The American Dream
Mister Coffee

The American Dream.

You’re sitting back on the couch, vaguely watching the television. It’s switched on, showing a football game that you don't care overly much about, but you’re too lazy to change the channel. The volume’s turned down low, low enough that you can identify that the sportscasters are saying words—but yet those words are in that strange limbo space where they seem to have lost all meaning. They could be saying anything, and it’s only your mind that’s assigning it the familiar terms.

The coffee table holds an open bag of Tostitos, a jar of salsa, and most of a six pack of Molson beer. Two empty bottles; those were yours. The other, half-empty, that was hers.

She’s dozing, her head pillowed on your lap. You’re gently rubbing your hand through her mane, focusing particularly on those sensitive spots behind her ears.

She could be a dog—she’s about the right size for one of the larger breeds, maybe a Great Dane. Or a cat: her fur’s soft and silky, catlike. But she’s neither; she’s a pony, specifically, a unicorn.

The American Dream, revised.

Moonlight Raven. Her name suits her, it really does. She’s not exactly goth, but she’s not exactly not, either. She's got a pale white coat, a dark mane, and she likes wearing dark dresses or dark socks—when she bothers to wear anything.

Currently, she’s wearing nothing at all.

You’ve just got on a pair of basketball shorts and a mostly-clean t-shirt: part of the American Dream is to relax in your den at the end of the workday, and you don’t have to be dressed to do that.

Her ears perk and turn to the television for a moment, before one comes back in your direction, and she shifts her head around, just slightly.

She rests her head on your lap often enough when watching TV that you don’t normally get an instaboner anymore from just that. This time, Raven’s head movement is enough to get the little man’s attention, and she’s awake enough to notice she has.

Sometimes she ignores it when that happens. Sometimes she laughs or taunts you for getting hard for a pony; other times she takes it as an invitation to tease, or to go further, depending on her mood.

This is one of the latter times: you feel her magic tugging at the waistband of your shorts. You’d long since grown accustomed to it, it’s as much a part of her as her mane or her tail or her hooves or the way she sometimes snorts when she giggles and then denies that she did.

Given that you’re sitting down, and you have a pony still laying on your lap, your basketball shorts don’t move easily. She’s not discouraged; she rises to the challenge, much like your dick is rising to her . . . she tugs harder with her field, hard enough that you can hear the strange musical chiming from her aura.

You have no idea why a unicorn’s magic does that, but it does. It’s not just her; you’ve heard that ethereal sound from other unicorn’s magic, too. Depending on the circumstance, it ranges from charming to creepy.

Now that she’s got a firm hold, your shorts slide down, risking friction burns on your butt. Around in front, the waistband also snags your stiff cock, pulling it down before it snaps back, smacking her right in the face.

“Serves you right for being impatient,” you mutter.

“Shut up.” She eyes the prize for a moment and then wraps her lips around your dick, which effectively ends the discussion.

She traces her tongue around your head, around the glans and then up to the tip, teasing but with purpose. You could get off on just this, honestly, if she keeps it up. Sometimes you wonder if all ponies are this talented at blowjobs or if she’s had more practice than most, and then you decide it doesn’t matter how she knows.

As Raven begins bobbing her head up and down your pole, you run your hand along her back. You try not to think about how strange it is to feel fur underneath you hand instead of smooth skin, to get to the curve of the butt and encounter a tail instead of a crack, and you mostly succeed.

You’ve got enough reach to at least finger her if you want to, but you don't, not yet.

You’ve also got enough reach to get a new bottle of Molson off the coffee table, something you consider for longer than you should.

Drinking a beer while getting sucked off would really be living the American Dream.

Instead, you return your hand to its primary mission—ear scritches. Those are potentially sexual, at least as far as she’s concerned.

It boggled your mind how easily you could undo her just be scratching behind her ears. That was like pony Kryptonite.

You’d once wondered how it would feel to get off to magic, and convinced her to jerk you off with her horn.

It had worked, at least in the sense that at the end of it, you came. But it hadn’t been satisfying for you, and judging by her expression, she hadn’t been too thrilled with it, either. Maybe there was something about the personal touch rather than the magical touch which made a difference.

If you had a magic dildo that could get every mare off one hundred percent of the time, that’d make you popular with the ladies, but there wasn’t much you could get out of it. It was better to be traditional when it came to sex. Sex was a contact sport.

You tense your hand in her mane and she obliges, taking you all in without a moment of protest. Saliva runs across your balls and down your inner thigh, pooling on the waistband of your half pulled down basketball shorts. You’d been smart to go commando, anticipating this very event. Maybe you were wrong, but in your limited experience, drowsy ponies were often horny ponies.

Commercials blur by on the television, and for a brief instant you wonder what might happen if you went to a Chevrolet dealership and said you wanted to buy a new Impala just because you saw the commercial for it while getting a blowjob.

As the football game resumes, you decide this shouldn’t be a one-sided affair. Maybe ear scritches are the pinnacle of pony sexual experience, but you know full well that she’s fully equipped under her tail, and your know a few tricks that ponies can’t do with their hooves.

You slide your hand down her back and loosely grip her around her dock. She trembles and tenses, knowing what’s to come.

You hesitate there, feeling her tense tail muscles quivering in anticipation before you slide your hand further down, just along the border of fur and bare skin. Aside from the ears, the most erogenous zones on a pony are all furless. You don’t know any more if that’s something weird or not.

Sometimes she flags her tail high, making sure you get a good look at her; other times she’s coy and teasing, revealing her dark forbidden skin briefly, when you can’t respond to her. When your relationship was fresh and new, you assumed those moments were accidental, a swish of the tail that went too far. Now that you know her better, you’re sure that it was intentional nearly every time.

The game’s afoot; now it’s a race to the finish, and there are no losers in this race. She’s winking, you can feel that as your hand slides down her rump. Raven might have enough control of her tail when you’re out shopping for groceries to only show what she wants to, but you’re confident she isn’t faking this. She’s lusting for your touch, for that feel of your fingers inside her.

You’re close, too, and she knows it. That little bit of extra stimulation as your fingers slip somewhere warm and wet might be enough to push you over the edge. You could hold back, you could concentrate on prolonging the experience, but you don’t want to. You’re caught up in the moment; you’ve got your hand practically on the prize and it’s not much to continue, to focus on her pleasure while you still can. To not leave her hanging.

Your fingers slip in, pushing into warm, slick, inviting flesh. She tenses around you, pulling you in and you resist, teasing, because that’s where the fun is. That’s how the game’s played; offense and defense, calculated advances. You lose a bit of focus on the pleasure she’s providing as you concentrate on your hand, on touching the right places.

And as you brush your pinkie against her clit, she retaliates, once again taking you all the way in, her lips pressed against your pubic mound, her tongue twining around your shaft, and her throat clenching against your head. It’s too much, and even though you try to hold it in for just a moment longer, you shudder and unload.

A cheer erupts from the television—somebody just scored there, too.

Moonlight Raven slips her head back, and your dick unceremoniously flops out of her mouth, trailing a saliva and probably some jizz against your leg. Whatever, it doesn’t matter.

She tilts her head up and you lean down, brushing against her muzzle. You know where her mouth’s been, but that doesn't matter either—you don’t hesitate to kiss her, only wondering after your tongues interlock how much of your own cum is in that kiss, and as always not caring one bit.

The New American Dream.

Once upon a time, you’d’ve lit a cigarette and laid back on the couch, perhaps turned the volume up on the television to catch the replay of the last score, but you live in modern times now and the game isn’t played like that any more. As your tongue twines with hers, you slip your hand further into her, searching for her g-spot, eager to give her the release she's just given you.