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>You are Spitfire. 
>Captain of the Wonderbolts. 
>… 
>At least, that’s what you like to believe. 
>It’s been months since you’ve had use for your wings, let alone flown with your unit. 
>The four walls of this cell are all your world has been since /that/ day. 
>By now, you can only assume that you’ve been replaced. 
>It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that something like this has happened… 
>Equestria’s military had practically been decapitated within the first few days of Nightmare Moon’s arrival. 
>So many officers died, or simply disappeared. 
>In the following weeks and months, the war of attrition had taken a heavy toll.
>Senior officers were becoming an increasingly rare site. 
>By the time you were captured, a few of your staff weren’t even military ponies at all. 
>They were civilians; bankers, lawyers, even a few engineers, simply doing everything they could to help the war effort. 
>You place your chin onto your foreleg, and sigh. 
>You remember wondering what happened to the ponies that disappeared. 
>While everypony had their own theories, and it came up occasionally in dinner conversations, no pony actually knew the truth. 
>Some claimed they were executed. 
>Some claimed they were sent to prisons. 
>Some claimed they were being brainwashed, and joining the Nightmare’s Army.
>The theories were endless; each one seeming less and less likely. 
>You’d grown cynical to the idea. 
>They were all just rumors. 
>Despite the best intelligence your ponies could gather, no pony was able to find any evidence of what goes on inside of Celestia’s Castle, or any other of Nightmare Moon’s fortifications. 
>Ponies simply went in, and never came out. 
---------------
>A gentle shifting sensation fills your body as the foal kicks weakly against your belly.  
>You look down at your swollen stomach, which by now is well past being a simple inconvenience.
>While you don’t know /exactly/ how long it has been, you can clearly see that your growing close to the due date. 
>You can barely stand for more than a few minutes before your back begins to ache. 
>Turning away, you place your head back onto the bed. 
>You eyes begin to water. 
>Had any of the stories sounded like /this,/ you never would have believed it. 
>Ponies weren’t being put into prison; they weren’t being brainwashed or executed. 
>Ponies are being /bred,/ by Nightmare Moon. 
>Raped” seems almost… too light of a word. 
>This wasn’t about one pony wanting satisfaction or pleasure. 
>This was about Nightmare Moon making a complete and total claim to other ponies' bodies. 
>There was no personal connection to you — she didn’t even seem troubled by her actions. 
>This was the way she understood the world to be. 
>This was what she believed your purpose in life was. 
>Perhaps that’s what scares you the most. 
>Nightmare Moon, from the one time you met her, seemed almost sociopathic… 
>How many other ponies has she done this to? 
>How many other mares, even stallions, did she see as “fit” for creating a foal?
>A few dozen? 
>A few hundred? 
>A few thousand? 
>The implications are massive. 
>The conflict is over a year old now; had this been going on since it began, the first foals might have already been born!
>If only the ponies outside knew about this! They’d certainly be more willing to fight Nightmare Moon!
>…
>A wave a sadness hits you. 
>”Outside” seems like such a distant place. 
>You haven’t so much as seen the hallway on the other side of your door in months. 
>Maids enter and give you food, before cleaning, and promptly leaving. 
>Every week, a doctor will visit, and examine your health. 
>But other than that… nothing. 
---------------
>The only connection to the outside world you have is the reading catalog that Nightmare Moon has provided you. 
>It’s a thick, heavy list of books; everything in the entire Royal Library. 
>Upon request to your maid, and conditional upon good behavior, you can request any book from the library, and have it brought to you. 
>Over the course of the last few months, you can’t help but be thankful for this small blessing. 
>With no outside connections, books have been your only source of entertainment. 
>You’ve practically become a sponge written text. 
>Military history, non-fiction, fantasy, and even the occasional guilty pleasure — Daring Doo. 
>No book was left untouched. 
>You can’t help but find it… bizarre… how accommodating Nightmare Moon has been to you. 
>Had this been under different circumstances, you might have even been /grateful/ for such excellent treatment. 
>Of course, your situation makes that feeling all but impossible. 
>When you were first given the book catalog, you instantly thought about leaving messages in the books, hoping the somepony outside might stumble upon the book, and hear of your situation. 
>With no pen, you were resigned to writing with a few drops of blood and a feather, signing your name and message in small text upon the edge of a random page. 
>Of course, that turned out to be a poor idea. 
>When the next book that you requested arrived, the front page had a clear, unforgettable message. 
>”If you want to spill your blood..” 
>In blood. 
>You never wrote again. 
>… 
>That’s not the only time that you’ve been reminded of your situation in a… direct way. 
>One evening your dinner arrived, and although the food was prepared to it’s typical excellent standards, you simply weren’t hungry. 
>You attempted to tell the maid that you didn’t have an appetite, and that you would simply like to rest for the night. 
>Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. 
---------------
>Within a few minutes, a number of guards and a doctor entered your room, insisting that you eat. 
>By then, it was a matter of principle, and you refused to eat simply to spite the stallions before you. 
>Quickly, you realize that was the wrong decision. 
>With no particular concern, and ignoring your pleas for mercy, the guards approached you, and pinned you on your back against the bed. 
>The doctor quickly approached with a long, slender metal pipe, and a funnel. 
>Realizing what they were planning to do, you attempted to share your head, and say you’d eat willingly, but they ignored your cries. 
>After forcefully propping your mouth open, the stallion slid the pipe down your throat, and poured some sort of slush down the funnel, and into your stomach. 
>After removing the pipe, the guards quickly released you and left the room. 
>The doctor instructed the maid to stay in the room, and watch you for the next few hours, to ensure you didn’t attempt to vomit the food back up. 
>Now, even months later, a maid must watch you eat each meal you receive. 
>While you have no proof, you wouldn’t be surprised if they checked your stool to make sure you didn’t vomit either. 
>Everything about this is bizarre… 
>It’s not the traditional, story book type of “sinister” that you might expect from some pony who has /ordered/ you to raped. 
>This is nothing like the ancient Griffon Kingdom. 
>They used to rape, torture, and kill their prisoners of war, simply for sadistic pleasure and sport. 
>But Nightmare Moon… 
>From everything you’ve seen, she /actually/ wants you to produce a healthy foal. 
>The room, while cozy in size, is reasonably well furnished for a prison cell. 
>The food is excellent; almost more fitting for a top restaurant rather than a dungeon. 
>It’s like she honestly believe that this is perfectly — 
---------------
>Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of hoof steps in the hallway. 
>Instantly, your ears rise. 
>From the noise, you can easily tell that’s more than a single pony. 
>But that never happens… 
>While you don’t have a clock in your room, dinner was served earlier today… 
>So who could this possibly be-
>Without warning, the door swings wide open, and two guards quickly walk into the room, post on either side of the entrance. 
>Then, as the last pony enters the room, everything becomes clear. 
>”That will be all guards, you may return to your post…” 
>The monster before you smiles. 
>”We wish for some time alone with our broodmare.” 
>Your face drains; your stomach plummets. 
>Nightmare Moon. 
>Just as quickly as they entered, the guards leave, and the door closes behind them. 
>Instantly, you feel nauseous. 
>You stomach tells you that you’re going to puke, and your head begins to pound with migraine like intensity. 
>In poetic contrast to your fear, she smiles with a carefree blissfulness. 
>”Greetings Spitfire, tell us, how comes our brood? 
>Your throat is entirely dry, and as you open your mouth, you feel your lips stick together. 
---------------
>The sensations from long ago rush back so quickly, you struggle to keep from fainting. 
>You can /feel/ his weight on your back again. 
>You can /smell/ his scent; his musk filling your nostrils. 
>You can /hear/ his moans and grunts, as if his head is resting upon your neck. 
>You… you don’t want to be here. 
>Quickly, you glance around the room, hoping against all odds that something might save you from her presence. 
>In spite of your weight, you try to stand, planting your front hoof upon the bed. 
>Just as quickly, you feel her magic push against your body, and plant you firmly on the soft fabric below. 
>You close your eyes. 
>She’s…. she’s…. 
“Please… please don’t hurt me. please…” 
>You don’t want to relive that again. 
>You… you just want to be left alone… 
>She giggles. 
>”Hurt you? We would do no such thing; after all, you do carry a prized specimen in your womb…” 
>As she approaches, she lifts a sitting cushion from the side of the room, and places it at the foot of the bed. 
>She then hoist you into the air, and sets you onto the pillow, before she lays down upon your bed. 
>Gracefully, she dangles her hooves over the edge of the bed, and looks down toward you. 
>Her smile, although seemingly innocent, strikes dread into your heart. 
>”Kiss our hooves foal, we wish to see that you are teaching your brood proper habits…” 
>You nod vigorously, and place your hooves against her metal guards. 
>/Anything/ to keep her calm. 
---------------
>She speaks. 
>”So, tell us Spitfire, how has your first brooding experience been thus far?” 
>Looking up at her, you feel so small… 
>The first time you saw her, you were naive: foolish.
>You thought that you might be able to resist her… beat her at her games...
>But now, you know better. 
“Our… our foal is doing well, just like you want…” 
>You hope that by recognizing her objectives, you might keep her in good spirits. 
>”We asked about /you/ Ppitfire, not the foal…” 
>”After all, you shall be required to produce much more than this one brood for us…” 
>The reminder sickens you. 
>You… you’d rather not think about that topic… 
>”Have you enjoyed carrying the seed of our stallion?” 
>”Many a mare would dream of their womb being fertilized by such a potent load even once, let alone a dozen times…” 
>Yet she pushes onward, almost like she takes pleasure in mocking your situation. 
>You force your tongue to move. 
>”Yes Empress, I… enjoy carrying his seed…” 
>Her language choice of words is so archaic that it strange to even say. 
>Her smiles erodes slightly. 
>”You’re not being honest with us, are you Spitfire?” 
>You freeze. 
>She… she knows. 
“I… I’m sorry, I just…” 
>You feel her mane brush against your face, and lift your chin slightly, forcing eye contact. 
>”It’s ok Spitfire, we understand that your mind may resist the power of his essence, but in time, we are certain you shall be tamed…” 
>You don’t react. 
>You… you don’t even know what to say. 
>Tears begin to form in your eyes once again. 
"N-nightmare… I…” 
>”/Empress/ little one, /Empress/ Nightmare Moon…” 
>You nod. 
”Empress Nightmare Moon… I… I’m scared…” 
---------------
>You don’t even realize what you’re saying before you say it. 
>Pregnancy has always been known to cause hormonal fueled behavior, but this… 
>She coos you as she rubs your ear with her mane. 
>You lean toward her touch. 
>”It’s all right little one, It’s all right...” 
>You nod, perhaps in acknowledgment of the comfort her mane provides. 
>Your mind feels foggy and conflicted. 
>You /know/ that you should be scared of her; that you should /hate/ her. 
>But, right now, in this very moment, you can’t help but welcome her presence. 
>She’s the first real pony to speak with you in weeks. 
>The maids never talk to you; they just sit and watch. 
>To actually… to have someone to speak with… 
“Thank you Empress…. thank you…” 
>She smiles, and continues to rub your ear for a few moments, before moving her mane down your body, toward your belly. 
>Almost instinctually, you roll onto your side, and spread your legs, revealing your swollen teats, and bloated stomach. 
>”We see your body has gained a suitable amount of weight. 
>You nod weakly, watching her mane caress your body. 
>”We’ve had our physicians and alchemist prepare meals which would best help you brood a strong, healthy foal…” 
>She continues to gently rub your belly, before moving toward your teat, and squeezing it gently, forcing a few drops of milk free to emerge. 
---------------
>”Tell us Spitfire, have you exercised at all since being mounted?” 
>”We hope that you have not attempted any strenuous labor, as it might effect your foal’s development…” 
>You shake your head. 
”No Empress, I haven’t done any exercise…” 
>It’s true, you /haven’t/ done any large amount of exercise.
>She smiles. 
>”We see our alchemist’s elixirs have performed admirably…” 
>Your ears twitch slightly, although you can’t bring yourself to look direct at Nightmare Moon; your eyes too enthralled by her mane’s touch against your teats. 
>“Our alchemist has added a calming elixir to each of your meals, so that you might sleep, and properly digest each meal we provide.”
>You can only nod in acknowledgement. 
>It makes sense; you always /have/ been sleepy after eating… 
>But to hear that she’s been drugging you… 
>What else has she done to you? 
>She gives one last, firm squeeze, causing you to gasp gently, before she withdraws her mane.
>”Your milk is of proper quality, it shall provide wonderfully for our foal…” 
>She places a few drops onto your lower lip, which you quickly lick. 
>She giggles. 
>”We see that you can not resist the taste of your own body’s lactation.” 
---------------
>After a moment, you close your legs, and right yourself as best you can. 
>For the first time, you realize just how tense your teats are. 
>When she relieved even the smallest bit of pressure… 
>”Tell us Spitfire, have you thought of names for our foal?” 
>Your mind blanks. 
>After being… milked… you find yourself struggling to compose a thought. 
"I…” 
>You look down at your stomach, and star for a few moments. 
>As your mind slowly resettles, you finally manage to think. 
“I… I have…” 
>”Oh? And what might they be?” 
>She sounds curious, like she didn’t expect you to think of a name for your /own/ foal. 
>You rub your stomach in a small, circular motion. 
"Flying Flame…” 
“I like the name Flying Flame…” 
>”We shall name your foal Blistering Wind...” 
>You stop, and turn toward Nightmare Moon. 
“What — what do you mean?” 
>”We’ve decided that your foal shall carry the name Blistering Wind.” 
“But… but it’s my foal…” 
>She giggles. 
>”It is not /your/ foal little one, we are responsible for your pregnancy, and we shall lay full claim to its fruits…” 
>You recoil, in fearful awe of her words. 
>She… she can’t be serious. 
>Subconsciously, you curl into a ball, wrapping your hooves around your stomach, as if to hide it from her sight. 
”But I’m the one giving birth! It’s /my/ foal!” 
>She nods dismissively, like how a teacher might nod at a student.
>”And your body is our property now, all that it produces is property of the Crown unless we declare otherwise…” 
>Tears begin to fall from your eyes. 
>This is insane! 
>She can’t /actually/ believe this!
>But what can you say? 
>You can’t /reason/ with her! 
”But… I’m going to be the one raising her! I’m going to be-“ 
>She laughs aloud, interrupting your words. 
>”Oh come my little pony, certainly you should know better than to make such foalish assumptions…” 
---------------
>You can barely react. 
"What… what do you mean…"
>"You will not be the mare raising your foal. You shall be too busy brooding another officer for our ranks.”
>All you can do is shake your head as tears begin to let loose from your eyes. 
>”After birth you shall have a week to recover before being mounted yet again.” 
>In denial of her words, you rub your belly, feeling the foal adjust under your touch. 
”Empress, please… you can’t… you can’t take my foal…” 
>Again, her mane reaches toward you, and begins to rub your ear, causing you to lean toward her touch. 
>”It’s ok little one, you’re just being unreasonable, your mind is clouded by earthen ideas…” 
>”You are a pegasus - a warrior breed, your foal is best fit to be raised by the most skilled soldiers in our guard; not by a mare who is in such a delicate state.” 
>You try to object. 
”But… but I /am/ a warrior! I’m a Wonderbolt!” 
>She chuckles. 
>”You /were/ a Wonderbolt Spitfire, a traitorous mare, who craved hollow satisfaction in lust…” 
>Your mind is racing.
>You’re desperately trying to think of any way to keep your foal, but your mind won’t let you. 
>All you can think about is your foal, and the comforting touch of her mane… 
>You feel so weak…
”Please, I just want to see my foal…” 
>She coos. 
>”You know that’s not possible Spitfire, if you wish to produce a healthy brood, your mind can only be focused upon the foals /inside/ of your womb: not out.” 
---------------
>You don’t respond, instead planting your head into your hooves, trying to hide from the world, hoping the pillow will swallow you. 
>Clearly seeing your fear, she attempts to comfort you, again moving her mane to your belly, and rubbing it softly. 
>”It’s alright little one, you shall still have the opportunity to nurse your foal through his early weeks…” 
>Your a glimmer of hope sneaks into your mind. 
>”Can… can I see my foal /then/ at least?”
>Just as quickly, it is crushed. 
>”Neigh — your eyes shall not see the fruit of your womb, you shall be blindfolded and restrained by our guards before the foal drinks…” 
>The damn breaks, and you begin to cry, sobbing filling the air. 
“But it’s my foal… it’s my foal…” 
>Her mane continues to toy with your ear and withers, massaging your body. 
>”Perhaps you have a hint of mud in your blood; it is… unusual... for a warrior to have such strong maternal instincts…” 
>All you can do is cry. 
>You… you don’t want to lose your foal… 
>Slowly, you begin to feel magic against the side of your body. 
>You don’t bother to raise your head; it wouldn’t matter anyways…. 
>Then, you begin to feel your body rotate. 
>You realize that Nightmare Moon is rolling you over, and within a few seconds, you’re laying on your back. 
>Without a pillow to hide your tears, you bring your forehooves up toward your face, hiding whatever dignity you have left from the mare above you. 
---------------
>You feel something wrap around either of your rear legs, and slowly, they are pulled apart, placing your milk-filled teats on full display. 
>”Calm little one, everything shall be well…” 
>You feel magic surround your nipples, and soon, you feel them being suckled. 
>You continue to cry. 
>The tension from your teats slowly begins to disappear, as the fluids slowly escape your body. 
>Involuntarily, a small gasp escapes your lips. 
>It feels… good. 
>The tears continue. 
>You… you don’t even /feel/ like Spitfire anymore. 
>Spitfire was a strong, independent, accomplished leader of the Wonderbolts. 
>Now, you’re on your back, legs spread, being /milked/ by the pony who ordered you be raped. 
>Now, you’re carrying the foal of a stallion you’ve never met. 
>A foal that you’ll probably never see. 
>”You see little one? Isn’t this relaxing?” 
>You lower your hooves, and place them at your sides. 
>There is no reason to hide anymore. 
>There is no dignity to save. 
>She begins to fonder your ear, which again, you lean toward. 
>You’ve stopped crying, instead, only the occasional moan or gasp leaves your lips. 
>Slowly, you open your eyes, and see Nightmare Moon staring down at your body. 
>She seems… content. 
---------------
>After a few minutes, you begin to feel your teats becoming loose, and empty. 
>Her magical suckling stops, and you attempt to role over again, assuming that she is done. 
>Yet, just as quickly, her magic stops you. 
>Instead, you see a large sphere of white fluid hover over your face. 
“Empress?” 
>She gently pinches your cheeks, clearly indicating that you should open your mouth. 
>Without resistance, you open your mouth, and she slowly begins to release the fluid into your mouth. 
>”Brood’s milk: It’s calming to a rebellious filly or colt, certainly it shall ease your fears as well…” 
>You barely register the words. 
>All you know is that it taste good right now, and that you want more. 
>Perhaps simply to toy with you, Nightmare Moon keeps the stream flowing at the slowest of speeds, and it takes almost minute for her magical sphere to drain entirely. 
>Finally done, you bring your hoof to your stomach once again, and feel the fresh warmth of your own milk. 
>Nightmare Moon releases your legs, and your weight causes you to role onto your side yet again. 
>...
>A few moments pass before she speaks. 
>”Our time here has drawn short, we are afraid we must take our leave Spitfire…” 
>Leave? 
>So soon? 
>Your mind quickly beings to clear itself. 
>It has been /months/ since you’ve had a real conversation. 
“Please… can’t you stay a little longer?” 
>The words feel strange leaving your mouth. 
>She’s Nightmare Moon… 
>Her expression shifts to one of curiosity as she lifts an eyebrow. 
>”Are you lonely little one?” 
>Her question is so direct that you’re afraid to answer it. 
>But at the same time, you /don’t/ want to be alone again. 
>If she stayed, even more a few moments… 
“Yes Empress…” 
>She looks away, clearly in deep thought. 
>Moments pass before she speaks again. 
---------------
>”And how long have you been feeling “lonely?” 
>It’s your turn to pause. 
>You aren’t sure how long… 
>”I- I don’t know Empress….” 
>She continues to look into the distance for a few more seconds, before facing you again. 
>”We believe that we know why you’re feeling “lonely” little one…” 
>Broodmares, being such delicate creatures, often times seek the protection of a stallion when they lay. 
>Her magic tugs on your wing. 
>"Being of the warrior tribe, this instinct must be particularly strong in you, as you fear that you might be attacked…” 
>She smiles. 
>”No doubt the embrace of one of our ShadowBolts during the evening while you rest would place your mind at ease…” 
>”Would you enjoy that little one?” 
>”Would you enjoy the firm embrace of a ShadowBolt at night?” 
>Your mind fills with fear and uncertainty. 
>She… she wants you to sleep with a random stallion? 
>And from the ShadowBolts… if it’s anything like the Wonderbolts, they’re probably pegasus. 
>A “warrior” stallion, just like those who she speaks about…
>...
>You look down at your womb one final time. 
>The weight of the foal inside practically anchors your body to the pillow beneath you. 
>Looking up to your wings, you can’t help but notice that, in spite of their pristine care, they simply aren’t as strong as they once were. 
>Your legs too have lost their former muscle; replaced by a layer of maternal fat. 
>The message that your body is sending is all too clear. 
>You aren’t a Wonderbolt anymore… 
>You’re a… broodmare. 
>Looking back toward Nightmare Moon, you nod weakly. 
“I’d like that very much… ”