Rainbow Dash Gets Mad Rutty With An M1A2 Abrams - A Romantic Tale

It had started, like so many other romantic infatuations, with a shared glance across the crowded motorpool; she was there in her freshly starched and pressed fatigues, the cloth of her uniform blouse drawn taut across her ample yet toned hindquarters, her rainbow mane tousled gently by the breeze—he stood stoically, aligned perfectly on Charlie, First Platoon’s chalk line, parked and chocked with drip pans properly in place. His chassis was perfect, torsion bars leveled just so, his tracks tensioned exactly to manufacturer’s specifications. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this fine specimen was the pride of Deuce Tank’s fleet.

Rainbow Dash had seen many tanks before, but none had ever caught her eye quite like this one. That angular armor plating. That exotic turbine powerplant. That amazingly big… Suddenly she felt a tingling in her loins and a blush form across her face. She had to find out his name.

Dash trotted inconspicuously down the vehicle lines, past the troglodyte M88 recovery vehicles and effeminate, flouncey Strykers so she could get a better look.

Cock of the Walk was proudly stenciled in fresh white CARC paint on his 120mm smoothbore cannon, though his formal name was C-16; a moniker that delineated his duty as the Platoon Leader’s personal track. Of all the Abrams in Charlie Company, he had the highest operational readiness rate—all the Chief Warrant Officers marveled at his amazingly low down times, spoke to each other in hushed whispers at the maintenance meetings of how no other tank on the peninsula would ever come close to being as fine or sturdy a piece of machinery.

But that morning, Rainbow Dash’s big, beautiful magenta eyes locked with his tactical driving lights, and from that exact magical moment she knew then and there that she had to have him for her own, that fate itself had brought these two apex specimens to be together.

Theirs would be a happy future; she would conduct his weekly, monthly and annual services on time, every time in accordance with the -10 and -20 manuals and the Army Maintenance Standard. Visions of happy summers spent on the beach in Pusan tripped through her lovestruck brain, of laying there on that warm Korean sand, her with a crispy Stella Artois, him sipping on his daily ration of 300 gallons of JP-8 delivered by an immaculately clean HEMTT fueler.

She’d need some way to get him alone, to really connect. And she knew just how she planned to do it, too.

********************************

It was Saturday, 0300 when she finally poked her snoot out of the latrine door. She peered around the doorframe, making sure the coast was clear. The Chief and the Battalion Maintenance Officer had left early, around 1530, to pregame for the long weekend’s planned debauchery of drinking cheap beer and heckling chunky Pinoy girls. The Officer of the Day had come through like clockwork at 2345, did his perfunctory checks and left.

He was all hers, now.

Dash crept across the motorpool, furtively slinking from shadow to shadow as she made her way to her armored paramour, that 70 ton armored fighting vehicle of her most secret desire.

Standing in front of him, she was awestruck at the size of the machine; that cold, rolled steel cannon jutting proudly from his angular turret, his flat olive drab paint abjectly failing to glisten in the lot lights. She scrabbled up the front hull of the Abrams, hooves fighting for traction on the dew-slicked metal.

“So big…” She whispered solemnly as she ran a hoof gingerly along the length of his barrel, feeling its girth.

Deep inside the bowels of the armored behemoth, the main Honeywell electronic control module flickered to life. Gyroscopes whirred into action. Solenoids clicked and clacked merrily, shunting power to the multifarious guidance and powertrain computers that served as C16’s nerve center.

Dash’s ears perked to the sounds of mechanical stirring and a sly, evil smile crept across her face. She was turning him on.

In a feat of gymnastic prowess, she kicked a hind leg up over the cannon’s girth and pulled herself upright, straddling the M1A2’s massive main gun just right behind the bore evacuator. The cold evening air had chilled the cannon tube; she squeaked as she rested her bare marehood against the icy steel, shifting gingerly until the metal warmed enough to be not uncomfortable beneath her.

The M1A2, for his part, had tried to remain stoic about the gorgeous blue filly touching his main gun, but grinding up against him was simply a bridge too far. He had to act; it would be simply un-American not to.

Suddenly from the aft of the tank, a low moan as the Honeywell gas turbine engine that served as his powerplant spooled to life, his high-carbon steel chassis buzzing from stem to stern with high-frequency vibrations.

Dash’s eyes rolled back in her head as the resonance danced up and down the main gun barrel, the scintillating metal between her legs thrilling her rapidly dampening puss.

“Oh… Oh Celestia!” She moaned as C16 did his best to prepare the little pegasus for what was about to come next.

The Abrams slammed his automatic throttle control to wide open. His turbine paused for a moment, engine control module momentarily gobsmacked by the emergency power command before deciding “Fuck It” and feeding full fuel to the 1,500 shaft horsepower engine. The engine screamed to N1, engine redline. A massive wave of heat belched from the aft of the trembling tank.

In response, the vibrations of the barrel hit a fever pitch; it was more than Dash was could stand. She shrieked a wild, profane war-whoop of delight as she came messily down the sides of the cannon, her sticky, sweet fluids dripping onto the forward hull of the tank.

C16 slipped into gear and gave a quick jerk, lurching forward a foot. Dash swiveled her head to look at the turret hatch. It flipped open suggestively.

“You want to… Can we, even?” She asked incredulously.

C16 waggled his auxiliary .50 M2 machine gun uncertainly.

“Yeah, I… I guess we can try if you promise to be gentle.”

The M1A2 Abrams flopped his TC hatch closed with a clank that could only be described as ‘Joyous and excited’.

“Alright, let’s try this,” She said as she clambered down from the Abrams hull. “but remember, like I said… GENTLE.”

With a whir of servoes and hydraulic motors, the M1A2 Abrams depressed his main gun until it was aimed directly at Rainbow Dash’s plot. He slipped into forward gear and, as gently as could be expected of a heavily armored Main Battle Tank, crept forward until the muzzle of his main gun pressed gingerly against the folds of her sweet, wet marehood.

Dash moaned as she felt the pressure against her. She couldn’t bear the wait any longer. “Just buckin’ DO it already!” she cried out.

With a quick burst of throttle, the M1A2 gave a small lurch and thrust his steel deep into the sporty pegasus. They stayed like that for a moment, the M1A2 idling and Dash uttering yowling, orgasmic oaths to any and every God that would listen.

The turret servos whined again, elevating the barrel with Dash still impaled on his muzzle.

“W...Woah! What are you doing?” Dash cried as she fluttered her wings to level herself.

The Abrams dropped into reverse and lurched backwards, dragging himself out until just the very tip of his muzzle was still in, then gunned it and dropped back into drive, pushing forward into her again. Slowly at first, he worked the shifter, pulling in and out of her, but then more rapidly.

He was doing it. He was fucking her.

Faster and faster the Abrams went from forward to reverse, a screaming, thumping transmission-bending orgy of horsepower, steel and warm, wet pony poon.
His temperature gauge was climbing, oil pressure maxed. He wouldn’t last much longer.

The Abrams firewalled the throttle one more time, thrusting deep into Rainbow Dash as the main transmission fluid cooler feed line failed spectacularly. A massive gout of superheated hydraulic fluid gushed from the hull of the tank, gallons of it sloshing all over the pristine pavement of the darkened motorpool.

Dash quickly extricated herself from the now-flagging barrel of the Abrams, slipping and flopping in the rapidly growing lake of oil. “Are... Are you okay big guy? Can you make it back on line?” She panted.

With the last of the fluid in the lines, the M1A2 dropped back into reverse and crept back into its normal parking position, smoking profusely and non mission capable but amazingly satisfied.

Dash pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights, flipped open the top and tapped one out. With a still-shaking hoof she brought it to her muzzle and lit it. “Well, if you’re going to smoke after,” she quipped, “I guess I will too.”

They stood there like that for several minutes, Dash leaning, shivering against his hull and committing that most unforgivable of sins, smoking within the perimeter of the motorpool. As she recovered her senses, Dash began to feel a bit guilty; he’d made her come twice, and he hadn’t gotten off at all.

“Abrams,” her voice was low and husky as she spoke, “would you like for me to help you finish?”

The M1A2 wiggled its main gun barrel up and down vigorously.

“That’s what I thought.” Dash replied. She looked at the the Abrams hull, and then at her hooves and legs, slick with still-warm hydraulic fluid. No way I can climb back up there, but maybe… First this has to go, though. Dash quickly worked the fasteners and shucked off her oil-soaked BDU blouse and tossed it unceremoniously onto the pavement.

With a couple sharp beats of her wings, Rainbow Dash fluttered up to the Abrams main gun, his tube slowly elevating to meet her body as she descended. She alit nimbly on his smoothbore cannon, wrapping her legs around him tenderly.

“Woah! Slippy!” Dash exclaimed as the oil-soaked fur on her legs fought for purchase on his rough paint. She hugged tight, though, pressing her cheek up against the cold metal. Slowly began stroking her forelegs up and down the cannon’s impressive length. “I bet that feels pretty good, huh?”

The Abrams revved in response.

“Faster? You got it!” Rainbow Dash increased her pace, holding tight with her hind legs for stability as she heaved her torso up and down the steel pole.

All this heat and friction was getting to him—his fire control computers trembled in anticipation as they felt the little pegasus working his steel, barely able to contain their desire for release. His hydraulic circuits throbbed under her tender ministrations, bringing him closer and closer.

The tension was becoming unbearable. Dash stroked furiously, and in a fit of impassioned curiosity pressed her pink tongue against his rough, textured surface and gave it a healthy lick. In that one taste, images of grease and mud and diesel fumes flooded her brain, of the true essence of the Abrams.

In that moment, it was all just too much for the poor tank. A shrill klaxon sounded from deep within his hull. Shot over. Shot out.

There was a brilliant flash and a sound like a thunderclap, and in an instant Dash’s world became white and noiseless except for an incessant high pitched ringing. Stunned and insensate, she let go of the barrel and fell to the forward armor deckplate below.

“Mawp… Mawp…” She moaned.

Slowly the world came back to her. The motorpool building proper was engulfed in flame, having been on the receiving end of 120mm of high-velocity HEAT loving. Worse, her head felt funny, like there was something in her hair. She ran a hoof through her mane. It came back black and sooty.

“Cordite! You got Cordite ALL IN MY MANE! Oh Celestia, this is going to take forever to wash out!” Dash exclaimed.

Dash sat in repose for a minute, still trying to clear her head of the concussion-induced fog. Finally, she stood and turned toward his hatch. “So, uh, do you think you could go another round?” She chirped.

She wiggled her plot seductively at him. The Abrams gave no response.

Dash quirked an eyebrow. “What, don’t like what you see?”

The M1A2 rotated his turret from side to side.

“No? Well what’s the problem, then?”

The Abrams barrel flagged slowly, depressing its elevation until it pointed dejectedly at the ground. The turbine engine spooled down with a whine.

“Ohhhhh, I forgot,” She replied, “no auto-loader.”