof on his chest.

“Ya ready, Rumble?”

Rumble shook his head feverishly.

“N-n-n-no, I just want to go… Go home, please just let me-“

He felt something hot and wet and tight slip down his thing, stopping a moment as it came along some sort of barrier, and Rumble looked down.

“What…”

She had slipped her thingy against the top of Rumbles, and was slowly stabbing his thingy into her. Rumble suddenly remembered the lesson that day.

Scruttlemuttle grunted, shifting on the head of his length, gritting her teeth, trying to push Rumble’s thingy further into her. It felt so weird, observed Rumble. It felt like a moist, wet pair of fleshy pillows that were clenched around him like a sort of peculiar clamp, squeezing at the head of his erection (another word he suddenly remembered) in a way that was needy, that spoke of desire and lust and a million other things Rumble didn’t understand.

She finally pushed it past the barrier, and cried out, pushing down hard with both hooves onto Rumble’s chest, and he was certain that she was going to break his ribs with the amount of force she exerted. Her cry seemed painful and anguished, but it also had a note of triumph, and Rumble, in his irredeemable confusion, let out a small moan. Scottlefoo looked at him dead in the face, pain in her eyes, but something else, too, and Rumble opened one eye and looked back.

“I… Hope… You… Feel… Good…” she breathed. “Because… This… Huuuuuurts…”

Scootaloo.

She went up again with a whimper, then slid down him again.

That was her name. Scootaloo. Rumble could remember her name now.

She went up, and then down again, her tongue lolling out, letting out another cry, this one sounding a bit different, something that could be perceived, but in no way was Rumble ready to interpret it.

Her name was Scootaloo. Her friends were Applebloom and Sweetie Belle. They called themselves the Cutie Mark Crusaders. He had forgotten it all because it didn’t seem to pertain to him before, but now it did.

Because he was… He was…

He was having intercourse with Scootaloo. That was the fancy word they used in class! Intercourse! It sounded sciency, like a sort of alien torture or something, and Rumble could agree with at least one aspect of that. It was torture. Scootaloo pressing into his chest, making it hard to breath, the walls of her hole crushing his length like a vice, the being held down and forced to have intercourse with Scootaloo. The physical tortures were obvious, but it was the mental tortures that really pushed Rumble about.

Scootaloo seemed to glide up and down his length now. All Rumble could do was watch her, liquid spilling out of her, over his length and dribbling onto his crotch. He wasn’t sure how this made him feel. It was humiliation, at least partially, but there was also pleasure, like hugging someone but longer, and much, much, much stronger. Rumble could feel her, but he could feel her. He could feel the shuddering of her breath, and the clenching of her walls seemed to work along with her heartbeat, and he could see the strain of her forelimbs as they crushed his lungs. His head felt light, as if he’d gotten up from a chair after lying down for a long time, and as wrong as it all felt, Rumble couldn’t help but feel a bit fascinated.

She bounced up and down on top of him, humming and moaning, her head now brought down to lie beside his, and she would occasionally nip his ear. Rumble clenched his eyes. He wanted this to be over. He wanted to go home and tell his brother. He wanted to tell his brother how she’d bare her teeth and growl in a way that made Rumble feel warm, he wanted to tell his brother how she’d forced the air from his lungs and almost made him choke, about how fast his heart went to vainly pump blood to his head and his… Thingy. He wanted to try, but fail, to describe the wet and warm and wonderful feelings as this filly skewered herself on his length, moaning and squealing and pushing down on his chest, and he wanted to ask if this was normal, if this was okay, if this was acceptable, and if the answer was no…

Rumble clenched his eyes. There was something else. Scootaloo bounced faster, and Rumble felt funny. His length got more sensitive. He could feel all of the juices and the ridges and the clenching of Scootaloo’s tunnel, he could feel the cold air hit the organ as she went up, and the heat and warmth and tightness when she went down. It was tight tightness, like a Chineighse hoof trap, clenching more and more, her moans getting loader, her bouncing getting faster-

She cried out his name, and a splash of liquid hit his crotch and covered it, and Rumble simply let go.

There was a small spurt, a bit of liquid, almost as if Rumble was peeing into her, but it was different. Waves after wave of pleasure seemed to wrack Rumble’s body, but he didn’t have the air for it, Scootaloo pressing down into his lungs, and Rumble flailed about, pleading for air, but she stayed on him, pushing into him, and just as black seemed to enter the corners of his vision, Scootaloo finally let go, and Rumble laid back, breathless.

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How could he describe it?

Was it violating? Was it humiliating? Was it terrifying?

Yes.

Did he have a good time?

Rumble was still working on that one. He was sitting on his haunches, looking out at the evening sun from the window in his room, lost in his own thought.

What was that thing that Miss Cheerilee had called what Scootaloo did to him? There was a word for it. Rumble didn’t know it. All he knew was, when he left, Scootaloo had told him that he couldn’t tell anyone about what they had done that afternoon underneath threat of a serious beat-down. Which meant that Rumble had to come up with an excuse, and Rumble knew that his excuse bank wasn’t very exhaustive.

There was a knock at his door, and Thunderlane poked his head in.

“Hey, dude, why’d you come home so late?”

Rumble shook his head out of his own reverie, and sighed.

“Miss Cheerilee kept me after school again.”

Thunderlane gave a sigh of his own, and slowly trotted into the room.

“You wanna talk about it, dude?”

Of course Rumble wanted to talk about it. He wanted to say how awful it felt, and how good it felt, how it made him fearful to ever see Scootaloo again, and yet how it made him look forward to it, how it made his head hurt and his lower parts… Tingle, kind of. Some weird feeling of sorts down there. But the last person he would ever want to talk about it to would be his douchebag brother. Rumble gave a huff, and shook his head.

“Nah.”

Thunderlane tilted his own cranium, raising an eyebrow.

“Dude, have you been crying?”

“Go away.”

Thunderlane almost said something, but decided it was best to leave Rumble alone.

And so he did, and Rumble was left to his own thoughts.
