Chapter 4: Princess Luna masturbates
The air in the Canterlot throne room tasted of polished marble and distant ozone. Sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows, casting jeweled patterns across the floor where petitioners bowed and scurried. Princess Luna stood beside her sister on the elevated dais, the heavy weight of her ceremonial peytral resting on her chest, the silken layers of her royal purple dress whispering with every slight shift of her hips.
She nodded absently at a delegation of diamond dogs, her ears catching the polished cadence of Celestia’s diplomacy, but the words were just noise. The formal dress, usually a second skin of authority, felt like a prison. The structured bodice pressed against her breasts, still sensitized, the memory of his rough hands a phantom brand. The gown’s generous skirt, designed to flow elegantly around her equine form, now felt like it was clinging to every curve, a constant, maddening reminder of the ache between her thighs.
A dull, persistent throb had settled there, deep in her core, since the moment she’d portaled away from the shattered office in Colorado. It wasn’t pain. It was hunger. A hollow, yearning echo of the night before. The Vinculum was no longer a whispered legend; it was a live wire strung taut between her solar plexus and some fixed point on a distant, dusty world.
She shifted her weight, and the subtle motion sent a small, hidden jiggle through her ass and thighs beneath the dress. She saw a young page’s eyes flicker downward for a fraction of a second before darting away, blushing. Normally, she would have fixed him with a regal, chilling stare. Now, she felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with anger. It was the memory of Jake’s awe-stricken gaze, his hands gripping her flesh, the desperate, approving sound he’d made.
“Sister?” Celestia’s voice, soft and questioning, cut through the fog. “The agricultural report from Appleloosa?”
Luna blinked. A dozen faces stared up at her, waiting. “The… irrigation plans seem sufficient,” she managed, her own voice sounding foreign to her. “Proceed.”
She lasted another twenty minutes. The throb became a pulse. The pulse became a needy, liquid heat that made the fine silk of her underwear feel abrasive. Every rustle of her own dress was a taunt. The memory of his taste, the smell of pine and coffee and him, the brutal, perfect fullness as she took him—it played on a loop behind her eyes, syncopated with the droning requests about trade tariffs and weather patterns.
“I require respite,” Luna announced, her voice a little too sharp. She didn’t wait for Celestia’s concerned nod. She turned, the train of her dress swirling, and walked from the dais with a measured dignity that was a lie. Every step sent a shockwave through her body, a reminder of the seismic events her form had endured.
Her private chambers were a sanctuary of twilight blues and quiet. The moment the heavy oak door sealed behind her, the regal posture collapsed. She leaned back against the carved wood, a shuddering breath escaping her. Her fingers, trembling slightly, went to the intricate fastenings of her peytral, then the laces of her dress. She tore at them, not with care, but with the same frantic energy she’d used on his clothes.
The garments pooled at her feet, a puddle of royalty. The cool air of the chamber kissed her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She was alone. Finally, utterly alone.
And the bond screamed.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a pressure, a magnetic pull toward the far corner of her room where an ornate stand held a crystal sphere shrouded in indigo velvet. She’d used it to watch dreams, to monitor the borders of her night. Never for this.
Her bare feet carried her across the cool floor. With a jerk of her hand, she whipped the velvet cover away. The crystal, clear and depthless, fogged for a moment at her touch. She closed her eyes, not thinking of coordinates or scrying spells, but of him. The feel of his stubble against her neck. The scar on his shoulder she’d glimpsed. The way his eyes had widened, not just with lust, but with a kind of grounded wonder.
The crystal cleared.
There he was. Jake. In what looked like a toolshed, bathed in the sharp, late afternoon light of Earth. He was shirtless, sweaty, wrestling a large sheet of plywood. Muscles corded in his back and arms as he maneuvered it, his focus absolute. He was repairing the window. Her window.
A choked, desperate laugh escaped Luna’s lips. He was so… human. So normal. And he was hers.
Her hand drifted from the cool crystal to her own feverish skin. Her fingers brushed a nipple, and the sensation was electric, a live wire connecting straight to the dull ache in her core. She pinched, rolled the stiff peak between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes locked on the image of him in the sphere. He paused, wiping his brow with his forearm, leaving a smear of dust. He looked tired, but there was a set to his jaw, a determination. To fix what she broke.
She needed to break him all over again.
Her other hand slid down the impossible slope of her stomach, through the soft, fine hair, and found the swollen, slick heat of herself. She was already drenched, the evidence of her need coating her inner thighs. Her entrance pulsed, empty and yearning. She remembered the shocking, perfect fit of him, the way her body had opened for him like a lock turning after a thousand years.
“Jake,” she whispered to the silent crystal. Her finger dipped inside, a shallow, teasing penetration that made her knees buckle. She braced her other hand on the stand, her breathing now ragged gasps that fogged the crystal’s surface.
In the sphere, he picked up a saw. The rasping sound was inaudible, but she imagined it. She imagined his hands, strong and capable, guiding the tool. Her fingers mimicked the motion, working in and out of her own dripping wetness, the rhythm growing frantic. She watched the muscles in his shoulders flex. She remembered the feel of those shoulders under her hands as she rode him, the desk groaning beneath them.
“You feel it, don’t you?” she panted, though he couldn’t hear her. Her finger curled, seeking a spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids. “You feel this… this cord between us. You have to.”
She added another finger, stretching herself, but it was a pathetic imitation. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his weight, his scent, the rough, desperate sounds he made. She needed the crushing fullness, the proof that the bond was real, physical, occupied.
Her thumb found her clit, a hard, aching nub, and circled it with punishing pressure. Her hips began to jerk against her own hand, a clumsy, frantic parody of the powerful rhythm she’d set in his office. Her wings, unfurled behind her in her arousal, quivered with tension. The crystal showed Jake measuring, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The dissonance was exquisite. Here she was, a princess of the night, shamelessly pleasuring herself in a magical chamber, and there he was, a man simply fixing a broken window. Connected by a primal thread that vibrated with every slap of her flesh, every gasp she couldn’t contain.
Her movements became jerky, uncontrolled. The image in the crystal blurred as her eyes lost focus. She wasn’t seeing the toolshed anymore. She was seeing his face beneath her, awestruck and pleading. She was feeling the moment her climax hit, the magical surge that blasted the glass to dust.
“Now… gods… now,” she hissed, her voice a raw scrape in her throat.
She came with a silent, convulsive scream, her body clamping hard around her fingers. A short, sharp crackle of midnight-blue energy arced from her horn, fizzling into the air. In the crystal ball, Jake suddenly flinched, dropping his tape measure. He looked around the empty toolshed, confused, then rubbed the back of his neck as if stung.
Luna slumped against the scrying stand, breath coming in ragged sobs, sweat cooling on her skin. The physical release was a wildfire, intense and devastating, but the moment it passed, the hollow ache returned, deeper. Emptier. Watching him through the crystal wasn’t a connection. It was voyeurism. It was torture.
She looked at her own trembling, glistening fingers, then back at the image of Jake, now picking up his tape measure with a shake of his head. A slow, determined clarity cut through the post-pleasure haze.
This wasn’t sustainable. The Vinculum wouldn’t be silenced by her own hand. It demanded presence. It demanded him.
She straightened up, the regal bearing returning not as a mask, but as an armor for a new resolve. She wiped her hand on the discarded velvet cloth, her gaze never leaving the man in the crystal.
Her duties, her throne, her entire world… they were here. But her bond was there. And a princess, especially one of the night, knew that some hungers could not be deferred until a more convenient time.
She had broken his window. Now, she would have to explain to her sister why she was breaking protocol.