Soarin and the Magic Bondage Bridle

by TacticalRainboom

Rating: mature
Tags: Sex, Spitfire, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Soarin, Romance
Length: 5216

The Wonderbolts Academy has a strict “no sneaking off to hump each other after lights-out” rule, which absolutely nopony enforces. The staff certainly don't follow it themselves, after all. || Futa, light BDSM, occasional pony.

The Wonderbolts Academy holds an unofficial record for how often it figures into “and that’s how I lost my virginity” stories. Spitfire and Soarin, the camp’s senior instructors, have long since given up on enforcing any kind of “no sneaking off to hump each other after lights-out” rule.

Besides, that rule doesn't apply to the staff, so going easy on the students who break it is only fair.

This particular episode from flight camp begins when Spitfire discovers a magic toy that lets her show Soarin something that nothing in Equestria could have prepared him for.

Contains minor sidefic elements from the Jinxieverse.

Published 2013-05-18 21:50:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-05-18 21:50:03 UTC

Soarin and the Magic Bondage Bridle

“It made you grow a penis.” Soarin rubbed his temple as if trying to massage out a headache. “Grow. A penis. And a student left this behind.”

Spitfire nodded. “One of the Ponyville recruits, and she didn’t reply when we sent her a letter about it.” Spitfire’s poker face was as solid as always, even as she nosed the little cloth sack containing the item in question. With the way she was acting, she might have simply been introducing Soarin to a new piece of training gear.

“Ponyville?” Soarin’s eyes widened. “Are you saying--”

Spitfire shook her head. “Not Rainbow Dash. One of the weaker flyers. Spiky mane. Anyway, like I said, she didn’t reply to the letter, so...” She shrugged. “It’s ours now.”

“What about the bridle?” Soarin reached out and prodded the web of metal-studded black straps next to the sack. “What, does it go with the bit?”

“No, they don’t go together. I thought of that too.” The bridle’s buckles clinked as Spitfire straightened it back into shape. “The bridle’s got its own bit, and the magic one isn’t made for the same type of bridle.”

Soarin opened his mouth and said some words, but he knew the answer to his question before it even left his mouth.

“Why didn’t you donate it? It’s not like you to break from procedure.”

Soarin knew he deserved the witheringly condescending stare that Spitfire fixed him with in response.

“It’s a bridle. If you want to be the one explaining why you’re donating a bridle to the Lost Foals Foundation, be my guest. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s magic, like the bit. I, uh...” Her poker face cracked into a little smirk.

Soarin and Spitfire sat in silence for a few moments, Soarin biting his lower lip and and Spitfire with that worrying little half-grin. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to get an explanation without asking, Soarin spoke up.

“Well? What does it do?”

Spitfire clicked her tongue. “I don’t know. I wanted to ask you to help me with that.”

Silence again, in which Spitfire just stared expectantly. This time, it was Spitfire who broke the silence.

“I have a theory. All you need to do is try it on.”

Spitfire hooked her hoof around the part of the bridle that went under the lower jaw and slid the whole deal towards Soarin’s side of the table.

“I already tried, and nothing happened. I think the bridle’s supposed to go on a stallion.”

A bit for the mare and a bridle for the stallion. The implications were not lost on Soarin. His eyes dropped to the bridle on the table. It glimmered back menacingly.

Soarin chose his next words very carefully.

“Don’t you think you should ask a unicorn instead?”

Spitfire instantly lived up to her name. “Oh, come on!” she spat, rolling her eyes. “You have no sense of adventure!”

“I’m plenty adventurous!” Soarin huffed back. “I just don’t know why I’m supposed to try on a piece of magic bondage gear just because you want to see what it does!”

Spitfire glared so hard that her mane seemed to throw sparks. Then, as quickly as it had flared, the fire was doused, and Spitfire just sighed with something like disappointment.

“Shit, Soarin,” she grumbled, shaking her head. “You really suck at taking hints. Why do you think I’m asking you to wear a piece of bondage gear?”

“Oh, um...” A twinge of guilt hit Soarin somewhere between his heart and throat. “Sorry. It’s just that, you know... I haven’t done any of that in a while.”

Spitfire’s lip curled. “I’ll give you a refresher course. That, or I can ask somepony else.”

Soarin eyed the bridle again. It was a simple thing, really--to a casual and naive observer, nothing more than a jumble of black webbing held together by metal rivets and buckles. The heaviest buckle, the one that sat just below the ear, caught Soarin’s attention with a telltale shimmer of pale green magic, so he leaned forward to have a proper look.

The glowing central buckle was where the safety release would be on the kind of bondage bridle that could be purchased from a novelty store. This bridle wasn’t one. If this thing was properly tightened around somepony’s head, it wasn’t coming off without somepony else’s help. There was even a pair of clever little built-in blinders, cloth flaps that could be adjusted to hang down and remove all peripheral vision.

All in all, it was a nice, if intimidating, piece of bondage gear. Soarin couldn’t imagine why somepony would be willing to leave it behind. To confirm a personal suspicion, Soarin leaned forward and gingerly touched the bridle with the end of his muzzle. Yeah--industrial-grade webbing, the kind that could be used to hang a cart full of bricks from the ceiling. Solid enough to be uncomfortable, but smooth enough so it would never cut skin no matter how much pressure...

“All right,” Soarin said, still looking at the bridle instead of into Spitfire’s crimson eyes. “All right, I’ll try it on. So that we can, uh, see what it does.”

“So you want to after all?” Spitfire quirked a brow, but then she put that brow back down and shook her head. “I’m not forcing you. It’s fine.”

“No, really, let’s try it out. It sounds fun!” Soarin was lying, sort of. The gentle seafoam halo around the bridle’s main buckle was definitely more scary than enticing. The only difference between Soarin’s initial dismissal and current willingness was the way he was being asked.

“All right then.” Spitfire reached for the bridle and looped it around both forehooves, spreading it to its proper shape as if holding a bag open. “Raise your head and then stand still.”

“Here? In the break room?” Soarin’s eyes darted around as if he expected to see a student hiding in a cupboard or under a card table. He didn’t, of course--the students were out on a drill that was scheduled to last until lights out. “Spitfire, don’t you think we should move the party to--”

Soarin cut himself off with a gasp as Spitfire bit down on his mane and pulled directly towards the floor, forcing his muzzle to angle upward.

“Can’t put it on you if you’re talking.” Spitfire’s head was well out of sight now, but her gravelly tone carried the same warning as one of her signature glares.

Soarin obeyed, though he strained his eyes to try to see Spitfire was doing. Soarin only barely had time to see his Captain walking toward him with the bridle in her mouth, and then a net of webbing was thrown over his head. Before Soarin even knew what was happening, the straps tightened to a snug fit and the folded blinders pulled themselves open. Soarin opened his mouth to make a comment, but the chin-strap suddenly tightened, slipping the bit into his mouth and pulling his jaw shut.

Spitfire clicked her tongue once. “Huh. Self-adjusting.”

Pause.

Then: “That’s all, huh? Too bad. I was hoping for--”

Soarin cut Spitfire off with a panicked “mmmph!” as her assessment was proven wrong in a very major way.

It felt like taking it from behind, having a raspberry blown on his stomach, and having the skin between his balls and his butthole tickled, all at the same time. Soarin thrashed, trying to twist his head around and look at his own butt, but that would’ve been hard enough even without blinders on.

“Frrrck! Thrd frghrn hrrf!” Soarin complained.

Spitfire’s face suddenly popped into view from behind Soarin’s right blinder. Her eyebrows were furrowed together and her head was cocked to one side. “You okay, Soarin?”

By way of an answer, Soarin flicked his tail and snorted, jerking his head sideways to signal exactly which part of him was frghrn hrrf.

Spitfire’s head dipped out of view again. A moment later, Soarin felt a hoof brush against his rump. His left eye twitched. Something back there just felt wrong.

“Hrrh! wuh zh’ frrgk!”

“Stay still!” Spitfire snapped.“Did you want me to look or not?”

Soarin snorted uneasily as he felt Spitfire’s hoof brush his rear and dip under his tail, lifting it aside. He instinctively turned his head sideways to try to see behind him again, but his blinders blocked all but the narrow lane of vision directly above his muzzle. He could hear just fine, though, so he very clearly heard Spitfire’s reaction to what she found behind his tail.

“Ho-ho-holy shit! I was right!”

Spitfire had a very expressive voice, and right now her chesty vibrato was expressing a rare, urgent kind of excitement.

Soarin tried to twist around again, but he didn’t get far--he hardly managed to turn his head before he felt another sharp yank at his mane, snapping his head back into position.

Spitfire’s voice dropped to a deadly growl. “Strike two. I said stay still.”

The blinders were appropriately named. All Soarin could see was the wall on the other side of the break room. Spitfire was a dark, sultry voice and the brush of warm fur and flesh, lurking out of sight like a stalking predator.

The attack came so suddenly that Soarin couldn’t even vocalize a yelp before it was too late. Spitfire’s forelegs clamped painfully hard around Soarin’s body just behind his forelegs, and then he was lifted into a forced rearing position and thrown onto the break room’s card table. He landed in a sprawl with rear hooves on the floor and his and forelegs flat on the table.

Soarin started to protest, but he only managed half of a “hrrf” before a lemon-yellow hoof dropped like a hammer and pinned his mane against the table. Soarin's blindered field of vision was still just as useless when rotated by ninety degrees, but he could feel Spitfire’s other foreleg pressing down on the side of his neck, and he could feel the wind from Spitfire’s wings as she hovered above him.

Despite the way she was hovering in position to piledrive Soarin’s face into the table’s cheap wooden surface, Spitfire’s voice was as seductive as silk when her breath tickled Soarin’s exposed right ear.

“First things first. You remember the out signal for when you can’t talk?”

Negotiations, it seemed, were over. Soarin nodded, sideways.

Spitfire’s voice flattened. “Prove it.”

Soarin feebly thumped his left forehoof on the table: Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

“Good. How about the safeword?”

The warmth of closeness brushed Soarin’s cheek again as Spitfire loosened one of the bridle’s straps with her teeth. The bit fell easily from Soarin’s mouth, and he gasped the answer to the question.

“Mayday!”

Spitfire’s voice stayed gentle for the next few things she had to say.

“I’ll honor them starting now. Nod if you understand.”

Soarin gave another awkward head-waggle, then he closed his eyes for a moment as he felt Spitfire kiss him softly on his upturned cheek.

Then Spitfire’s voice dropped to the signature growl that made her so feared and desired. “One more rule.”

The hold on his head was released, and Soarin heard Spitfire’s hooves drop back to the floor. He spoke up.

“What’s the rule, Mistr--”

Soarin didn’t finish the word; Spitfire shut him up with a sharp bite on the rear and a barked order that sounded more appropriate for the training field than the bedroom--or, for that matter, the break room.

“When you talk, you call me sir! Understand, chickie?”

“Yes!” panted Soarin. “Understood!” Then he whimpered as he felt a pair of forelegs clamp his abdomenn, and this time they stayed there as Spitfire yanked Soarin’s mane downwards again.

She spit out Soarin’s mane to roar at him. “Doesn’t sound like it to me! Say that again!”

Soarin lowered his head and braced his forehooves against the table. “U-understood, sir!”

The hooves on Soarin’s back gripped harder as their owner listed sideways. Then the Captain righted herself and acknowledged Soarin’s deference through what sounded like gritted teeth.

“Thash better.”

And Spitfire’s voice dropped even lower, though it didn’t for a moment give up its commanding edge.

“Ya ready, chick?”

“Y-yes sir!” Soarin lied.

Something fleshy grazed Soarin between the hind legs, bumping against his nuts. Spitfire’s weight shifted on Soarin’s hips as she adjusted her aim. On the next attempt, her warm length actually grazed Soarin’s sheath, then again on the way back.

Spitfire didn’t miss a third time. That chunk of impossible Spitfire flesh found its target, and came to a rest against something Soarin wasn't supposed to have.

Soarin felt himself wink. His vag fucking winked for Spitfire. The knowledge alone was worth a swallow of mixed horror and arousal, to say nothing of the feeling--the convulsing, vulnerable, desperate feeling of an unfamiliar body part opening momentarily and begging to be filled by a cock.That notion was almost disturbing enough to spoil the knowledge that his body was signalling of its own accord that he wanted Spitfire to rail him.

Soarin confirmed his vag’s statement with a desperate, shuddering whimper. Unfortunately, his arousal was dampened when Spitfire broke character with a click of the tongue and an almost friendly tone of concern.

“...hmm. S’rry, hun.”

Soarin turned his head and tried to look behind him. It was still a pointless attempt, of course.

Spitfire’s tone still lacked its edge, but this time, the implications would hardly be more brutal even if they were said in a full-on airfield shout.

“Congrat’lat’ns, Soarin. Welc’me ta bein’ a mare.”

Spitfire pressed her cock forward until the head forced its way through the opening of Sorin’s virgin pussy. Soarin let loose an openmouthed wail, and not the good kind. The searing pain was all punishment and no reward; an unsexy hurt to the point of boner-kill.

Spitfire didn’t allow Soarin the luxury of self-pity. Somehow, her husky Captain Spitfire blare rang with the same force even while her teeth were closed on a magic bit.

“Th’ frck was that, chick? Did I give pr’miss’n to cry like a li’l filly?”

Spitfire righted herself on Soarin’s back and dealt him a swift blow to the hindquarters.

“No! No, sir!” Soarin mewled.

“I ev’r tell ya ‘bout how mine g’t torn?” Sptifire said, dragging her cock agonizingly backwards through Soarin’s untested ponypuss.

“N-no s-s-sir!”

“I lost mine wh’n I w’s still a bl’nk fl’nk!”

Spitfire plunged back into Soarin with the last two words, and Soarin barely held back a sob. The edge of the table dug uncomfortably into his lower abdomen, and Spitfire’s weight held him firmly in place while she invaded his insides.

“Split m’legs too wide durin’ a st’rm drill!”

Spitfire drew back, then dealt Soarin a full-length thrust.

“An’ I shook ‘t off an’ got back inta th’ sky! Wha’s y’r excuse, chickie? Grown stall’n whinin’ ‘bout somethin’ li’l fillies have t’ go through?”

She pumped Soarin again, then again for emphasis.

Soarin was paralyzed by the mind-warping sensation of having Spitfire’s she-cock abuse the vag that he hadn’t been born with. A few times, he considered giving the distress signal, but the thought was quickly obliterated by another rush of sensation. It was painful, it was confusing, but it was undeniably a feeling of being fucked. Soarin realized that the top of his cock was bumping the underside of the table. The abuse had somehow brought Soarin’s stallionhood--for all that term was worth--to full mast, and the disused tool was wagging in the air with every brutal impact from behind.

“Ah asked ya a quest’n, chickie!” Spitfire snapped, commanding Soarin’s attention with an extra-forceful slam on the word quest’n.

“I... I don’t know!” Soarin simpered. What little he could see of the room was blurred with tears.

“Y’ don’ know what?” Soarin’s Captain demanded, thrusting mercilessly into Soarin until she reached maximum depth. This time, she held there, with Soarin’s rear end impaled on her solid length of mare dick.

“I d-don’t know my excuse!”

“Tha’s not wh’t I wanted, y’stupid chick!” As she spat those words, Spitfire dragged her flare back through Soarin’s tunnel until Soarin’s clench forced the head out.

“I don’t... I don’t know my my excuse, Sir-hir-hir-hiiir!”

The acknowledgement got dragged into a long cry as Spitfire penetrated Soarin’s flesh-cave from mouth to bedrock in one brutal plunge.

“All th’ times y’took it in th’ wrong hole, ‘n now yer cryin’ like a filly fr’m gettin’ fucked in th’ right one?” The next plunge came with a stinging slap on Soarin’s left cutie mark.

“I... I’m s-s-sorry, sir!”

Spitfire’s cock pulled free again. A weight was lifted from Soarin’s hips as the Captain dismounted, leaving her little chickie quivering facedown on the table.

Soarin’s head rested in a thin puddle of tears, and he felt a wetness clinging to his groin. Blood, probably. The fucked-too-hard pussyache was only almost enough to cover the lingering burning sensation of being deflowered. Soarin tried to force himself to take deep, calming breaths, but his breathing turned into a sharp gasp when he felt a hot, menacing whisper on his ear.

“Don’t you nod off on me.” The drill-instructor blast was gone, replaced by that sultry bedroom rasp that always seemed to hit the perfect resonance frequency for Soarin’s cock. And, notably, Spitfire’s words weren’t spoken through clenched teeth any more.

“I’m not through with you yet.”

Soarin was suddenly shoved violently off of the table and onto the floor. Practically before his mane could settle from the fall, Spitfire was upon him, tackling him onto his back and pinning him there in the span of a single breath.

When Soarin’s eyes found their focus, all he could see was a blur of blood red and candle-flame yellow. What he felt was Spitfire’s tongue and lips attacking him with the fury of a bonfire. When Soarin closed his eyes and angled his head to sink into the kiss, Spitfire only kissed harder, stopping his tongue with her own and wrestling him back to taste his mouth from the inside. Her forehooves rested on Soarin’s shoulders as she lowered her body onto his, pressing him into a horizontal embrace.

Soarin raised a hoof and ran it gingerly down the side of Spitfire’s face. Then he raised his other hoof and looped both arms around Spitfire’s neck.

The kiss ended, Soarin opened his eyes, and the view between his blinders was of Spitfire’s face hovering above him, wearing a smile that was sweet instead of predatory this time.

“I wanted to show you something,” she said, raising one hoof to brush Soarin’s arms away from her back. “I think you’ve earned it.”

She laid a peck on his lips, then backed away. Soarin didn’t yet want to crane his neck to see what Spitfire was doing, but he felt it when her face grazed against his neck, then his chest, slowly following a path down his body. His breath caught in his chest when he felt the first playful nip at his belly, and then came the tantalizingly wet tickle of Spitfire’s tongue against the inside of his left leg...

Having a mare’s mouth, nose, and breath caress Soarin’s multiple loins felt like a lover’s embrace after a day spent fighting a hurricane. Losing his virginity was one thing, but nothing in all of Equestria could have prepared Soarin for what it was like to have a warm, slippery tongue lap and squirm against nerve endings that had spent their entire existence thus far being savaged by Spitfire’s dick.

Several times, Soarin felt himself wink at Spitfire’s face, as if he were kissing her with his hind lips. Spitfire’s command over mare parts was unbelievable. She massaged, flicked, kissed, and nuzzled, igniting Soarin’s body from the bottom up until his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was wide open in a silent scream of crippling pleasure. He inhaled with a tormented rasp, then exhaled a simpering, broken plea for more.

Spitfire was listening. Her forehead and mane brushed Soarin’s cock from beneath when she bobbed her head. She gave Soarin’s unfolded pussy more, and more, and more, lapping up his arousal while she coaxed him deeper and deeper into the kind of ecstacy that mares know and stallions can only imagine.

Soarin’s entire body seized involuntarily as the maddening pleasure dove him to an invisible threshold, utterly alien and yet--

Spitfire broke away from Soarin’s groin with perfect, sadistic timing. Soarin opened his eyes--they had been squeezed shut--in time to see Spitfire’s head backing away from his confused, pleading genital area and coming back to address him face-to-face. Her muzzle, matted with musky female lust, rubbed a smear of Soarin’s own secretions against his cheek.

“Did you like that, Soary?” she lilted mockingly, almost girlishly, into Soarin’s ear.

Soarin could only answer with a squeaky “yes” and a feeble attempt to snuggle up to the mare on top of him.

Spitfire pressed down, driving Soarin into the floor with nearly her entire weight. “How much did you like it?”

“I...” Soarin murmured, “You have no idea... I mean, I guess you do...”

Spitfire’s lilt turned dark, and her lips touched Soarin’s ear as she spoke.

“Do you want more?”

“Y-yes,” Soarin blurted out. He reached to loop his arms around Spitfire’s neck again, but she blocked him at the wrist and then pinned that wrist down.

Spitfire’s voice dropped to a deadly hiss. Soarin could easily imagine the wicked grin on Spitfire’s face as she breathed hot seduction into his ear.

“Let me hear you beg for it.”

“Please...” Soarin squirmed against the hard floor, then he gave a tiny whimper as Spitfire took that as a cue to pin him down harder. “Please, please, give me more...”

“Not good enough,” Spitfire thrummed, this time with a warning edge. “What do you want me to do to you?”

“Fuck me!” Soarin gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. His cock throbbed, but his pussy ached to be filled. “P-please, I want it so much, please fuck me Spitfire please!”

Spitfire picked herself up and off of Soarin’s body, leaving him flattened and exposed on the floor.

“Stand up and bite the bit.”

Soarin rose to a wobbly all-fours stance, then mouthed at where the bridle’s mouthpiece dangled by the straps on each end. When Soarin’s teeth closed around the still-warm metal, the bridle tightened immediately, forcing the bit into place.

“Now that you’re done whimpering...” Spitfire disappeared behind the blinders.

When she spoke, Spitfire’s voice was back to a gritted-teeth slur, but the words were crystal clear.

“... Time t’ take it like a mare.”

Spitfire’s hooves fell onto Soarin’s midsection and clamped there. This time she didn’t even need to stop and position before landing a ten-pointer on Soarin’s flared bullseye.

Instead of railing him hard and fast, this time Spitfire made sure her mount felt every half inch of her she-cock as she worked it into and through him. She When she pulled into a backswing, she moved just as steadily, never hesitating, never letting Soarin catch his breath.

He would’ve screamed out loud, but all Soarin could manage was a frenzied series of R sounds. He wanted to howl in desperate, pleading submission as Spitfire pumped him. He bared his teeth and cried out an incoherent approximation of “fuck me” despite the straps locking his jaw shut. In the end, all he could do was brace himself to keep from collapsing--

Everything about Soarin’s body suddenly stiffened at the same time. His cock bounced against his stomach, his pussy contracted sharply around the Spitfire flesh wedged into it, his neck and back seized into place, and his wings snapped upward with an audible pomf.

Spitfire stopped humping, probably because she was surprised by Soarin’s abrupt erection. For a few seconds, the only sound in the break room was Soarin’s broken panting.

“Hunh.” Spitfire sounded like she’d just been handed a gift box containing something that she didn’t quite know what to do with.

Soarin felt the hooves on his hips trail down towards his cutie marks as Spitfire shifted her weight forward over his back. Then Soarin’s eyes filled with tears as he felt hot breath against his secondary feathers.

This time, Spitfire’s voice was devoid of any trace of drill instructor, dominatrix, or seductress.

“Soar’n? ‘S this wha’ y’want?”

Soarin would’ve spread his wings to offer them for the taking, but they were already as stiff as could be. He stayed silent instead of saying take me, lest his mumbling sound too much like mayday, and he didn’t try to present himself for the taking, lest his shifting be interpreted as dots and dashes. He just bowed his head, stayed still, and waited for Spitfire to claim him.

"I guesh tha's a yes, huh?"

How Soarin wished he could have replied with "take me." Instead he nodded once, slowly and deliberately. No matter how still he stood, with every heartbeat he seemed to shift just enough to feel the way his body was attached to Spitfire’s.

His nod was rewarded by a soft squeeze around the midsection and a kiss on the back of the neck.

"Yer sumthin', y' know that?"

Soarin nodded again. Spitfire laughed softly.

"Well, you asked fer it."

Soarin gasped, then let the gasp out as a vocal shudder when he felt Spitfire’s muzzle caressing his left wing. Then he felt Spitfire move inside him again, slowly and gently this time--not fucking him but merely sinking her flesh deep into him, feeling him from the inside and forcing him to feel her. She made love to him, inside and out, while she took his wings with her soft fur and her even softer breath.

All too soon, Soarin felt his neck and gut tightening again. He closed his eyes and tried to hold himself back from the edge, but there was no holding back the low moan that Spitfire’s flare was forcing through his throat. When his breath ran out and he inhaled, he didn’t manage a long breath--he huffed the contents of his lungs out again when Spitfire’s nose rubbed at his feathers. Every breath that Spitfire took was a soft breeze tickling Soarin’s primaries; every squeeze at his hips and every drag of flesh within his nethers was an updraft driving him higher into the sky. His moaning took on a desperate, urgent edge as he climbed to a climax, and Spitfire’s breath against his wing grew ragged and halting, and her hooves trembled and clutched at his sides as her pace moving in and out of him increased...

Spitfire’s teeth closed on the muscular crook of Soarin’s wing, and Soarin’s mind, body, pussy, and cock all exploded. The unbelievable sensation of teeth massaging his wing flashed through his body, shocking his legs and lancing through his neck and brain, leaving him no chance to do anything but throw his head back and scream in the throes of an insane triple orgasm. His body seized hard, and he felt Spitfire pump wet heat into him while his own extraneous stallionhood played out its own finish. Soarin wailed himself hoarse through gritted teeth, wobbling under the force of a climax of unimagined proportions.

Spitfire's teeth ground into Soarin's wing as if she were lightly chewing on him, which sent Soarin’s head and forelegs into convulsions. His balls pumped themselves dry onto the break room’s tile floor, but his pussy refused to release its orgasmic hold on his mind so easily. Once his cock was spent, he was left with the feeling of being taken like a mare. Body, mind, and wings, Spitfire took Soarin, and Soarin gave himself to Spitfire.

Spitfire stopped her chewing and settled into a firm clench on Soarin’s left wing as she filled him with sticky magic one last time. Soarin responded with a faint whimper. He would have gasped when she released his wing and pulled her cock free of his now oozing entrance, but all he had left was a breathy shudder.

The straps were suddenly loosened, and the bit slipped free of Soarin’s mouth. He had every intention of stretching his jaw after how hard he’d been biting down, but before that, he collapsed into a puddle of pegasus.

Spitfire chuckled from somewhere far, far away, but she came closer in order to kiss Soarin on his tear-stained cheek. “I guess we’ve got a few things to talk about,” she said. Soarin could hear her sweet smile.

“Yeah,” he answered, resting his face against the floor.

“I can carry you back to my room. We’ll let the junior instructors clean up the mess.”

Soarin and Spitfire lay crunched together on Spitfire’s single-sized bunk, Soarin splayed out on his back and Spitfire snuggled up next to him and partially on top of him with her legs folded beneath her. Soarin was still wearing the bridle, but his bit was dangling from its fastenings, and Spitfire’s bit was sitting, inert, on the bedside table for now.

“That wasn’t fair,” Soarin muttered. “You had practice.” Pause. “A lot of practice.” Then he bit his lower lip. “What, you didn’t want to hold off until I was free?”

Spitfire replied with a disturbingly cute giggle and a very bad impression of a good, innocent young mare. “I wanted to be good enough to make your first time special, Soary.”

Soarin stared quietly at the ceiling for a few moments, absently touching the soft female folds that were still located behind his nuts.

“Well... you took my wings, too.” Boy, that felt weird to say. But it was true. Spitfire had taken him, mated him, made him her mare.

“Yeah. I guess I did.” Spitfire craned her neck over and nosed at Soarin’s face. “Hey, did I get carried away? I’m sorry... I really...”

With a burst of strength, Soarin managed to lift one forearm and curl it around the back of Spitfire’s head, and he managed to turn towards her and kiss her.

“I’m not sorry,” he murmured.

And Spitfire let out a sound that sounded dangerously like a real giggle as she burrowed her face into Soarin’s shoulder.

Soarin stared up at the ceiling again. “ ...Hm.”

He knew his next words were going to be stupid. He knew. He would be better off just not saying anything. Much better idea to enjoy this moment with Spitfire instead of...

“What?” Spitfire said in a flat tone of annoyance. She raised one brow at the look on Soarin’s face. “Spit it out.”

Soarin sighed. He was cornered.

“...Does this mean I’m pregnant?”

Author's Note

This is probably the first time I’ve ever written a single scene or a single idea for so many words that I’m afraid people will be tired of it before the end. This has some other flaws too, but there came a point where I just wanted to be able to post this damn thing already.

Please for fuck’s sake do not think of this thoroughly insane idea as a “side-story.” This is TMB fanfiction. This is not a side-story to TMB any more than TMB is a side-story to pony-canon.

I’m so, so, so sorry.