Stay In Formation

Soarin darted inside his office and slammed the door shut, peeling the back half of his flightsuit off his flank and tossing it on the ground unceremoniously. He sat on his haunches, back leaned up against the door and ignored the throbbing in his loins. He had worked entirely too damned hard to throw away his career on some hotshot rookie. No matter how good his flank looked in a Wonderbolt flightsuit. No matter how sweet his neck smelled after a long workout.

He groaned in frustration, wishing for the briefest moment that he was still a lieutenant, fresh out of the Reserves and with no concerns about fraternization with a junior officer. He shook that thought away quickly. He was proud to be the second ranking officer in the most famous branch of the E.U.P. Guard.

Soarin rose stiffly and made his way to the small curio cabinet that occupied the back corner of the office behind his desk. He lifted a hoof to the small metal latch on the glass door and opened it carefully to avoid dislodging the various medals and plaques that were carefully arranged within. On a lower shelf, just beside one of his Junior Flyer medals sat a three-quarters full bottle of Galloping Gorge Apricot Brandy. He wasn’t much of a drinker, having missed out on the unabashed wildness of youth when most ponies took up the hobby. But once in a while he found a glass useful to settle his nerves. He picked up the small bottle and set it on his desk, then carefully pried the cork out using his teeth. He poured a few dollops into his empty water glass. The scent crashed into him. The warm, spicy, fruity notes carried him away to another time and place—a small hotel on the Vanhoover coast, where the beds were tattered, but the view was to die for. But it wasn’t the ocean waves he saw, but an earth pony stallion with long, emerald hair and a fabulous backside.

Soarin jolted, spilling a bit of brandy on his desk. “Sweet Celestia,” he muttered, turning the brandy bottle in his hoof to glare at the label. “I forgot this was a gift.”

A parting gift from a holiday fling—a thank you for beautiful days and raunchy nights primed with apricot brandy. Soarin could recall the pony’s angular face, his plump flanks, his thick dick. Oh, he thought with a growing grin, he had had fun with that. Soarin’s grin faded, and he set the brandy bottle down gently. What was his name?

He raised the glass to his mouth and took a sip, grimacing as the alcohol burned his tongue. Summer something? Spring Leaves? Soarin grinned. “Spring Hazel!”

He hadn’t thought about that stallion in years. The embers of his holdover excitement from his earlier encounter started smoldering. He glanced up at the wall clock. Mess was at 1800, nearly an hour away. Time enough to satiate a different hunger.

He stepped around his desk and took two long strides forward. He reached a hoof up and flipped the lock shut on his office door.

The Wonderbolt shower stalls, while semi-private, had no privacy curtains or other visual screens, and Thunderlane didn’t care. Usually he didn’t care because he had nothing to hide. But right then he couldn’t care because he was too damned horny. Worked up was an understatement—precum trails marked his right rear leg where it had been trapped in the flightsuit. Stupid fucking Soarin, teasing him like that. Rubbing up against him, brushing his neck on him. The gray pegasus grunted and felt the sensitive flesh of his crowned head slap against his underside as his shaft lurched upward.

Thunderlane felt a momentary burst of annoyance—he wasn’t some teen colt jerking off over a spurned advance, was he? No, he reasoned, he was just pent up from a week in barracks. And from a tease of an executive officer. Wouldn’t hurt to let off a little steam.

Soarin settled onto the small stool behind his desk, and fished a small key from its hollowed-out hiding place on the underside of the desktop. He unlocked the lower right drawer and pulled gently on the handle. Inside sat a hundred identical hanging file folders with labels meticulously placed in cascading order. A little more than halfway back was a folder named “Current Liabilities – Operational – Paid.” Soarin pulled the preceding file out of the way with a wingtip and then lifted the CL-O-P folder out of the drawer with his teeth. He was always amused by both the pun and the subterfuge—no one was likely to go digging in his file folders anyway, and it was certainly no crime for a single stallion to keep some lewd magazines on hoof, but being a little clever with his hiding space always provided him a little thrill when he brought it out.

And one little thrill deserved another, he thought, leafing open the magazine at random. On the left, a thin, tawny earth pony stallion lay on his back in a grassy field, his fully-hard member lounging on his barrel. On the right page, the same stallion lay atop a picnic blanket, ass up and face down, presenting his best feature to the camera. Soarin felt himself slip from his sheath at the sight. He rubbed a hoof along the underside of his sensitive flesh. He imagined hot-dogging the show pony, letting his dark shaft slide between the cheeks, the head brushing the tail aside. He put both forehooves under his cock and thrust, softly, slowly, letting his extending length slide between them. He loved a nice backside—taut flanks with just a hint of softness to them—just like the tawny stallion on the page. Just like Thunderlane.

Soarin shook that thought aside angrily. He pulled a hoof away to turn the page, seeking an image that wouldn’t take his mind back to the rookie. As he neared the magazine, he spotted a shimmer of fluid on the hooftip. Sweet Celestia, wet already, he marveled. He flicked the page with the dry side of his hoof and then reached down to retrieve one of the towels he kept in reserve for just such occasions. He swore loudly when he found the little desk shelf empty. He wasn’t about to destroy half a box of tissues cleaning up, and he wasn’t going to leave a mess in his office when he was going to step out to eat shortly thereafter. He spied the discarded flightsuit on the ground and sighed in resignation.

Six days in barracks, Thunderlane groused to himself. He pushed his hips downward a hair, the small thrusting motion activating his body’s instinct—his cock slapped up against his barrel, the wet sound distinct even over the splashing water hitting his back and the lightweight tile beneath him. Six days was an eternity for a young stallion. Somepony in the EUP command had clearly lost their minds making all those ponies sleep together under one roof.

He exhaled, the turgid stiffness of his cock lessening. Now, of course, he was thinking about his teammates sleeping together instead of just sleeping together.

He chased that thought away before it led him back to the melancholy he was trying to escape.

Maybe he’d use his upcoming day-leave to go to a hoofball or buckball game. Strike up a conversation at the bar at halftime with some pretty mare or flirty stallion. He could take them up to the cheap seats and tease them a little until they agreed to dinner. He tensed his lower half again and was rewarded as his cock slapped up against his underside. He whinnied in pleasure. And of course, all during dinner they’d be making eyes at each other, desperate for the check to arrive. He could take the pony back to a nice hotel, splurge a little for a better place than he’d usually get, and they’d be making out with him as they fumbled at the lock and backed their way into the rented room. The tension from his loins faded and he clenched again immediately, sending his shaft up again. And again. He grunted. And again. Clear fluid that had not originated in the showerhead splashed onto the floor beneath him. And then Thunderlane’s date would push him backward onto the bed, not quite gently. Thunderlane shuddered in pleasure, lost in his fantasy.

The pegasus turned in the shower stall, letting the warm water splash against his backside. He raised his short tail and the concentrated water droplets poured down, tickling his balls and toying with his ponut. In his imagined date, the other pony climbed on top of the bed, looming above him. He thrust again, reaching a hoof down to trap the swollen member against his chest, rubbing the sensitive flesh into the short gray fur of his belly.

Soarin settled his shimmery cloth over the end of his cock. The Wonderbolt commander shook his head. It felt like both the greatest desecration and truest honor that he was going to use his flightsuit as a cum rag. He wasn’t even sure it would really work as intended—the fabric was breathable, and obviously not air-tight, but he was too worked up and had no better option.

Soarin moved the magazine to the left side of his desk and flipped through the pages methodically, seeking one of his favorite images. He moaned softly when he reached the page and immediately reared up, putting his forelegs on the desk and letting his flightsuit-draped dick sit on the wooden desktop. The left image was the precursor, a light tan unicorn mounting a buttery-yellow earth pony stallion, the unicorn hilted in him, their bodies mashed together groin to flank. The right image… Soarin rubbed his cock insistently on the desk. Sweet Celestia, the right image. It was a closeup of the same stallions, the frame filled with pony flesh and nothing else. Directly in the center of the shot was the earth pony’s dark, round, supple ass impaled by the unicorn’s dick, cum spilling from the underside where the two met. Perfectly frozen, capturing that moment when you filled a stallion past capacity. Soarin whined and thrust forward, his hips slapping quietly against his desk. The fact that the unicorn’s dick was mottled deep brown at the base and fleshy pink past the ring—a near duplicate to Soarin’s own—made it an especial thrill for the blue pegasus. He moved his right hoof inward and pushed down on the fabric covering the end of his dick. The extra pressure sent a thrill through him, even causing his tail to flag. Fuck, he thought, how worked up was he if he was already close to climax?

He thrust mindlessly, watching in delight as a dark patch spread across the fabric of his flightsuit.

Thunderlane moaned loudly, feeling the gathering tightness in his balls and in that spot between his nuts and his tailhole. His imagined date wiggled their junk above him. And then he reached a mental nexus—was he in the mood for pussy or dick? The anonymous date sprouted a large and very impressive dick and grinned at Thunderlane.

The gray pegasus had a need for release so bad that he could almost feel the fictitious cock, could almost smell it, and as his date lowered down, Thunder could taste it. Sun above, he loved sucking dick. His own cock twitched against his underside, still trapped by his hoof. He thrust downward and felt his flared head solidify. He nearly went over the edge, but held back, wanting to let it build, days of already-existing backlog be damned.

He just wanted a few more moments. Thinking about that taste, that smell of stallion up close. Of mint in his shampoo, sweat on the back of his neck…

“Oh, fuck,” Thunderlane whispered. “Fuck me.” He felt his insides tighten, the moment of no return rapidly approaching. He thought of quick glimpses stolen of a dark blue sheath. “Fuck me, Soarin,” he gasped in reverence.

Soarin fucked his desk. He tried to be mindful of the noise he made, but his thighs banged into the desktop with more and more force each thrust. It had been far too long since he had filled a stallion up, made him leak like in that magazine. He felt his flesh throb beneath his hoof. Soarin glanced to his left, taking in the photo once more.

Soarin whinnied in excitement. As he drew a breath back in, he was treated to the smell of his sweat in the flightsuit. His hip movements faltered as he remembered the accompanying scent—the smell of wet, excited stallion in the locker room. Soarin moaned. What if that shapely rump he covered was dark gray instead of yellow? What if he mounted that impressive backside and just…

“Aw fuck, Thunder…” His cock twitched urgently.

Thunderlane felt the need rise, his dick leaking all over his hoof.

Soarin slammed his hips into his desk, knowing he was on the edge.

…licking that no-doubt juicy…

…balls-deep, locked together…

…letting it wash down his throat…

…overfilling him as they…

Thunderlane moaned loudly and felt the cum coursing through his dick.

Soarin froze in position, his erupting cock the only thing moving in his office.

Cum splattered onto the tile on the wall near Thunderlane’s face.

A gooey, white glob spread through the end of the fabric trapped against the commander’s desk.

Thunderlane shuddered, watching lines of his excitement splash themselves atop his earlier eruptions.

Soarin gulped air into his lungs desperately as he continued to paint his sins into his flightsuit.

Thunderlane collapsed onto his backside, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. He grinned at the chaos of the cum strands painted across the shower stall. The reality of the situation—that he had hoofed off in the team showers over thoughts of his commander—killed the buzz a little… but only a little. The excitement lingered, and he found he really, really wanted to try the act for real.

Soarin stepped back carefully, dragging the drenched flightsuit off his desk. He had clearly needed that. And if he had just imagined fucking a subordinate officer, so be it. But as he hefted the now much-too-heavy suit into his small laundry hamper behind his desk, he found that envisioning the act had done nothing to quell his desire to fuck that gray pegasus for all he was worth.

“Fuck,” the stallion muttered.