Chapters The hot water of the shower washed over Thunderlane’s body. His wings ached. His back ached. His neck ached. Heck, even his eyes ached. He leaned his neck down, and the water rushed down his head and face. He felt long strands of his mane fall wetly against his cheek, his usual mohawk collapsing under the added weight of moisture.
“Rough day?” asked a friendly voice. There was a rumbling sound from the cloud wall as the adjacent shower was turned on, the condenser pulling moisture from the structure and feeding it through pipes toward the water heater. The noise became a hiss as the water forced its way out the shower head.
“Just tired,” Thunderlane replied, trying his hardest to engage the commander as little as was socially permissible.
To his chagrin, the effort failed. “Chin up, Rookie!” Soarin’s voice always sounded warm and friendly, even when he was running drills on Captain Spitfire’s admin days. “You’re not even ten days out of the Reserves, and you’re already slouching like a ten-year vet.”
Thunderlane sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself into parade posture. “Sir, sorry, sir!” he responded in his best drill voice.
Soarin sighed. “At ease, Blunder.”
Thunderlane managed not to flinch at the nickname. Rainbow Dash had told him about the tradition, so he had at least been forewarned. “Aye, sir.” He nodded acknowledgment and relaxed his shoulders again, shifting so the shower splashed across his back instead of his face.
The dark gray pegasus heard his commander sigh. “You can relax your wings, too, lieutenant.”
Thunderlane shifted his hooves uncomfortably. He lifted his wings away from his body.
His commander chuckled. “What are you..?”
Thunderlane grimaced, knowing he had somehow screwed up again.
“Why are you holding your wings at the ready?”
The dark gray pegasus shook his head and shifted his wings outward.
The commander laughed. “Oh, for Celestia’s sake! Didn’t your parents ever show you how to relax your wings after a strenuous flight?”
Thunderlane had had long practice burying the hurt that came thinking of his parents before it could reach him. “No, sir, they passed away when me and my brother were pretty young.”
A long moment passed. Thunderlane had learned to expect that, too. Ponies were often uncomfortable learning he was an orphan. “My apologies, rookie,” Soarin replied quietly. A moment later his brisque tone was back. “But what about your work? You were on some weather team, right? And what about in the Reserves?”
Thunderlane shifted his wings again, which just earned a groan from his commanding officer. “Well, I was the only guy on the Ponyville Weather Team,” he explained, “and they had segregated showers.” He thought he heard a grumble about backwater villages, but he ignored the jab and moved on. “And no, sir, nopony in the reserves ever brought it up.” He tucked his wings tightly to his side.
“No. No! Oh for… just stop. Stop! Look!” Soarin insisted.
Thunderlane looked over at his commander. To his recollection, it was the first time seeing his XO naked—no flightsuit, no parade blues. The other pegasus was a beautiful specimen of a stallion: wide but streamlined chest, muscular shoulders, and well-groomed sky blue fur. His usually bouncy blue mane was plastered across his face from the airborne moisture. It made him somehow even more attractive. Thunderlane stamped down on that line of thinking before his body could react. It was neither the time, place, or appropriate subject for such arousal.
Soarin clenched his wings tight to his side. “This is what you’re doing,” he explained. Thunderlane watched as the pale blue primary feathers fanned out subtly. “Relax, Lieutenant. See?”
Thunderlane grunted. He pulled his wings back into a more neutral position. He eyed the commander critically. Thunderlane shifted, stretching the muscles of his wrist to try and replicate the pose.
Soarin sighed, a long, slow sound that was barely audible over the hiss of the shower heads. “You relaxed now, Blunder?”
“…can’t say that I am, sir.”
“No kidding,” the senior officer grumbled. “Here, come touch my wrist.”
Thunderlane felt a hot flash of embarrassment at the intimate offer. “Sir?” Pegasi wings were tightly protected parts of their bodies. Thunderlane could count on one hoof the number of non-sexual or non-massage encounters where he had touched another pegasus’s wings. And that had been Rumble, when the colt had been too ill to bathe himself a few years prior.
“I’m not asking you to buck me, lieutenant, if that’s where your mind went.”
It had. No matter how hard Thunderlane might have tried to deny it, his mind had definitely gone there.
“I’m just giving a demonstration so one of my most promising young fliers doesn’t tear a scapular mid performance.”
“Ah, um, y-yeah,” the dark gray pegasus stuttered in shock. Him, one of the best young fliers! That group included Rainbow Dash, who was an obnoxiously talented prodigy. To be even in Dash’s airspace was an incredible honor.
“Any day now, Blunder,” Soarin chastised softly. Thunderlane again noted the warmth buried under the otherwise dry tone. “I’d like to finish this shower before my mane’s as gray as yours.”
Thunderlane pressed the lever, shutting the shower off. He took a step back and turned towards his XO. A small shiver crept along his spine. Surely from the sudden absence of hot water from the shower. Not because he was going to touch another stallion’s feathers. He reached a hoof forward tentatively. He looked up into Soarin’s eyes, silently asking permission. The older stallion just nodded.
Thunder brushed a hoof along Soarin’s wrist. He could feel the minute stirring of the bone and muscle.
“You’ve got a gentle touch for such a big stallion, Blunder.”
Thunderlane closed his eyes and tried to shove the rising attraction back down out of his chest. “Sir?” he managed, “should I press harder?”
Soarin chuckled. “No, not so long as you can feel what I’m doing.” The commander moved and shifted his wing, demonstrating the various poses and positions he could hold his wings while doing different tasks.
“You see the difference?” Soarin asked. The shower in the next stall shut off. The condenser went silent, and the showers were suddenly far too quiet for Thunderlane’s tastes. Surely the other stallion would be able to hear his heart racing at this close, unexpected contact.
When the gray stallion nodded, Soarin smiled a lopsided grin. “Good!” he said, gently pulling his wing away. “Show me, then.”
Thunderlane took a deep slow breath. The usual shower smell of soap, shampoo, and mildew was overlayed with a stronger than usual scent of stallion. Thunder felt it had been far, far too long since he had had a wet stallion so close to him. It was growing ever harder to contain his arousal, and he shifted so he was face-to-face with Soarin. That way, if anything dropped loose, at least his body would shield it from sight. Thunder then focused on his wings, on getting the muscles in his wings to just… ease. To relax and hold neutral the way he had felt Soarin do.
“Just nice and easy,” Soarin coaxed.
The pale-coated stallion raised one hoof and slid it along Thunderlane’s barrel, until his hoof brushed just under where his wing joined his body. Thunderlane shuddered and kept his eyes locked on the other pony’s face.
“There you go,” Soarin cooed, moving the hoof and letting it drift slowly along the leading edge. “Let go of that tension.”
Thunderlane closed his eyes, felt himself almost drifting, mentally. The residual steam from the shower teased the short hairs on his muzzle.
The hoof drifted back along the wing towards Thunderlane’s chest. The stallion whined softly, an embarrassing keening of pleasure. Soarin’s hoof drifted down off the wing and moved slowly to the front of Thunderlane’s chest.
“Good,” Soarin said, his voice just above a whisper. “That’s…” Thunderlane could count the heartbeats in the pause. “That’s real good, Thunder.”
Thunderlane’s eyes snapped open, and the stallion felt his breath catch. He hadn’t had an officer call him by his name since the first day of Basic. Soarin’s eyes were looking down, apparently at the hoof that was pressed soft but unmoving against the dark gray fur of Thunderlane’s chest. The commander’s lips moved softly, fighting to form words that never came.
Thunderlane felt a yearning pull that originated in his chest and his loins. He wanted to chastise himself, to call himself an idiot for even thinking it.
But it wasn’t thinking that made him want to kiss those silent lips. It wasn’t logic that wanted him to melt against the other stallion and hold him close.
“Commander?” he whimpered, his head moving forward without any thought, any intention.
Soarin’s eyes snapped up, met Thunderlane’s gaze with intensity.
Words were said with that gaze. Protestations and welcomes and joys and refusals. No words passed the lips of either stallion.
Soarin turned aside and quickly exited the showers.
“Blunder!” Captain Spitfire screamed, “if you miss-time that damn turn again I’m going to rip off your wings and feed them to the seagulls!”
“Yes, Captain!” He pulled his legs tight, letting the conserved momentum speed the twisting of his body. He raced out of the turn, only a few hooves away from Rainbow Dash. Too close. He grimaced, bracing himself.
“BLUNDER! Be happy I don’t see any gulls around today! You are two more crappy days away from being relegated to the reserves, Rookie! Get your shit together!” Several flyers in formation ahead of him whipped their heads back to see the error. Commander Soarin didn’t turn to look, but Thunderlane saw him shake his head slowly.
Thankfully he was only a final aileron roll from completing the routine. The stallion shifted a wing, letting the movement carry him back into formation. He shifted his weight, pointing one wing down towards the ground and the other skyward, and saw his squadron do the same. As one, the ponies shifted their wings, letting the lift carry them upward before twisting over, rolling down and around until they were below the starting point. They then rocketed off in different directions—Thunderlane having the easiest path, simply forward. It was a rookie move, but the complexity was all about the timing, about being perfectly in sync with your team.
“Okay!” Spitfire crowed. “That’s more like it!” She zipped down towards the cloud below, and the flight team drifted down to meet their captain. “Showers, team, hit ‘em!” Thunderlane moved a hoof up to unzip the hood of his flight suit. “Not you, Blunder!”
Thunderlane slowly lowered the hoof.
“You’re working on that sixth dive turn until you stop fucking us.”
“Uh, Cap?” Soarin landed lightly beside Spitfire. “You’ve got that reserves admin meeting, remember?”
Spitfire cursed loudly, a string of expletives filling the air, some in combinations wholly new to Thunderlane.
Soarin just smiled through the blistering heat of the captain’s displeasure. “I’ll tend to the rookie.”
Spitfire sighed. “Thanks, Commander.” The captain flapped her wings violently, her sudden departure leaving whirled eddies in the cloud ground below her.
Soarin turned to Thunderlane, his gaze firm and unwelcoming. “Get to it, Blunder!”
Thunderlane looked longingly at his departing comrades and fought down an exasperated sigh he felt forming in his chest. “Aye, sir!” he responded, flapping his wings and sending himself airborne once again.
Thunderlane’s wings hurt. His back hurt. The spots around his eyes where his flight goggles had pressed hurt. Perhaps most injuriously, his pride hurt. But after spiraling out of the rising climb and ripping the air asunder in that dive turn more than a dozen times, he was sure he could make the maneuver in his sleep.
Commander Soarin, who had only barked single word instructions as guidance nodded slowly as he came to rest in front of the gray pegasus. The commander had stayed aloft the entire time, hovering in space. Thunderlane knew from experience that in some ways that was the more strenuous activity—the pale pegasus had had his wings moving the entire time with no gliding to take the pressure off. The older pony stretched his wings languidly, the primary feathers stretching apart and shivering with the movement. Thunderlane settled for rolling his shoulders.
“At ease, Rookie.”
Thunderlane sucked in a long, slow breath. He shifted his forewing and wrist, easing the pressure of his wings off those extended bones and back towards the thick humerus bone.
Soarin’s face shifted, losing the stony edge of his drill sergeant mask. “So you were paying attention.”
Too tired to feign professionalism, Thunderlane snorted in amusement. “As much as I could in that scenario.”
Soarin turned quickly to face the training complex. “One more task before you’re free, Rookie.”
Thunderlane groaned.
“You made me miss my massage with Blaze, and I’m overdue. You don’t want to skip wing massages. Good way to tear a scapular.” The commander turned his head back to look at Thunderlane as he lifted off the ground. “You better hope you’re a quarter as good with your hooves as with your wings.”
“Oh no way!” Rainbow Dash cried, spotting Thunderlane taking a seat on a bench in the locker room behind Soarin. “You’ve got Thunder giving massages?” She scoffed. “Now I’m even happier I got Blaze today. Thunder gave the worst massages on the Weather Team back in Ponyville!”
“And who gave the best ones, Crash? You?”
The blue mare tilted her head back arrogantly. “You know it!”
“So you’re saying you should take the next masseuse rotation?”
Almost before the words were even out of the commander’s mouth, the rainbow-maned pegasus had zipped out of sight. “Huh? Oops-can’t-hear-you-byyye!” said a voice that got more distant by the moment.
Soarin chuckled softly. “Your reputation precedes you, Rookie.”
Thunderlane snorted, exhaling strongly through his nose. “I’m not bad, I just wasn’t as eager as some ponies, is all.”
The commander pulled the towel that had been draped across one shoulder up to his neck, exposing his wings and uniformed back. “Not excited about helping your teammates stay healthy?” Through the skin-tight fabric, Thunder could see the muscles on either side of Soarin’s spine tighten, and pale wings spread about a hoof apart, giving Thunderlane access.
“No,” he replied without much heat, “nothing like that.” The gray pegasus softly tapped a hoof in an open jar of massage cream, feeling the thin, creamy substance collect on his frog. “Let’s just say certain pegasi were more inclined to try and make their female compatriots moan with pleasure.”
Soarin laughed out loud, the movement making the muscles along his back and wings wiggle. “You’re saying our walking, talking pride flag has a thing for mares?” His laughter subsided slowly. “Shocked, I tell you; I am shocked.”
Thunderlane smeared the massage cream into his other forehoof. He suddenly felt his mouth go dry, and he found he couldn’t blame dehydration or the always-humid locker room air. He needed to take Soarin’s suit off. He could always ask the commander to do it himself. It was difficult but certainly not impossible for a pony to remove their own flightsuit. But that was foolish. Thunderlane was giving the stallion a massage. He just needed to reach over with his mouth and pull the small, hidden zipper down. He felt his heart beating fast, his arousal building as he realized that was the only reasonable path forward.
Thunderlane leaned forward slowly, until he could see his breath stir the wispy edges of the older pegasus’s mane. It smelled of mint and sweat, layered pleasantly one atop the other.
“Can you see the zipper?” Soarin asked. Suddenly a pale blue hoof reached back and wandered across the back of the head. “Sometimes the thing gets stuck in my mane.” The leg brushed Thunderlane’s jaw and faded hooficure oil was added to the scent story around the other stallion. “I swear to Celestia, they make these more and more difficult every iteration.” The hoof shifted, the short fur of the forelock tickling Thunderlane’s jawline. “Aha, there it is!”
The blue hoof pulled away and Thunderlane felt its absence dearly. He spotted the tiny silver zipper poking up just below Soarin’s mane. He took the zipper in his teeth, trying to ignore all thoughts of putting his mouth on the commander’s back, dripping kisses down his spine. Blessed tailwinds, Thunder thought, he was suddenly very glad at the restrictive nature of his own flightsuit. The zipper slid down, nearly silently, the dark blue of the suit yielding to the sky-blue coat of the pegasus underneath. With the exposed flesh came the smell. Celestia help him, the smell, which he drew in greedily through flared nostrils. Rich, raw, musky stallion. The sweaty fur glistened, not rank or rotten, not quite sour. Thunderlane wasn’t sure even the tight suit would hold his arousal in for long, not here in the presence of this magnificent stallion.
Thunderlane reached the end of the zipper’s path, just above the wings. Soarin lifted a hoof and slid the connected mask off his muzzle. Then he flexed, easing one forehoof out of the suit, then another. The gray pegasus sat utterly still, enthralled with the small, efficient movements. The wings slid out of their housing, and the suit drooped down formlessly around the commander’s hips. Thunderlane took the briefest moment to enjoy the view before he raised his own hooves, placing them firmly on the fur just below Soarin’s wings. He pushed firmly, letting the massage oil smooth his movement as he slid hooves to each side of the other stallion’s spine. He shifted outward slowly, pulling gently but insistently at the muscles that connected spine to wings.
Soarin sighed, the sound bursting from his lungs but fading into a quiet hiss. “So far so good, Thunder.”
The gray pegasus bit his lip, overcome with the pleasure of hearing his name in the other pony’s mouth. He shifted his seat on the bench, glad once again that his flight suit was holding his growing erection tightly against one leg and not bouncing free against the commander’s back. That thought didn’t help calm him down any. Shooing the intrusive but entirely welcome thoughts away, he refocused on his hooves, bringing them up the scapular bone. He moved his hooves in tiny circles, feeling for tight points in the surrounding muscles.
“Crash and company were clearly missing out.” Thunderlane felt himself beaming at the compliment. He pushed onwards, bringing pressure to the muscles in the stallion’s upper back. “Nopony out there wanted some of that stallion strength in their massage?”
Thunderlane remembered one drunken night with Flitter and Cloud Chaser. “I wouldn’t say nopony .”
Soarin grunted. “Not you and Rainbow, surely?”
Thunderlane laughed, his arousal subsiding under the absolute absurdity of the question. “No. Sweet Celestia no. She had her run of the team, pretty much. Plus, I think that Applejack would’ve killed me if I somehow bedded Rainbow before she finally worked up the courage to ask her out.” He moved his hooves to the base of the commander’s wings, pressing oh so lightly at the connective tissue.
“Ah,” Soarin replied quietly. “So you like mares.”
Thunderlane rubbed at the other stallion’s wing in silence. The question hung in the air.
“Sorry,” Soarin mumbled, “not really an appropriate question.”
“No, no,” Thunderlane interjected, talking over the end of the commander’s apology. “I just…” he let his hooves fall still. “I don’t talk about it much. There aren’t that many stallions in Ponyville, you know? And…” he struggled to find words about things he never discussed. He moved his hooves outward, onto the fibrous tissue that covered the humerus. He pulled inward, tugging gently with the corner of each hoof. “I like mares, I do, Celestia knows I’ve been with enough, but…”
Soarin let the silence hang. The only sounds were the distant sounds of the fans in the showers. Everypony else was back in the barracks or in meetings. The absolute privacy of the moment existed as this surreal state between them. He forced his hooves to keep moving, their motion more mechanical than intentional.
“…but there was a stallion once…” Thunderlane laughed, and as much as he tried to keep the bitterness out of it, he was sure it sounded hurt. “She’s not even a stallion now, you know?” He sighed. “And good for her and all, but…” It was hard to bring himself to say it aloud, even though he’d known it for truth for years. He moved his legs outward again, onto the thin forewing of the other stallion. He rubbed the remainder of the massage oil into the thin skin, pressing ever so lightly into the feather follicles. “It’s selfish to even think it, but… I miss when she was him. He was the one who made me realize I prefer guys.”
The admission hung in the air. Thunderlane could hear Soarin’s breathing—deep, slow, and even. He almost peeked to see if the commander was asleep before the pony opened his mouth. “I don’t tell many ponies about my preferences.” The primary feathers beneath Thunderlane’s hooves shimmied. “I’m not hiding it, you know,” Soarin continued. “Just… not advertising.” He huffed quietly, an almost laugh. “Seems like every year some news rag has some rumor about me and Rainbow Dash being the hot new item.”
Thunderlane snorted.
“Right?” Soarin agreed. “They clearly don’t know her!” He sighed. “But I’m no more into mares than she’s into stallions.” He took another long, slow breath. “It’s always been stallions for me, Thunder.”
Maybe Thunderlane imagined the longing in the other pony’s voice. Maybe it was just tiredness, not desire, in his tone.
Thunderlane removed his hooves, having finished the massage. He lived a vivid fantasy in that moment, of wrapping his still-oily hooves around the blue stallion’s neck and kissing him. Holding him tight in the empty locker room.
Soarin shook his head slowly. “Crash is so full of shit. That was one of the best massages I’ve had in a long time.”
Bravery spurred the gray pegasus’s tongue. “Maybe because it was a stallion doing the work?”
Soarin turned, twisting his torso without shifting his seat. His relaxed muzzle and calmly out-turned ears contrasted starkly with the intensity in his eyes. “Maybe so.”
Their muzzles were so close. Thunderlane realized for the first time that he could feel the heat rising off Soarin’s back, could feel the warmth between them.
Soarin’s face moved towards him, bridging that minute gap. Thunderlane closed his eyes. Movement, air brushing the side of his face. And then something tugging at the back of his sculpted mane. The quiet sound of a silver zipper rippling down his neck. The feel of another’s stallion’s chest pushed into his own. He made a small, involuntary sound he hoped wasn’t a whimper. Soarin breathed deeply, his chest expanding into Thunderlane’s own. Thunder felt his tail twitch and his erection solidify against his leg. Felt the hot puff of air as Soarin exhaled.
Thunderlane moved a forehoof up and touched Soarin’s barrel softly.
The older pegasus made a voiceless sound, and for the briefest moment his head turned so that their necks were resting against each other. Soarin’s body went stiff under Thunderlane’s hoof, and the warmth between their bodies faded as the commander pulled back from the seemingly inadvertent embrace.
Soarin cleared his throat. “I’ve…” he shook his head. “Hit the showers, Thun—Blunder,” he said, his voice rough, “Long day tomorrow.”
Thunderlane let his hoof fall from the commander’s side as the blue pegasus stood and quickly walked out of the locker room, the half-disrobed flight suit dangling awkwardly on the ground.
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.
