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Rainbow Dash Gets Mad Rutty With An M1A2 Abrams - A Romantic Tale
                    -by Midnight_Blaze-                    
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                  Tanks For The Mammaries                  
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Tanks For The Mammaries
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.
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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.”

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                    Any Port In A Storm                    
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Any Port In A Storm
Rainbow Dash huddled on her stool in the kitchen tent "Field Ma" had erected at the Battalion Assembly Area. She held a bowl of piping hot cheese and egg ramyun in her hooves. It was still far too hot to eat, but given the icy winter wind that ripped through the valley she was in no rush to cool it down.
The bare bulbs strung from the canvas ceiling swayed, casting wild, dancing shadows around the ersatz cafe as the gale outside threatened to blow the shelter down. A handful of powerful propane heaters did their best to stave off the chill but were ultimately no match for the blizzard that roared outside. Frigid drafts licked through the flaps and seams of the tent, cutting through her pelt and chilling her to the bone.
“You… eat now?” The proprietor, a hunched, wizened old woman, crossed her arms in her thick Army surplus parka and quirked an eyebrow at Dash.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” Dash muttered.
“Ajumma... time for bed!” She stabbed her finger emphatically at the sleeping bag laid out behind the expedient kitchen’s counter to emphasize her point.
Guess it’s not really keeping my hooves that warm anymore, anyway… She thought glumly as she started in on her late-night snack.
Her problem was one of shelter; for the past few nights, she’d been sneaking into the commo trailer to bed down, but with the storm all the cable dogs would be racked out there. She’d been putting it off all evening, hoping the raging blizzard would die down at least a little, but thus far it hadn’t.
Having finished her meal, Dash reached into her field jacket, pulled out three crumpled 1000 Won notes and stamped them down on the counter. Time to face the music.
“You come tomorrow morning, jolangmal, I cook yakimandu!”
Rainbow sighed heavily and nosed open the tent’s flap. The full brunt of the storm hit her square in the face. She gritted her teeth and braced herself against the harsh siberian wind as she trod out into the blustery night, squinting her eyes into the darkness, scanning for anywhere reasonably warm she could curl up for the evening.
Every spot she checked came up nil. Her attempt to get into the Battalion Tactical Operations Center came to an immediate stop as the Command Sergeant Major looked blearily up from his workstation. “Get the fuck out of my TOC. This ain’t a damn coffee shop. Ain’t you got work to be doing?” Dash retreated hastily.
As the flap closed to the warm confines of the tent the CSM looked back to his Facebook page and took another sip of coffee. “My goddamn coffee.” He muttered to himself.
Her next potential port in the storm was a highback HMMWV parked in a modest copse of trees. When she pulled back the flap she found it to be packed tighter with sleeping mechanics than a Laotian hooker on payday. The air was thick with the smell of day old sweat and gear oil and she wrinkled her nose at the heavy scent. Freezing to death was better than living through that malodorous, apneating hell.
As a final choice she tested the various supply trailers towards the back of the camp. Most were locked, but one had the door slightly ajar. She peeked inside and saw a 2LT unconscious in a heavy duty sleeping bag. Perfect. She took a step inside and reared back, hissing in pain. The crazy bastard was sleeping on a pile of concertina wire like it was a queen size at the Ritz Carlton. Not a chance in hell she’d be able to make that work.
She wandered into the blustering wind and driven snow once more, and such was the depth of the darkness that she nearly bumped her snoot into his side before she realized what she was looking at. He was beautiful and exotic, everything the M1A2 Abrams wasn’t; where the Abrams was a massive bruiser, a brutish grizzly bear of a Main Battle Tank, the K2 Black Panther was lithe and agile like his namesake.
She felt that familiar armor-induced heat creeping up her thighs, and instantly a sensation of deep shame overcame her. What would M1A2 think?
It’d be like cheating! She admonished herself. Just because he’s at depot level maintenance for refit doesn’t mean I can just…
At the same time, though, if she didn’t find some shelter she’d be a pegasicle by morning.
Besides, I don’t HAVE to, y’know, do anything... It’s just because it’s so cold. That’s all.
There was no way she could fly in this weather, even to make the little hop needed to get onto the tank’s hull. She would have to climb up the hard way.
Dash carefully placed a hoof on the forward-most road wheel and tried to pull herself up onto the fairing, but the foul weather had laid a sheen of snow all over the vehicle. Her forehooves fought for traction and failed, and in a flurry of frantic scrabbling she lost her balance and fell backwards onto the frozen ground, landing on her tailbone with a jarring thud.
“FfffffFFFFUCK!” She yowled into the howling wind.
From out of nowhere, a mechanical whine and a hiss; Dash, startled, scuttled backwards away from the tank as the front suspension seemed to dip down. Was the tank… kneeling?
“Woah,” she cried, “How’d you do that?”
The K2’s auxiliary power turbine spooled quietly to life, nearly undetectable over the din of the storm except for a sudden eddy of snow near the exhaust port.
Rainbow Dash righted herself and stepped up onto the now readily accessible forward plating, climbing up to the main turret. She tapped it with a hoof. “Anybody home?” She called out.
The TC hatch unlocked and flopped open. She nearly squealed with joy at the blast of balmy air that issued forth, smiling as she took in the warmth of the diesel heater and that unmistakable, mechanical lived-in smell from inside the crew compartment.
“Hey guys, thanks for opening up…” She paused and peered about the interior of the tank. Nobody was there.
“Oh, just you tonight, huh. Where’d your crew go?”
The main fire control computer beeped cheerfully.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Korean.” Dash replied apologetically.
The fire control panel though for a moment and then chirped.
“Oh! They’re not allowed to sleep in you, are they,” she spoke soothingly to the Korean tank, “so they left you all alone out here in the cold.”
“Well,” she continued as she slipped gracefully down into the TC’s hatch, “they left me all alone out here in the cold, too. Mind if I stay warm?”
She clambered down into the gunner’s seat and nestled in. Looking around the interior, she noticed that one particular aspect of K2’s interior seemed very familiar.
Wait, is that Abrams main gun?
She leaned over for a closer look.
Well, there’s an autoloader instead of the manual breech, but sure enough that’s a 120mm Rheinmetall L55, just like M1A2’s. She licked her lips. Well, just one little touch won’t matter.
Slowly, tentatively, she reached out her hoof towards his breech. Right as she was about to make that first, gentle contact, his starter solenoid clacked loudly. His starter whined, turning over his 12 cylinder powerplant, the mighty Hyundai-Rotem industrial diesel coughing and chugging as its cold cylinders misfired on the wintry air.
Dash sucked in her breath and lept back in her seat.
“Oh, hey big guy. Didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. Just uh... “ she stammered, “checkin’ to make sure your crews had done their PMCS right!”
The K2 suggestively kicked his engine up to a high idle.
“Naw, dude, it wouldn’t be right. You and Abrams are almost family, like cousins or something.”
The engine gave a quick, jocular bark of throttle, then settled back into it’s normal lopey idle.
Dash reclined back in her seat and let the thrum of the engine’s rough idle massage her. She couldn’t help but compare it to her Abrams, of course; where M1A2's turbine was smooth and high-strung, almost like a fighter jet, the K2’s diesel piston engine thumped and loped, a low-frequency lullaby for her hindquarters.
“Hnnnnn.” She moaned quietly to herself, lost in the moment, barely cognizant of the fact that the seat was slowly dampening beneath her.
The fire control monitor beeped inquisitively.
“Well, I guess that’s true. He’s getting a lot of love and attention at depot, he shouldn’t be mad if I… I mean, if you and I were to…” She blushed heavily as she spoke.
The K2 may have been a relatively new tank, but he wasn’t a fool. He waggled his turret control joystick at her.
“And I guess that’s not like your main gun or anything—it’ll just be like, y’know, a dildo or something. Just two friends helping each other out, right?”
The K2 nodded it’s turret in agreement.
Tentatively, she hopped down from the gunner’s seat and made her way up to the Tank Commander’s station. The joystick was a knurled industrial black thermoplastic affair, about six inches long by her measurements.
She leaned in close. He could feel her breath against it, warm and hesitant.
Slowly she stuck out her little pink tongue and pressed it against his control stick, giving it an experimental lick. She withdrew slightly, pausing to consider his taste for a moment. Salt and kimchi, she decided.
She gently grabbed the stick in her hooves and went to work, licking up and down the shaft, working his control stick expertly. His force feedback motors trembled at the tender ministrations she applied to his most sensitive of input devices.
The fire control computer booped in alarm and pleasure as, having warmed him up, she opened her mouth as wide as she could and plunged his control handle deep into her mouth. Dash winced a little—he was huge. She carefully guarded her teeth as she began to suck and lick the joystick, slowly at first but then faster and faster.
The K2 thrilled as his stick hit the back of her throat, every molecule of his armor vibrating with pleasure as this fine, tiny horse gave him the best, messiest analog input he’d ever received.
Suddenly Dash stopped and extricated the stick from her aching maw. She panted, half lidded.
“Good,” she huffed, pausing to wipe the beads of sweat forming on her brow from the exertion, “now you’re slick enough for the real fun.”
Dash shimmied herself around the turret to line her marehood up with the hand control, bracing herself against the TC’s seat. Slowly, gingerly she lowered herself down until the tip of the joystick pressed against her tight slit and, biting her lip, worked it into herself.
K2, for his part, was a gentleman; he waited patiently for her to arrange herself before starting his end of the work. Once she was reasonably situated on his controls, he activated his force feedback vibrator.
“Oh! Sweet Celestia,” She cried out as the little electric motors gave her their best, “give me more!”
K2 obliged in spades, revving his engine. The combined harmonics traveled up the hard bakelite plastic and buzzed right against her aching clitoris. The little blue pegasus bucked and writhed in response, trying to stimulate herself further. She flailed for a moment in an attempt to find a way to ride the joystick of her own accord, but given the juices she’d already splattered on both the stick and control panel, all she managed to do was wiggle herself deeper onto the plastic control handle. She would need him to help.
“Fffff... “ she spat, “ffffuck me!”
K2 revved his engine wildly, and then bucked his hydropneumatic suspension as hard as he could. He bunny-hopped like a 50 ton Korean lowrider with On Lock stuck on repeat. Inside, Dash’s ample ass bounced up and down as though she were riding a pogo stick, fucking her tight blue puss rather messily on the controls, her ass slapping the metal dashboard with every bounce.
Through the fog of her impending mind-blowing orgasm, Dash reached over and started stroking the breech of his cannon, rubbing her hoof up and down the warm brushed metal.
The K2 was certainly enjoying himself, but was caught quite off guard by Dash’s reciprocation; having an autoloader he was quite unaccustomed to being touched so lovingly on his breech. He lost his composure momentarily, his engine bellowing wildly, trumpeting like a bull elephant in musth all the way up to max governed RPM before barking harshly off the rev limiter.
“Let’s ghnnn… go off…. together!” She cried out through clenched teeth.
K2 could hardly help but oblige; the exertion was driving him mad as well, and having that fine winged waegukin riding him didn’t hurt either. His autoloader chambered a HEAT round; he was going to come, and soon.
Certainly she couldn’t go on for much longer, either. Dash was soaked in sweat, crying out in the heat of passion, barely able to hold herself upright as the K2 used every ounce of his strength to drive his joystick home for her.
With one final heave, the K2 hopped hard enough that his tracks left the ground entirely, slamming down with enough force to bury Rainbow Dash to the hilt on his joystick. She screamed something as she came, but he couldn’t hear exactly what over the sound of his roaring cannon thumping out round after round, sending a high explosive missive of their love into the mountainside of Rodriguez Range.
She’d come so hard that as she lay there panting, she could only hear the sound of her heartbeat. Slowly the sounds of the world filtered back in, the whining of his servoes, the hum of his hydraulic motors.
She looked around; between the mess made by his wild bouncing and her wet orgasm, the crew compartment looked like a horror scene. Grabbing the TC’s chair, she extracted herself from the joystick with a wet pop.
Celestia, this is going to be a bitch to clean up, she thought as she reached for a spray bottle and paper towels.
There was measured silence for a moment as K2 watched her clean her juices. Finally, the fire control computer beeped.
“I didn’t say anything.” Dash replied.
The computer chirped and beeped insistently.
“Oh. When I came? I uh… I don’t even know what I yell half the time. Usually just swear words.”
Suddenly, the cabin was awash with a cacophonous racket of frantic clanging from the TC’s hatch and Korean cussing.
Unfortunately for both K2 and Rainbow Dash, even the wildest of Korean weather could not mask the unique multimedia event of a hopping, screaming, firing main battle tank in the middle of a field exercise.
The jig was up. Dash tensed in preparation for her escape.
“Alright big guy, when I count to three, unlock the gunner’s hatch!” she whispered.
“One…”
“I taengkeuleul yeol-eo!” (Get out of this tank!) Hollered the muffled voice from outside.
“Two…”
“Enjin-eul kkeusibsio!” (Turn off the engine!)
“THREE!”
The K2 kicked off the crew lock on the gunner’s hatch and Rainbow Dash exploded out at full speed. All the tank crew saw was a blue streak with a rainbow contrail as she buzzed as fast as she could into the inky black.
The puzzled crew gathered themselves and peered into their tank.
“Geugeos-eun yeogi e chamchiwa segseu ttam naemsae…” (It smells of sweat and sex fish in here...)