Spitfire's Struggle with Finicky Flightsuits
"I swear it fit last week!"
"Morning, all," Soarin said, yawning as he headed into the cafeteria at Wonderbolts HQ. Sitting before him on long benches aside a large table were his fellow Wonderbolts, all getting ready for another day of flying practice, training drills and whipping their newest recruits into shape.
"'Sup, Soarin?" Rainbow Dash smiled at him as she motioned to an empty seat next to her. "Nice work with that double aileron roll yesterday. Me and Fleetfoot were just talkin' about how you nearly gave that poor recruit a heart attack when you flew so closely over her head." She laughed, before taking a large mouthful of oats.
Soarin chuckled alongside her. "Well, I'll have a chance to apologise to her later on, I suppose. I've been looking at the training schedule, and it looks like we're gonna run the poor guys ragged today if Spitfire's regimen is anything to go by."
"Speaking of which, where is Spitfire?" Fleetfoot asked. "She's usually the first one down here."
"I didn't see her come down," Soarin shrugged. "Probably busy with paperwork or something."
"Or plowing through another box of doughnuts," Dash snickered.
"Rainbow!" Soarin said, trying to look stern but failing to suppress a laugh himself. "Show a little respect, will you?"
"Oh, come on," Dash grinned. "I think we all know that she's busy with a third breakfast or someth-"
There was a high-pitched whine from the intercom speaker mounted on the wall behind them.
"Soarin to my quarters immediately," announced Spitfire's voice. "That's Soarin to my quarters immediately."
Soarin frowned. "Huh. Well, looks like breakfast'll have to wait." He got to his hooves. "Fleetfoot, can you and Dash get the recruits sorted while I go check out whatever it is Spitfire needs?"
"Sure thing, Soarin," Fleetfoot replied, saluting. "We'll see ya on the runway."
Returning the salute briefly, Soarin left the cafeteria and made his way outside the main building to the ugly, squat-looking barracks just across from it. The sun shining brightly in the sky promised perfect flying conditions for later. Not for the first time, Soarin thought of how hideous the barracks was as he pushed open the door and headed inside. There was a hallway with three doors; two on either side for the main barracks and showers, and one at the far end for the commanding officer's quarters. Soarin trotted down the hallway towards the end and knocked on the door.
"Is that you, Soarin?" Spitfire called from inside.
"Yep, it's me," Soarin called back. "What's the problem, Spit?"
"Um..." Spitfire coughed. "Got a bit of, uh, a situation here. Kinda need your help."
Soarin blinked. "What kind of situation?"
"The kind of situation that needs your help right bucking now," Spitfire snapped. "That's what."
"Alright, alright, I'm coming." The door clicked open and Soarin stepped inside Spitfire's room. On the floor was a crumpled Wonderbolts flight suit, the suit that every Wonderbolt was required to wear on duty as a matter of protocol, and on the bed was Spitfire herself.
All 450 pounds of her.
As the leading figure and most famous face of the Wonderbolts, Spitfire was always being asked to do corporate promotions or sponsorships. They had mostly been from sports companies at first, as was to be expected, asking her to endorse or even model their new lines of sportswear and equipment. Over time, however, food companies had also begun to reach out to her, hoping that her sporty image would help to downplay the fact that their foods weren't exactly good for a pony's health. Spitfire had done promo work for potato chips, pizza, burgers... and, most recently, doughnuts. And she had taken to it enthusiastically... very enthusiastically.
Nopony knew quite why or how, but something about eating all that junk and getting paid for it seemed to have awakened something within Spitfire—some kind of primal love of food and gluttony that had long laid dormant beneath the strict diet and exercise regimen that being a Wonderbolt entailed. It didn't help that Spitfire was often paid with free food in addition to a proper paycheck for her endorsements. Whatever the case, it soon became rare to not see Spitfire munching on some kind of snack, whether it be in her office or out on the field. She soon began to creep up in weight as the months passed by, and began showing up to practice and air shows less and less as she found it harder and harder to summon the energy to do so.
Eventually, she simply promoted Soarin to the newly-formed rank of "field commander". It was his job now to coordinate air shows and training drills and such. Officially, her stated reason was to "pursue a fairer delegation of authority that will allow the command structure of the Wonderbolts to remain smooth and unobstructed by bottlenecks and red tape." She was fooling nopony, of course—the real, unofficial reason was that she was simply too fat to get off the ground anymore. So she now spent her days as a pen-pusher, stuffing her face all the while still... leading to the situation she found herself in now.
"Thanks for coming up here, Soarin," Spitfire said, a blush crossing her plump cheeks. "I, um, really need your help."
"With what?" Soarin asked.
Spitfire's slight blush deepened to a shade of near-crimson. "Well, it's my suit. I, uh, can't get it on."
There was a moment of silence, before Soarin's face twisted into a strange kind of grimace and he started making strange strangled noises within his throat.
Spitfire glared at him. "Don't you dare."
"Y-you..." Soarin squeaked. "You... snrk... can't get your own suit on?"
"No, I can't," Spitfire snapped, her jowls trembling with indignation. "And may I remind you, Field Commander, that I still outrank you. So I'd be very careful about making any smart comments."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Soarin said, managing against all odds to compose himself. "So, what do you need me to do?"
"Well," Spitfire replied, "getting this suit on is obviously going to be a two-pony job." Groaning, she heaved her bulk off the bed, her massive gut wobbling like ice cream that had been melted and then refrozen. "I need you to hold it open for me while I try to squeeze into it. Two of us working together, shouldn't be a problem."
"Do I get overtime for this?" Soarin quipped. "Or at least danger pay? I mean, that butt of yours should technically be classed as a weapon of mass destruction."
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Spitfire snapped. "I thought I heard somepony begging to be put on latrine duty for the next month. Now get a move on, smartplot."
Smirking, Soarin stepped over to the suit and took a look at it, before looking at the two enormous yellow plot cheeks wobbling before him. "Okay, how are we going to do this?"
"You're going to have to pull the suit up over me," Spitfire replied. "I can't reach behind to do it myself."
Soarin didn't say anything, but as he looked from the pitifully small suit to his morbidly obese commander, it became clear that this would be about as fruitful a task as attempting to destroy a mountain with a toothpick.
"Alright..." he said, doubt creeping into his voice. "I... I've got this."
Swallowing, he picked the suit up and pulled down the zipper at the front. Once it was open, he stretched the latex of the suit as far as he could in a vain attempt to create a gap large enough for Spitfire to squeeze herself into.
"Okay, just step back into it now," he said, gritting his teeth as he struggled to keep the suit from snapping back on itself.
"Alright," Spitfire replied, before stepping back, her gargantuan body wobbling like a big bowl of pudding. Her capacious rump was now inside the opening of the suit. With a sinking heart, Soarin saw that it was still way too big. Oh, well. He'd come this far, he might as well see it through to the end.
"Alright," he squeaked. "I'm... I'm gonna try and pull it over you now."
Summoning as much inner strength as he could find, Soarin gave the suit a tug over Spitfire's huge flank. To his surprise, it actually had a fairly large amount of give, sliding over her flesh with relatively little fuss. Still, the fact that the latex was stretched as tight as a sausage skin over her plot betrayed how the suit was struggling already.
"Can you try moving a leg into one of the leg holes, now?" Soarin asked, focusing on not letting the suit slip off. Where suit ended and bare flesh began, Spitfire's flab bulged obscenely, like the world's largest muffin.
Groaning, Spitfire felt with her hooves for a leg hole, but only succeeded in pressing against the rear of the suit. "It's no good, I can't reach yet."
Soarin took a look. Sure enough, the legs of the suit were still flopping uselessly on the floor. "Damn it. Okay, hang on. I'm gonna..." He gulped. "I'm gonna try to pull the suit on a bit further."
Gritting his teeth, Soarin took hold of the suit with his mouth and tugged for all he was worth. He felt every muscle in his body scream in pain with the effort as he fought with all his strength to get the suit up just a bit further. However, he was met with staunch resistance as the suit simply refused to go past Spitfire's love handles, not yielding even an inch.
"Oh, come on," he snarled, tugging again.
Spitfire sighed impatiently. "Soarin, what are you playing at?"
"What the buck do you think?" Soarin snapped back. "Come on, you useless piece of rubber junk!"
For the next minute or so, Soarin turned the air blue with profanities as he fought to pull the suit over his corpulent commander, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he did so, with veins bulging in his neck and forehead.
"S-Spitfire!" he cried eventually, grinning wildly. "I think I'm getting somewhere!" He placed both hooves on Spitfire's flabby back. "Just a bit further..."
"Soarin, wait!" Spitfire called out, feeling her momentum shift. "Wait! I'm gonna-"
Too late. With a shriek, Spitfire fell backwards on top of Soarin, who let out a short, sharp scream before the full force of 450 pounds of mare buried him with a strange flomp-crack sound. Spitfire's body jiggled wildly as she landed on her back, the suit ripping clean in half with a loud tearing noise.
"Oh, damn it all," Spitfire groaned, rolling onto her side. "Soarin, are you okay?"
No response.
"Soarin?" Spitfire repeated. "Are you..."
Then she saw Soarin, and her eyes widened.
"Oooooh, shoot..."
Spitfire and Fleetfoot watched as the paramedic ponies flew off, an ambulance cart behind them, before Fleetfoot turned to Spitfire.
"Diet?"
Spitfire nodded and sighed. "Diet."
END
Author's Note
I'll let you decide if Soarin survived or not. 
