Author's Note
Looking for a FIMFic commission from me? Just follow this handy link.
Bred-Her, then Disco!
“So I told that plump-rump Sky Stinger if he wanted me to on back, all he had to do was shake a tailfeather—whoa nelly, angry griffin alert!“
Spitfire didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or fight down a lump in her throat at that news. Not like it would’ve been hard to figure that out without Misty’s cry. Shadows never cut as impressively over a room quite like Gilda’s. Even if the records and CD racks made for some frightening edges to that wingspan.
…oh shit, Gilda was not speaking.
Well, it’d been the first time Spitfire had seen her in this store—in fact, it was the first time Spitfire had been in this Cloudsdale music shop—but Gilda's impact was immediate. The glass of the counter that Spitfire was behind was starting to feel flimsier under her hands with each passing second.
In fact, the only noise coming from the normally opinionated griffin was from the store-rattling thumps of her taloned feet. And despite herself, despite Misty looking like a deer in the lights of an incoming Friendship Express, each Gilda stomp reminded Spitfire of what drew her to this statuesque avian so long before. the muscle rippling appetizingly behind jeans so tight they looked painted on, the sway of the locks over Gilda’s lowered head, even the way her wings masked her rage from how gracefully they dipped around the shelves and racks.
Of course, Spitfire wondered how long it’d take for Gilda to know the pegasus behind the stand was not who she was expecting. Or if Gilda would even care.
Welp. It seemed even Wonderbolt Captains had something they feared below the cloudline. ‘Hell of a way to find out’, she mused.
And with one last stride, Spitfire’s vision was suddenly full of shadow and hot breath. Even Misty was almost invisible behind Gilda’s shuddering bulk, her eyes flicking concernedly to Spitfire and… alluringly to Gilda in rapid succession.
Spirtire would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t waiting for the hammer to drop.
And when it did… it wouldn’t have crushed a fly. “Death Metal track. Don’t care what. Just do it.” Gilda still had not made eye contact with the pony in front of the stand. They stayed locked on her fists, tightly clenched and whiter than her plumage.
Misty was the first to speak, though. “Well…. Nice as it is to find a fellow lover of that genre, I believe I was first up, no? So, if….”
Now Gilda’s eyes were up and burning holes through Misty’s bra.
Misty’s eyes shrank to pinpricks. “-OhshootCapforgotmygogglesinthetaxiseeyalateeer!” And she was barreling out of the music shop as fast as her buttery hooves would carry her.
Unknowing that the goggles Misty had left ‘to find’ were still bobbing atop her head.
Turning back to Spitfire, Gilda rolled her eyes, Spitfire trying not to lose herself in those gorgeous pools. ‘Sorry, Blaze, I’ve just really had a shit-ass da-” Then Gilda’s eyes finally locked on the very un-Fire-Blaze-like curves and expression on the pony before her. “-wait! S-Spitfire?!”
Finally, Spitfire felt satisfied enough to let a smirk cross her face. Gilda struggling to keep from bursting into laughter did a number at lifting her spirits. “Indeed it is, Gil,” she said. “What can I do you for today?”
“Yeah, uh…” Now Gilda’s eyes were busy scanning everything but Spitfire. “I mean—w-what in Tartarus are you doing here? Thought you had a class full of greens to whip into shape today.”
“I did,” Spitfire admitted, her voice almost a whisper. “But… see, I also had a Los Pegasus trip with Blaze the day before and…”
Gilda’s eyes narrowed in realization. “Luck’s still that bad, huh?”
“...yes,” Spitfire’s lips curled into a frown. “Had to cover Blaze’s day shift here just to keep Mom from blowing a blood vessel.” Her eyes drooped to look over her far-from-formal attire; a CMS-stamped white t-shirt with holes for her wings and black slacks.
“If your Mom’s giving you trouble-”
“-I’m capable of handling my mom’s issues as a Wonderbolt Captain, thank you for considering.” Gilda bristled at the hard edge in Spitfire’s voice, but shrugged in compliance. It was soon rewarded. “Don’t worry, Gil; that you’re so concerned is what I love about you. Here or in the office.”
Two griffin eyebrows waggled suggestively. A drop of the sweat hanging off Gilda’s brow landed on the counter. “Sure it’s the only thing?” she asked.
Suddenly Spitfire’s mouth was indescribably dry, her mind a spluttering film reel of the other way their meet-ups often ended. And every time, it was because Gilda found just the right way to sink her raunchy claws into her mind. Even now, the ninety-degree heat wave Cloudsdale was suffering under was starting to creep under Spitfire’s shirt, over her snout, over her rapidly-blinking eyes.
And she couldn’t afford that. “There’s an hour before I’m outta here. Keep it in your pants for one day,” the Wonderbolt Captan squeaked past an ironically iron-clad gate of teeth.
Gilda, after a second, saw through the already compromised composure of her marefriend. “Oh, okay, Spits. If you waaaant,” the griffin said in a singsongy drawl, her fingers doing a catwalk over the glass of the countertop. “I mean, I’m still waiting for that record I asked for, myself, bu-”
In a flash, Spitfire was almost yanking half the store’s contents out of the drawers behind her, her eyes hurriedly looking over the titles. And to her dismay… “W-what? They’re all gone?”
A haughty snort behind Spitfire made her lip curl in ire—and a chill of something far more illicit flick down her spine. “Probably. This is a Cloudsdale music shop, after all. Dead center in Squaresville.”
Spitfire fought back to urge to ask how many surfaces they had to buck on before that claim was put to bed. “Well. it’s gotta be somewhere here. She said pushing away from the counter at last. “Just… give me a minute.”
Spitfire wanted to add ‘And give me some room.’ Gilda was almost hilariously hung on her every word—another thing that made Spitfire’s heart stop for her and only her. And she knew what such needling would end in, especially with the heat’s drag on her sinewy arms keeping her from pursuing the much simpler option of tossing Gilda out of the store.
So why, the second that she felt Gilda’s finger tap up the dip in her back, was Spitfire’s response a half-relieved, half-shuddering sigh? At least that was too low to be heard over the spinning fans.
No such luck for the griffin’s voice, though.
“Not gonna lie, Spits,” Gilda began, her wings at a hearty flutter to send more goosebumps up her marefriend’s spine. “I’m damn glad you’re the one behind the register today.” Spitfire could hear Gilda’s smile curl wickedly. “And not just cuz I’d hate to tell you another of your lieutenant’s taking the day off cuz a’ ‘that stupid-ass-buff bird.”
Spitfire bit back a chuckle. “You know, you could just do what you did today.”
Another accepting grunt behind her, and Spitifire’s heart lifted a fraction as she moved to the next record rack. “I might,” Gilda offered. “Seeing the-fuck’s-her-face run like she’d seen a mouse—or the bill for her implants—is a great way to beat the heat.”
Now Spitfire turned to face Gilda, her eyes wide. “How did you-I mean, there’s no way you could know that.”
Gilda tapped a talon near her smoldering golden eyes.
Spitfire’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Don’t know why we can’t let griffins in the ‘Bolts, I swear.”
“Same reason I’m with you and not whatever stuffed helmet the Royal Guard’s got,” Gilda said. "Nobody likes a haughtier-than-thou.”
One day, Spitfire would ask Gilda why her eyes misted over at those words. Almost as if… she was reliving something? For now, though, three-digit heat and an every-elusive track occupied Spitfire's mind. “Remind me to discipline Blaze for lying to a superior, then. 'No worries, Cap, the job basically does itself!‘ she said.”
Gilda’s eyes flashed with mischief. “Don’t worry, I’ll key you in when you get too tired.”
“About what?”
“You’ll see.” Gilda leaned back on one of the walls, her fingers now beating a perfect metronome on the wooden shelving behind her frame. “Gonna guess you wanted to listen to one of these yourself, right?”
Spitfire tore her eyes from another annoyingly not-death-metal-record-rack. “Seriously, were you just stalking this storefront for an hour?”
“Nah, doll.” Gilda giggled. “But I saw the proof of your work on that little player on the counter.”
Spitfire froze. Guiltily, her eyes followed Gilda’s pointing thumb to the scarred visage of a record player, its needle crooked and bent like a fishhook. “...okay, that thing had no right being as screechy as it was that first time.”
“Did the side of the record you put on the needle have grooves?”
The Wonderbolt captain paused. “Does that matter?”
Gilda looked like she’d burst out of her shirt with the stifled laugh ballooning her chest. “To Blaze, maybe.” Seeing the wounded look on Spitifire’s face, the griffin changed gears. ”So, what music do you like listening to?”
Two golden ears perked at that inquiry. “I mean I said as much before; I’m good with what you are.”
“Happy as I am that I’m not the only fan of ‘The Harpies’...” Gilda purred. “I know you have some tunes rattling in your skull way before I rocked your world. C’mon, spill!”
Spitfire gulped. “I mean… I don’t want to say here, but…” Spitfire tried to go for a different subject. “You sure I didn’t say it last night?”
“Don’t recall,” Gilda said. “Besides, my ears are still ringing from the other thing you were repeating at night’s end.”
Well, now two heads were thick with that one-word mantra still burning at the back of Spitfire’s gullet. “Don’t remind me, now half the neighbors think you’re a goddess.”
“Oh, now I’m definitely doing that more often.” Spitfire whirled around ready to tell Gilda off and found herself staring right at a tantalizingly flicking tongue. The bead at its end shone like a sun all its own.
The Wonderbolt captain tried to gain back the breath she didn’t know she’d lost, turning back to the racks. “Damn it! Did Blaze mess with me?! I knew Misty’s grin was a little too wide when-”
“It’s not here.”
It took a second for Spitfire to parse out that Gilda was referring to her fruitless search. “W-what?”
“None’a the death metals’ here.” Gilda rolled her shoulders, giving the room one more careful scan. “Knew it about five minutes ago. ‘Harpies’ tracks stick out like sore talons.”
Spitfire blinked for several seconds. Then something in Gilda’s words finally stuck out in her mind. “Five minutes? You mean, you coulda kept me from running around here earlier?”
Gilda drew her wings around herself in a way that could be seen as coquettish. Well, if Spitfire hadn’t seen how far she’d thrown the last pony to call her coquettish. “Depends, what answer gets you up for another round?”
Spitfire’s jaw nearly tunneled into the carpet. “You can’t be serious. This is for a wager and to keep me from bankruptcy, I can’t just...”
In a second, Gilda was in front of Spitfire. Again, her husky, heated break felt like a sledgehammer against every rational thought out of Spitfire’s head. “Tell me you don’t hate this heat as much as I do. Tell me you’re not hungry for a way to stick it back to your lieutenant.”
“W-what does this have to do—”
“Tell me it doesn’t drive you up all the walls that she’s frolicking in a fully-ACed bunker pretending she’s you.” Gilda pressed on. “And I’ll leave.”
Once again, Spitfire’s tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. Gilda had to be correct! Of course Blaze was qualified to train the cadets! That was the only reason the Captain even agreed to trade places, besides the sheer amount of money at stake!
…even if Blaze seemed to be married to her manure-eating grin more than her job.
And even if Blaze’d been keeping up the Wonderbolt cadets for Luna-knows-how-long with the records she played at max volume from this very store.
And even if she’d been the meat in a Wonderbolt stallion spitroast for going on a month.
That last one finally made Spitifire’s thoughts align.” “Okay, fine. Blaze’s been a crass, insubordinate dweeb from time to time.” Immediately, her fire bristled at the thought of borrowing her bird-friend’s words. “But I am still a Wonderbolt of my word. And we got lucky the last time we did it. I know I’ve been open to experimenting, but—”
Gilda took a step back, her eyes aimed south of the equator on Spitfire’s form. Then her grin swooped up higher than her beak. “Speaking of open, how hasn’t your fly burst open right now?”
Spitfire again looked down, and again, that same flush of regret flowed through her. Followed immediately by arousal, as swift as a Rainboom.
Even here, with Gilda’s impressive shadow bathing her in black, Spitfire could see the tube-like shape straining against her pants. Even with her face perfectly schooled to neutrality from years in the Wonderbolts’ highest seat, Spitfire could feel her head becoming light from the lack of blood. The heat still hung heavy around her, making her shirt stick uncomfortably to her fur, but all she could think of was this griffin’s hands on her.
“See, Spits?” Gilda said, her voice so low Spitfire nearly missed it. ”I know how hard you work, then and now. I see it in your pursed lips, your perfect muscles…” The hilt in Gilda’s voice almost made Spitfire’s legs give out. “Hell, I can see it in your… other blood-filled organs.”
The compliments, both sincere and sensual, were suddenly all Spitfire could hold in her pounding skull. Especially considering Gilda had just a well-trained figure as she. Muscles peeked out like beets over the griffin’s syrupy arms, yet the waist between them was as invitingly hourglassed as Spitfire’s own. Her legs almost radiated comfort with the bulk pushing against robin’s-blue denim, yet the talons peeking underneath them were expertly cocked, keeping Gilda perfectly balanced in their arches.
“And the reason I listen to death metal? Why I’m doing it so often?” Gilda leaned forward until her beak touched Spitfire’s snout. “It’s cuz being away from you for so long is torture.”
Oh, Spitfire was unavoidably aware of how heated their talks over this had been. How often that being Spitfire the captain kept her from being Spitfire the mate. How many times Spitfire bit her tongue lest she could talk of how often her tented fingers itched behind her Academy desk.
Of how often it was Gilda’s writhing form lulling the Wonderbolt to wet dreams in between heaps of reports.
“I… I know,” Spitfire admitted, her voice strained. “But Celestia, there’s so many ponies outside.”
At this point, she didn’t know if it was in apprehension or anticipation.
“Oooh, tempting.” If GIlda’s chuckle was any indication, this store would be catching some public indecency reports soon. “But I’m horny enough that I’ll let you take the lead, hot stuff.”
And with that terrycloth of offered decorum, this port in a storm of lust brimming behind Spitfire’s tensed limbs, the pegasus finally spoke. “I-I’m sure your records are in the back, then. Help me find them, and…”
Gilda was at Spitfire’s back in an instant, hands gripping eagerly into cotton-clad shoulders. Her breath felt like a tattoo on Spitfire’s ear, even as Gilda only spoke four simple words into it.
“Lead me on, Cap.”
Admittedly, Spitfire felt some deja vu as she stepped into the inner sanctum of Blaze’s shop.
Every one of the room’s walls were packed with wires and TV screens, a marvel of Cloudsdalean tech that threw rainbowed reflections onto every surface. Even with the harsh rays peeking through the windows, the room was amazingly cool, the bulk of the fans here to keep the Spectra-running surveillance sets cozy. For a second, Spitfire just looked over it all, the product of a career of the Wonderbolts being paid forward in the city’s central square.
Then the rustle of feathers behind Spitfire reminded her of just who this backroom break-in was for. “I’ll start on these tracks, ‘kay? Think we’re getting close to paydirt.” Gilda cooed. “Oh sweet, ‘Marenower!’ These tracks must be decades old!”
As Gilda gushed over the vintage vinyl flipping through her claws, Spitfire pulled the rest of the boxes to the cramped desk in the back. Her hooves banged against the sea of chairs in the room, making her hiss a swear into the musty air. For how mundane this job was, it just seemed to frustrate her in a billion little ways!
But after only a few seconds in, Spitfire was again lost in the gorgeous curves of something other than a record disk. The curves of Gilda seemed to sing as she bounds on her bent legs, humming as she looked for her precious ‘Harpies’ tracks. Gilda’s ass swayed and jiggled, her jeans failing in their duty to keep the buff bird’s cheeks from her marefriend’s view.
It was then that Spitfire’s libido started rising again, now that those golden eyes of Gilda’s weren’t burning the thought from her. Gilda’s wings still swept snugly over her arms and back, perfectly groomed feathers glistening in the Spectra-light like a jeweled gown. Even now, Spitfire could remember how those wings felt under her palms: slick yet pillowy, embracing yet strong. Her wings beat fitfully, trying to cool down the lust coiling in her gut.
But it would not abide, and Spitfire’s mind soon drifted to even more amorous alleys, wondering how good her fingers would feel balled in the hem of Gilda’s sinfully tight jeans. How throatily Gilda would coo as she peeled that constricting denim down those endless thighs. Maybe she’d reward Spitfire for her initiative, as Gilda’s taloned feet reached down to cup around her crotch.
To cup around Spitfire’s-
“Hello? Equus to Spitfire? You found the track, let go of it already!”
Blinking hurriedly Spitfire looked at her hand, somehow rigidly gripped around a familiar album sleeve. It was indeed a ‘Harpies’ one, the three griffins’ proud (and risque) poses around them gave the game away immediately. She let it go, the thump as Gilda found herself hugging the album making her give an un-Gilda-like breathless squawk.
“Oh…” Spitfire said, still battling away the sexy thoughts of this griffin in her brain. “Sorry, Gil. Guess I lost track of time.”
“Least it’s for a good cause.” Gilda huffed. “Having fun! And look—the ‘Feathered Friends With Benefits’ album, too! Only twenty of ‘em in all Equestria; it’s probably why your dweeb lieutenant had it squirreled back here!”
Curious, Spitfire took a peek at the box’s label. CLASSICS STOCK / USE FOR ONE NIGHT STANDS ONLY stared back at her, her eyes shrinking to pinpricks.
“Is that why she kept this one under her desk?!” the Wonderbolt captain roared. “I can’t believe that up-jumped, mane-dying, double-timing—!”
Gilda’s laughter snapped her out of her reverie again, the griffin. “Relax!” she finally got out, slumping back in another of the chairs. “You’re lucky some snot-snouted foal didn’t get hands on this. Every track on it’s a banger, and I’ll happily pay out the beak for it.”
Spitfire slowly got her breathing back to a calmer tempo. “R-right. Blaze isn’t worth the stress. Shit, I’m just so… so…”
“Frustrated? Bothered? Eager to get even?” Gilda tittered. “Stop me if I’m getting hot.”
A little, tiny something in the Wonderbolt’s mind went snap, and suddenly, the heat baking her back was nothing to her. The records didn’t matter, store maintenance didn’t matter, wagers didn’t fucking matter. All Spitfire’s mind was locked on now were Gilda’s inviting curves, those E-cup breasts bobbing like apples under Gilda’s shirt, the desire behind the griffin’s lidded eyes.
“You, Gilda? Getting hot?” Spitfire let a grin spread over her face for the first time that day. “Always have been.”
Gilda’s eyebrows rose salaciously. “Oh?” she whispered. “You know, you could sneak out an album you like too. Celestia knows I’m not one to balk at five-finger discounts.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Country, actually.” At Gilda’s bewildered expression, Spitfire’s smirk only grew. “Coloratura got me hooked the day after I got my stars. And really, you’re asking a Wonderbolt official to break the law? How… dangerous a thing to offer.”
The look on Spitfire’s face made it clear she could give two everlasting breezie shits about being prim and proper. Of course, the griffin had to play along. “I mean I’d have to report it, Spits, good Cloudsdale citizen that I am.”
This time, Spitfire didn’t hold back the good-natured laugh at the ludicrous self-title of Gilda’s. Half of the pictures of Gilda were from the Cloudsdale cop-pony’s office as it was!
“Y’know, unless I was kept from it by some strapping…”
Then Gilda’s flared her wings, arching her back and shamelessly flaunting her gargantuan rack.
“Ravishing…”
The griffin’s tongue flitted out to taste the air in the tiny office. This time, Spitfire followed its errant motions, not a single un-lewd though flashing her darkened eyes.
“Longing…”
Spitfire slowly stood out of her seat. Gilda’s beak curved up tauntingly, waiting to be claimed.
“Captain.”
Spitfire licked her lips lustily. “That right.” It wasn’t a question; Spitfire already knew the answer.
And answer she did, by using her golden wings to sweep the record-filled boxes on the desk in one furious flap. Countless heaps of vinyl crashed into the walls, but the Wonderbolt had eyes only for Gilda as she stalked toward her. Gilda was already bopping to an unsung yet charged beat, throwing the horns with both hands as her tits roiled hypnotically.
By the time Gilda got into range, Spitfire struck. But it wasn’t aimed at Gilda’s beak, much as she longed to steal the breath from this gorgeous griffin. Instead, Spitfire’s hands clasped firmly onto GIlda’s breasts, the squishy feel reminding Spitfire of water balloons. Cool, refreshing water balloons.
She hissed in relief, and so did Gilda.
Already, Spitfire could feel the heat leaving her chest. But she ignored where it was being diverted to—and the chafe of the increasingly tight jeans around that point—in favor of taking in the juicy rack before her. Bobbing Gilda's twin funbags, the Wonderbolt reveled in the sensual show they provided; so large they made Gilda’s shirt ride up even higher to reveal her chiseled abs, so sensitive she could feel the hardened griffin nips poke into her palms.
It was so obvious why Spitfire took her time with Gilda.
Gilda was not possessed of such patience. Swooping forward and knuckling her hands into the tabletop, she finally got what she sought; a rough kiss with her marefriend. Their tongues lashed, their lips crashed, and the sparks running through Gilda’s body made her arch further into Spitfire’s grip. But Gilda’s tango never relented; she hungrily explored Spitfire’s mouth and moaned at the citrusy aftertaste she soaked up.
Spitfire’s hands turned into pincers at that point, but their motions stayed slow. She gave into the griffin as good as she gave, mauling Gilda’s honeydew-sized breasts while letting Gilda ravage her mouth. Already the blissful balance was making Spitfire’s head spin; she was almost certain she could feel Gilda’s heart pulse needily, the pumpum-pumpum in perfect concert with her gasps into Gilda’s beak.
Alas, oxygen was the only thing these fit femmes needed more than each other, and they broke their kiss to huff it in like it was their last. Gilda slid a fingertip past her beak, eyefucking the Wonderbolt panting before her. Her shirt was riding up too thanks to the telltale bulge under Spitfire’s pants, and Gilda loved the piercing from Spitfire’s belly button visible as a result.
With a final, harsh grope, Spitfire let Gilda’s tits spring back into position. Her eyes flitted between Gilda’s imperious stare and the breasts she’d just finished touching. The ‘Harpies’ insignia on that griffin’s shirt was a crumbled mess now, the cotton still bearing the shape of her questing fingers. A pea-sized pang of regret cramped her gut; that shirt looked unbelievably hot with GIlda’s stiff nipples spearing it, and Spitfire felt like she’d just sullied perfection in her lust.
It’d be better off her, really.
Spitfire’s left leg cocked, and suddenly she was speeding around that table, no obstructing metal keeping her from gripping Gilda’s sides. Slowly they moved up, in an attempt to take the shirt with her. Gilda apparently concurred, though her method was far more primal. With a thrust of her sharp paws and a fluid riiiiiip, Spitfire’s shirt hung in rags over her chest, her scarlet bra mercifully spared from Gilda’s frenzy.
Spitfire stopped her actions immediately, her cheeks almost as red as her last bit of topwear. “The fuck, Gilda?” she hissed. “That’s company property!”
“A company you’ll be leaving forever in an hour anyway.” Gilda mused. “Sides, I doubt Miss Use-For-One-Night-Stands-Only’s got a leg to stand on with mistreating property.”
Spitfire’s frown dropped, though she still didn’t move her hands. “Coulda just asked me to strip.”
“Coulda. Didn’t.” And there was that insidious streak of Gilda, a smirk-addled little slice of assholery that Spitfire would cum on the spot to if she didn’t get her breathing level. “Sides, I love what’s underneath the wraps, sweetie.”
Spitfire’s arousal came roaring back so hard she was shocked her ears weren’t ringing. “You should, you gave it to me.” Then the Wonderbolt grew a vengeful smirk. “And what if I do the same to yours?”
Gilda’s rictal grin spoke louder than words. But she was never one to skimp in any fashion. “Don’t need to. Zipper’s in the back.”
For three seconds, Spitfire not regretted returning the favor, as her fingers trailed up to the small of Gilda’s back and the zip nestled there. Then, she couldn’t get enough of how warm and cushiony Gilda’s chest felt against hers. The slow drawl of Gilda’s satisfied sighs drowned out the sound of the zipper being drawn, stopping when Spitfire stepped back triumphantly—and took the ‘Harpies’ T-shirt with her in her hands.
“Wanted me that much, huh Gilda?” Spitfire whisted at what her stripping revealed—or rather, lack thereof.
Not like she was complaining, and neither was Gilda as she wiggled her shoulders. Her bared, bra-less nipples danced in sync, the dusky tips like chocolate drops in ballooning seas of honey. And oh, how the air played marvelously with her abs, those wedges of muscles perfectly marbled with the lightest layer of sweat.
One of Spitfire’s hands made its home among those mouthwatering pecs. The other returned to cup one of GIlda’s massive mammaries, and the licentious purr Gilda gave left her unprepared for Spitfire’s mouth crashing into hers. The tongue-twisting battle was far more even this time, even with Gilda’s paws winding behind her Wonderbolt’s mane to pull her deeper into their kiss.
And while drool seeped from their molded mouths, Gilda’s hands mapped every curve and divot of Spitfire’s back. The muscle present there twitched and jumped in the griffin’s strong touch—as Gilda’s abs did under Spitfire’s slighter digits. Years upon years of iron-pumping, pillar-lifting, and wing-ups showed its proof in those muscles, trembling in gratitude at the massage the two rained upon them. Spitfire even cooed like a foal when she felt Gilda’s hands carefully unlatch her bra, an unknowing show of grace under all the grit the griffin possessed.
But Gilda’s hands didn’t relieve Spitfire of her lingerie. Those hands swept lower, clutching two mounds of generous Wonderbolt ass and lifting them to rest on the table’s edge.
Then they moved back up to flick away Spitfire’s bra, Gilda licking her lips at the dimpled D-cups springing forth to meet her gaze. While their smaller size was due to their holder’s training rather than despite it, the metal studs ringing Spitfire’s areola made up for it. Gilda could spend all week jostling them, feeling the cool steel and the warm skin clash beautifully against her palms.
But her hands were meant for a far better purpose now. Besides, Gilda was thirsty beyond belief, due to this oppressive heat.
And when they hooked in the loops of Spitfire’s slacks to find an even more sweltering presence there, Gilda knew her need for seed would be sated soon. She licked a strip against that bulge, the leather more than heavenly on her pierced tongue. Then GIlda looked up and reveled in the sight of Spitfire’s lip caught under her teeth, the pegasus’s fingers knuckling hard into the table.
Spitfire was more than ready to skip to the greatest hits, and Gilda provided it with a yank of her pants-clutching paws.
Certainly, the foaming, golden-pink cock that rose to meet Gilda’s vision fit the bill of ‘greatest hits’. In that, if Spitfire cocked her hips hard enough, her fucklog could cause blunt force trauma.
However, all Gilda met it with was a lewd smile. Eleven inches of throbbing flesh and veins, and Gilda had only started touching it? A girth so wide that Gilda couldn’t wrap one of her cantaloupe-palming hands around it, and nopony but her had even seen it?
It was only fair that Gilda spent some time worshipping this cream-spurting obelisk.
“S-shit…” Spitfire huffed, her lip trembling cutely. “I… I didn’t think I was still… after last night…”
“One, Spits; that’s the plumber’s issue now.” Gilda purred, her hands busy pushing Spitfire’s slacks down the rest of her trim legs. “And two, this just means I get to drain you first this time.”
Gilda locked both hands around Spitfire’s shaft and lifted that fat dick to her beak. Her tongue lolled out, trailing into the snowcap of pre-cum topping this mountain of mare-meat.
Then Gilda kissed it, noisily and sloppily.
Another lick, making sure Spitfire saw every string of pre-cum marrying cock-tip to beak-tip.
Then Gilda, her hunger overwhelming her, drooled hotly onto the prodigious pillar in her grip.
Spitfire sucked in a breath so hard her teeth rattled.
And then Gilda took it away, along with six inches of her erection down her gullet, all at once.
Spitfire’s back hit the table, a piercing shriek of need echoing over Gilda’s bobbing head. Already, Gilda was hard at work getting even more of Spitfire’s ramrod down her throat. The girth-gobbling griffin used hands worked expertly, pumping up and down the many inches of Wonderbolt cock still left to swallow. It was like a yogurt tube in Gilda’s grip, and the drool sliding down this imperious tool let Spitfire know how much she savored the treat.
“Uhmmm…uhmmm…uhmmm…” moaned Gilda, her breath struggling to leak around the fuckpipe clogging her mouth.
If Spitfire’s brain was already boiling over at the feel of Gilda’s gullet convulsing around her, what Gilda’s hands did next certainly sent her mind into meltdown. Immediately, the Wonderbolt captain’s kiwi-sized balls were being massaged in the drool-soaked palm of Gilda. Her testes-cupping fingers pulled gasps and mewls from Spitfire, while Gilda’s other hand clenched determinedly around the base of her marefriend’s member.
Gilda could feel the fuckbatter building under her straining digits, the wettest reward for her full frontal assault on Spitfire’s dick. She moaned desperately around her beak-clogging intruder, not sure if it was that or the cum brimming under it that she wanted to taste more. Her loins clenched noisily, the sloshes of Gilda’s pussy lips as it slid between her thighs almost deafening her to the swickswickswicks of her throat being swabbed.
Keyword being: almost.
Gilda pulled back, her eyes laser-focused on her mark even as her guttural pants filled the air. The shining rays invading the room told the tale; Spitfire’s cock was now a glorious sixteen inches, and the ravenous griffin… had only gotten ten of them into her gullet.
Immediately, Gilda stuffed her ramrod-clutching hand into her mouth, both to lick off the remaining bits of pre-cum staining it and to get her mouth limber enough to finish her feat. Once she had finished, she grabbed onto Spitfire’s heaving tits and hauled the Wonderbolt captain to a sitting position. Pulling a chair next to the table, the griffin then hastily pulled Spitfire into it, not giving the pegasus mare a second to snap at her before licking another trail up her fuckstick.
“Ram it…into me…” she hissed. “I need… all of this in my throat.”
Then Gilda wrapped her mouth around the white-tipped marebreaker and sucked in a breath. Strength, fleeting as it was, flashed back into Spitfire’s limp muscles, and her hips moved to help Gilda’s girth-gobbling. Spitfire started to roll herself into Gilda’s mouth, her lips jutting open at the sight of more of her ramrod disappearing into Gilda’s throat. Gilda added on to the thrusts, her hands again feeding more of the throbbing maremeat into her beak. Spitfire’s hands even gripped the chair’s rests to give herself more of a base to fuck Gilda’s gullet, hoping that they could do it before Gilda ran out of breath.
Thankfully, they did. With a bump of skin, Gilda’s beat met Spitfire’s crotch, a spray of saliva almost signaling her glee at deepthroating the futa captain she was kneeling before. Gilda’s fingers shot down to her tits, roughly founding them as Spitfire moved down a hand into her feathery temple. Keeping the griffin rooted to her pelvis, Spitfire drank in the sight of Gilda: her convulsing throat, her spit-covered chest bobbing in delight, her nipples vanishing under her stimulation-starved paws.
“G-Gilda,” the Wonderbolt panted. “I… I think I’m gonna—”
With a tremorous roar, Gilda popped herself off of Spitfire’s imperious maredick, Spitfire letting out a series of curses upon her erection being reintroduced to the icy air. Gilda’s face was a twisted mask of lust and delirium.
“Oh… you mean you were gonna spill your hot, sticky load down this?”
Then her tongue loped you to slurp and drool along Spitfire’s shaft. Spitfire’s hands fisted in her mane, her wanton moans nothing but music to Gilda’s ears as she teased her marefriend’s cock. Gilda was obsessed with that veiny tool she batted against her cheeks, her grin only growing with each second she played with Spitfire’s gigantic prick.
Eventually, Spitfire’s mind was too deprived of contact to be satisfied by Gilda’s antics. With a bestial hiss, she looped her arms under GIlda’s, pulling the cock-crazed avian to her feet. Then, Spitfire stole another smoking kiss from her fuckmate, tongues not so much battling as playing tug-of-war with the pre-cum stuffed in GIlda’s cheeks. When they broke their kiss, several strings of spunk connected their mouths, and Gilda half bent over the table.
“Awww, Spits, you do care!” Gilda said, her eyes dilating at the sight of the urge blazing behind Spitfire’s. “I’ve kept you from cumming, I’m such a bad bitch… “
Spitfire didn’t answer this time, simply leaning down to grind her hips against the griffin. Gilda could feel Spitfire’s cock stir up her gushing pussy, the throb of Spitfire’s breeding tool drool pre-cum into her belly button. It only warranted one response.
“So… d’ya think more ponies should see how a Wonderbolt treats a cumslut like me?”
For a second, only their husky breaths followed that libidinous call.
Gilda’s back hit the store’s counter, her wings thrashing at the impact as they knocked rocks of headphones off the edges. Spitfire was on her in an instant, her hands finally gripping onto denim belt loops and pulling until Gilda was freed of her jeans. Once done, it only took a few seconds for Gilda to pry the sopping wet thong from between her legs, miraculously not breaking the straps in her paw as she was sliding it down her impossibly long limbs.
Once done, it took all the desire-drunk Spitfire could do to not drool on Gilda’s legs as she hoisted it against her body.
Gilda’s gaze followed Spitfire’s, right to her own bared snatch. The heat of that Wonderbolt futacock so close to Gilda's loins was enough to get her lower lips winking, the flesh taut and needy. Her lips stayed shut this time, not willing to break the rush to ravish that Spitfire had just adopted.
The amorous avian wouldn’t have to wait long, though; with a jerk of her hips, Spitfire ground her cock right against Gilda’s soaked petals. Over and over, Spitfire’s lewd friction against her partner’s fuckholes made Gidla’s moans rise with each motion. If the belligerent avian got any louder, customers might start peeking in.
But Spitfire’s vision, her world, had long since narrowed to the writhing griffin in front of her for nothing else. Her heart was banging around her chest, and sweat sloughed off her body, but every breath seemed to reinvigorate her body to prepare it for the breeding she’d be doing. It’d been so long since she’d truly given over to her base instincts like this, letting the medals and mettle fade away to just thoroughly satisfy the beautiful avian in front of her.
Of drowning Gilda alive in the throes of their shared lust.
So yes, Spitfire would squeeze every drop of need from GIlda’s gash before she made it hers.
Nearly folded in on herself, GIlda’s limbs scrabbled for purchase on the blazing glass she was being pleasured on, lost to the electric sensation wracking her body. She didn’t even mind if Spitfire kept from rutting her senseless then, just as long as her mighty erection spread her wet folds like taffy.
And then, Spitfire logged in all thirteen inches of her in one echoing stroke.
“Ooooh, f-fuck! Yes! YES!”
Gilda’s vocabulary was scattered to the four corners of the store, much like her wails as Spitfire started truly fucking her. The Wonderbolt captain hadn’t spoken a word, not since they’d stumbled out of the office in a tangle of lips and tongues. And yet, despite how much she craved the Wonderbolt’s words, this was the side of Spitfire that Gilda had so longed to see and feel.
The all-business, all-passion golden goddess thrusting into Gilda as if her life depended on it.
Knicknacks clashed and telephones clattered in the wake of Gilda’s flailing claws, and all of it was out-voiced by the fierce clapclapclap of Gilda and Spitfire’s thighs colliding. Gilda’s head threw to and fro, her insides split and resealed by the fuckpole being driven inside them. But she met every hip thrash of Spitfire’s with her on, the hand of hers not braced on the tabletop flicking madly at the bead atop her clit.
And when Spitfire wasn’t plowing into those waiting, winking walls, she was pinching Gilda’s swollen lips., her eyes billowing in shock at how spongy those walls were. The futa mare’s kiss-swollen lips opened and shut, but no sound passed through them. The amount of ‘fucks’ Gilda could lip-read, however, made her legs quiver in desire. Spitfire was Tartarus-bent on molding her sperm-stack’s shape into Gilda this go-around.
Gilda, even if she remembered a single word beyond “Spitfire,” “faster”, and “deeper”, would have no objections to. She cooed, a low and desperate noise, as she spread her legs further. And Spitfire took that silent offer in stride, lodging deeper in her feather-clad lover as she watched Gilda’s breasts bounce and bob like pendulums.
And then, Gilda came, a hot squirt of her well-plumbed canal signaling the loudest series of squawks from her yet. Spitfire looked down the second she felt that sauna-hot stream trickling around her dick, enviously watching release force its way around the pressure seal she had on Gilda’s pussy. Gidla’s taloned feet wrapped iron-tight around Spitfire, keeping her close, extending the griffin’s orgasm as Spitfire struggled to keep fucking her deep.
It was almost a relief to Gilda’s pleasure-fried nerves when Spitfire again leaned down to wrap both arms around her. Lifting Gilda, she spun them around so that Spitfire’s back was to the sweat-stained glass of their countertop. The fun part was; Spitfire was still buried to the hilt inside Gilda, the griffin’s walls milking the Wonderbolt’s meat log mercilessly. The close contact only let Gilda feel the bulge of Spitfire, pushing lightly against two pairs of twitching abs.
Once again, not a peep came from Gilda (for now). She knew that Spitfire wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t hope to make Gilda’s barrage of bliss reach new heights.
It was a faith rewarded when Spitfire laid back on that countertop, Gilda now perched atop her. The avian’s bubbly ass jiggled again, gravity generously helping to keep Spitfire hard at the feel. Gilda’s hand found its way to Sptifire’s thigh, allowing her to shamelessly ogle her rump as she rolled her hips around her partner’s breeding tool. Over and over, the hypnotic sway of those glutes was stoking the dirtiest depths of Gilda’s mind, getting her in the mood to see just how much more bucking she could pull out of Spitfire.
Especially now that the avian had the positioning to buck back.
“Oooh—getting tired, baby?” Gilda purred. “Little too hot to keep bending me over, huh? Don’t worry, just stay there while Mommy Gilda makes you the second coolest bitch in this store.”
As promised, Gilda’s wings flashed out to full spread, their golden-brown plumage sending records scattering down around the griffin. Gilda looked for all the world like a bronzed statue of strength, preening and flexing over her partner’s fuckspear. Her near-slitted eyes seemed to glow with a need for seed, and her breasts and abs shone with sweat that made them majestic. But the most captivating part of Gilda was her face, a pinkish blush finally fighting its way through white-feathered cheeks and a psychotic smile.
Until Spitfire barreled her hips upward and that beak turned into an ‘O’ of boundless bliss.
Gilda couldn’t keep herself from mewling, now that the positioning hips of the Wonderbolt under her were shooting so much heat into her loins. Her eyes whipped back again, hypnotized by the impact waves rippling over her tenderized ass. With Ironhoofian effort, Gilda’s grip around Spitfire’s bent knee locked in tight, keeping her from being sprung off of the snatch-stretching meatpole of Spitfire.
“Umph—umph—keep goooooooingggg….” growled Gilda, her words a garbled haze. “So f-fuckin’ gooood….”
Spitifire’s hands groped at Gilda’s sides, the taut muscle there quivering as she used that clutch as stirrups. The satiny feel of Gilda’s skin always put Spitfire in a more agreeable mood, and the blue her hips became as she drilled Gilda relentlessly showed it in spades.
Now it was Spitfire’s orgasm that threatened to overwhelm her nerves, the Wonderbolt’s vision starting to whiten. Gilda’s cunt was like a vice, wrapping around every vein and curve of Spitfire’s imperious erection. As the futamare continued pumping her hips, Gilda’s wings beat waves of icy air over Spitfire, as if to ensure heatstroke didn’t take Spitfire before Spitfire could take Gilda’s twat.
And with a final, guttural cry, Spitfire staked her claim with damned authority.
“Giiildaaaaaaaa—!”
Fucksap, as thick as it was torrential, blasted as deep as it could into the griffins’ cunt. Gilda twitched, moaned, and fisted a hand in her head-feathers, the climax firing off inside her nuking hat was left of her sane mind. Spitfire let her sperm-hose caulk every bit of the avian’s insides as possible, keeping her hips rolling against her love’s cumsocket. In seconds, Spitfire’s thighs were bathed in white spunk too, the streams making Spitifre’s eyes roll in her head. It was so dirty, so raw, to feel the rivers of her release slide over her body after filling Gilda’s own.
She really didn’t know how Gidla wouldn’t be satisfied with this pussy-plastering.
“You done that fast?” And yet, Gilda’s cock-hungry goading persisted. God, she was still so tight, too.
Thankfully, Spitfire’s libido kept her from fading off. “Not even close.” she purred back at Gilda.
Gilda’s hips would be the judge of that, swiveling enticingly as she pulled herself off of Spitfire’s shaft and carefully turned around on the countertop. And to the griffin’s tongue-batting delight, Spitfire was still concrete-hard, a rigid tower of cockmeat waiting for that tongue to lick it clean.
Spitfire’s howl nearly cracked the glass they were still seated on as Gilda clamped her beak around some hot pegasus dick, her tongue spiraling around its girth. Greedily, Gilda drooled around her treat, the streams of saliva soon slickening Spitfire’s sack as Gilda’s fingers kneaded them to life again.
Then Gilda swung a leg over Spitfire’s crotch and lifted her tail, presenting her other dripping fuckhole to Sptifire’s grateful eyes. Puckered and puny, Gilda’s plot gaped in anticipation of contact, the ripple as Gilda slapped her ass making it even more appetizing.
Spitfire didn’t even see how fast her hands moved to accommodate the amorous avian—first, they were limp at her sides, next, they were spreading Gilda’s backdoor for her tongue to loop around. Gilda’s musk blasted into Spitfire’s snout at that point, salty sweat and bittersweet cum having pooled there to make a potent cocktail. But Spitfire lapped it up greedily, laying wet open-mouth kisses and pinching Gidla’s cute fuckhole to get it ready for her plowing.
Gilda let out another sensual shriek when it wasSpitfire’s hand cracking off of her rump. “F-fuck yeah Cap, ruin this hot griffin booty already….”
With a push of Gilda’s taut ass and a lining-up of her cock, Spitfire was soon set to do just that.
Gilda’s voice broke on that first plunge, Spitfire’s blunt cockhead making a far slower journey into her backdoor than she craved. She tried to relax around Spitfire’s ponderous prick, her muscles shuddering at the sauna-hot flesh slipping past them. Still, it felt good when Spitfire’s tool tugged at the avian’s wrinkled hole, especially with it being the first time it’d gotten in that part of Gilda. Definitely a day of firsts for Gilda, despite how it had first turned out.
For a moment, Gilda thought that it hit a limit halfway in, the shudder of Spitifire’s hips coming to a stop. Gilda tweaked her ass around her marefriend’s meaty member, half because of how lewd the motion registered in her rut-rotted mind, half to try to loosen herself up. But it proved futile, Gilda cursing herself for it.
Then she felt two hands clench possessively around her flanks, right before she looked down to see Spitfire’s thigh muscles bunch—
“SpitfiRAAAAA~”
Gidlas’s vision blanked, then shattered into a kaleidoscope of erotic sparks as every remaining inch of Spitfire’s bitch-breaking cumpipe buried into her. The impact of her ass and Spitfire’s hips felt perfect, and the luxurious feel of having being filled in every lower hole. She bent over backward just to feel that ramrod stretch her further, paws knuckling into the metal lip of the count as she swirled her hips.
And then Spitfire started thrusting.
It wasn’t even asset-ripplingly hard, but that made it better for Gilda. The avian’s mind was full of cracks, but this slow climb let her feel each jolt of desire that fuckspire drilled into her. Suddenly she could feel why Spitfire liked making her wait, why the dickmare savored each second of her grind into Gilda’s tunnels. It really was a heady mix of emotions and ecstasy, blooming through GIlda’s sinewy body to make her beak hang in bliss.
It didn’t mean Gilda had to keep it that way, though.
After a half-minute, Gilda started bouncing herself frantically on the cock lodged in her. Immediately, her higher brain functions bid farewell, and in seconds, Spitfire’s followed suit as she jackhammered her hips. This time, Spitfire took advantage of the griffin arched over her form, reaching up to fondle those opulent wings as Gilda bucked and brayed. The feathers under Spitifire’s palms felt as comforting as they looked, each one like a piano key to the wanton melody spilling from Gilda’s drooling mouth.
The avian joined in on the pleasure-stroking play happening behind her back, swinging a pair of fingers down to rub roughly at her clit. Her pink lips squished and winked, driving Gilda’s lust to an even hotter boil as she cawed for more, more, more. The debauched drumbeat of flesh clapping flesh, the hands ruffling through her sensitive wing feathers, the way her writhing brought more of her ass for Spitfire to pound dry—Gilda never wanted to stop feeling all this.
Balancing on her tippy-talons, Gilda stroked her snatch harder, unwilling to stave off the orgasm slamming through her nerves. When it finally struck—in between the deepest thrust Spitfire gave and the avaricious growl she gave into Gilda’s hanging head— it was something that nearly made Gilda come apart at the seams. A spray of feminine juices arced over the counter, the heat of the sun only making Gilda’s pussy and thighs prickle with delight.
A feeling only amplified by the fact that Spitfire was not letting up on plowing into Gilda, despite the griffin spasming in the climax. In fact, the Wonderbolt dickmare seemed to be spurred on by the love juices trickling down her thighs, as her fingers moved down to slap at Gilda’s ass some more. Her hips kept up their withing aced, flicking into Gilda’s well-stretched walls, and the friction that her hands against Gilda’s ass brought the griffin made her voice break.
Gilda’s legs started to give out in short order, but Spitfire was ready for that, gripping her fuckmate’s muscle-packed thighs to pull Gilda safely onto her side. Then Spitfire continued her ass-reaming, jerking into Gilda’s plot with such intensity Gilda was nearly skipped across the countertop.
Good thing too, because Spitfire might have seen just what her loud lovemaking had brought to the door of the music shop. There were only a few ponies there, but those pegasis’ slack-jawed looks made it all too clear they knew what Spitfire and Gilda were doing. Gilda, however, loved the feel of those eyes on her, the surprised stares of the squared who didn’t have a ripped and rut-happy Wonderbolt captain pounding their sweet ass.
Of course, she wasn’t completely out of it to risk Spitfire stopping at the knowledge she had lookers-on. So Gilda did the only thing she could - lean back to keep Spitfire focused on her and only her.
“Mark me… please…” the avian moaned into the musky air, before bouncing her hips back into Spitifre’s cock-feeding thrusts.
Spitfire did it in seconds, her teeth latching hard into the jam of Gilda’s collarbone. Her eyes stayed just to keep from being stung by the sweat-dotting Gilda’s heaving back, but Gilda swore she could still feel the futamare’s gaze it burning into her shoulder. In an instant, an inky black bruise shone on the thrashing avian’s neck, and Spitfire’s tongue soothed it to a beautiful tattoo.
Gilda came for the third time at that point, loving how several of the mares watching their marathon mating started clenching the crotches of their skirts in response. Ooh, if only they had well-hung studs willing to wring that much fuckhoney spewing from their throbbing clits!
“C’mon… then… Spits…” Gilda croaked, feeling Spitfire’s dick pulse angrily inside her backdoor. “Finish me off…”
Hopping off the counter again, her back now to the crowd, Spitfire rolled Gilda onto her front, then yanked her length out of the griffin's gaping plot. Gilda's legs hung off the sides of the counter, breasts now soaking up the cum they’d spent several minutes polishing this countertop with. Tugging Gilda’s tail to the side, Sptifire’s fingers found the avian’s twitching pussy; with a few sharp pinches, she made Gilda know just how jealous her orgasm had made the futamare. Supple clit-flesh squelched hungrily against Spitfire’s fingers, and Gilda awaited the flooding of her womb, as her slitted yet smoldering eyes focused on the pegasus panting behind her.
And with a pop of Spitifire’s medial ring, that breeding barrage began in earnest.
Gilda’s hands balled into fists, trying to keep from pounding them in pleasure against the glass. She did not want to pay for the busted countertop, but if Spitfire kept pounding her pussy like that, the Wonderbolt might put her through it anyways. It’d be a wonderfully wild way to go, evidenced by the eager thrashings Gilda did against the hips slamming her into submission. No way, no how, was the amorous avian letting Spitfire’s fuckspire slip out of her now.
With a grin spread so wide she thought its tips would scratch the ceilings, Gilda ecstatically rolled her hips against Spitfire's fat dick. It bashed against her G-spot without end, and Spitfire soon treated her mouth to the same plowing, swooping down to suck the soul from her with a final kiss. Their bodies bucked and flopped against each other, all thoughts of restraint or composure as busted as the record player still hanging on the counter’s edge. Best of all, Gilda finally felt Spitfire’s head push open the entrance to her womb, locking in as Gilda’s cunt was finally plugged shut with cockmeat.
Spitfire broke their liplock, licking off the taste of Gilda’s mouth with a knowing, savage smirk. Then Gilda heard Spitfire speak, a husky tenor the pegasus had withheld for so long.
“So, Gil.. you insatiable lil’ fuckpet…” she hissed, Gilda emitting a rapturous squeak upon feeling Spitfire’s breath trail up her spine. “How many of my foals do you think you can hold?”
Gilda only moaned again, begging Spitfire to fuck around and find out. And by Griffonstone was Spitfire fucking, her hips a golden bluer against Gilda’s glorious rump. Gilda’s fingers finally stretched out, only for Spitfire to pin them to the countertop as she rutted her avian cocksock harder. Gilda’s knees banged roughly against the counter’s walls, desperate to feel Spitfire explode in her insides.
After a few final thrusts, Sptiifire fell off that carnal cliff. Screaming Gilda’s name, the Wonderbolt captain’s dick throbbed, then sprayed down Gilda’s womb in rope after river of burning hot spunk. So much fertile mare-jizz spraying upon her soon made quite the impression on Gilda, as the griffin’s stomach swelled and her tongue lolled in mind-melting ecstasy. Right after that, her final orgasm hit, making Gilda’s limbs splay on the glass as she finally surrendered to the joy.
Spitfire, for her part, was frozen in the throes of passion herself. Despite the heat—and unbeknownst to her, the dozens of peer’s eyes—focused on her, her body just refused to respond to her. Not like her mind was in any state to anything in the wake of her orgasm, hot strings of coom basting her legs as filling her nostrils with the smell of freshly claimed griffin cunt.
After a while of both mares spewing their load, both mare and griffin came together once more in a mess of sticky limbs. Their heaving chests kept them from crushing one another, Spitfire content to simply clutch at the tits of her prone fuckpet. Her dick finally started to soften as she swirled her hips, before slipping out of Gilda’s cum-packed clit with a messy schorp.
With Gilda’s mouth still lazily ajar, it fell to the Wonderbolt to break the silence.
“Well…” she stared, sanity making its return to her bliss-baked brain. “You okay Gil?”
After a few heavy, desperate breaths, Gilda locked eyes with Spitfire. “So full…” she repeated, her voice cracking yet captivating. Her limbs weakly budged, but it was clear the griffin was spent.
Spitfire nodded triumphantly. “Mission accomplished, then.” Spitfire trailed a finger over Gilda’s sperm-swollen belly, “Do you want me to carry you home? Last thing I want is to risk you losing a drop of this.” Then Spitfire dragged two fingers against Gilda’s gash, drawing another shuddering moan from her fuckmate’s lips—as well as a dollop of dickjizz to slip past her own leering lips.
Gilda’s eyes lazily pored over the ponies still filling the storefront in shock. Several of those mares had even come off their own hasty orgasms, the telltale quiver of their hips making Gilda snigger. “Doubt that’s the biggest worry you’ve got now, hot stuff.”
“I know I know, Blaze., I’ll swing back to get our clothes and clean up, she shouldn’t be around for—” The Spitfire’s eyes shrank to rice-grain-sized dots upon seeing the clock above her head. “—ten minutes ago! ShitshitSHIIIT!”
Then Spitfire bolted for the office door in a flurry of spinning limbs, only stopping to motion away the observing crowed to her lewdest deed. Specifically, the very mare that she was trying to beat, Blaze, at the front of that pegasus pack. Her gaping mouth was more done in bemusement than bewilderment, though.
“...uh, does the Cap—?” Blaze began.
“Give it a minute, sex makes her mind skip.” Gilda chuckled. “Guess you were wrong ‘bout her, huh?”
Blaze shook her head wistfully. “And how. Damn, not even Soarin gets me that full. Save some quintuplets for the rest of us, will ya?”
Gilda smirked as she stretched her legs toward the ceiling, teasing Blaze with the sight of her spunk-packed cuntlips. “Sorry, Spitfire’s not sharing. She broke me, she bought me.”
Blaze would have laughed too, if not for the sound of heavy hoof-falls coming from the office. Curiously, she and Gilda watched Spitfire slowly stalk backward into the store’s main room, her pants and shirt still dangling slack in her hands. Her face was chalk white as she stared at the dozen-strong throng of pegasi behind Blaze, of just how many mares and stallions had seen her screw Gilda’s brains out.
But not before Gilda saw just what was still prominently swingingly between Spitfire’s legs, despite her embarrassed flush.
Turning to Blaze, the perpetrator whose wager had started all of this, Gilda only had one question to demand of the sheepishly-smiling Wonderbolt.
“Think you can teach me your card-skills? I’d love to see Spits’s salty runbacks more often.”
