Spitfire got up at seven in the morning, which was two hours later than normal.
It was her day off.
This sort of thing did not come along often; as much as she loved her job, which also happened to be her lifelong passion, it was also an extremely tiring business. But luck would have it that Spitfire still had one day off a week, at least in theory, what with all the exercising and catching-up-on-reading that came with the territory.
But today was truly a day where Spitfire could sit back and have nothing but fun, and it was going to be great.
For the most part.
The faucet in the bathroom kept running as she brushed her teeth. Still looking like a mess, she thought, eyeing her mane as she cleaned her teeth. She had a reputation to uphold, and so she always kept her mane gelled up and back to create that iconic fiery spike when on the job. Outside of that, she couldn't be bothered, but her life as a Wonderbolt had so overtaken everything else over the years that the way her mane looked now—straightened and a bit frazzled—struck her as alien. She was not too much a fan of it.
"Muuuuurgh..." somepony groaned from the bedroom, though Spitfire knew who it was.
"Huh?" she asked, toothbrush in her mouth.
"I wanna die!" the stallion mumbled, groggily.
Soarin, ya goof. "Me too, hon. Me too." She smiled and finished cleaning. What're y'doing being my goof? She took some cold water and wandered over to the bedside where her partner lay, under all those sheets.
Soarin was always a terrible morning pony. Years of waking up before the sun even started its ascent did nothing to mitigate the fact that, given the chance, the stallion would sleep in until around high noon. It was one of those things that sometimes frustrated Spitfire, who had to deal with the whole not-a-morning-pony thing, but like many quirks it was also endearing at other times.
Such as right now, for it was Soarin's birthday.
"Not gonna come out?" Spitfire poked the area where she assumed Soarin's barrel was. "I've got that expensive pancake mix—the really good stuff—and I don't wanna use all of it for myself."
A groan from her partner, but he wasn't giving her anything else.
"Buuuuuuuuut..." She pretended to be walking out of the room. "You'd only have yourself to blame if ya miss out!"
This prompted Soarin to stick his big cow-licked head out from the top of the covers. "I'd like some pancakes, though." He shook his noggin, barely able to open his eyes. "With syrup, and uh..."
"Too late!" She started heading down for the kitchen. "You're not getting pancakes for you birthday!"
Surprisingly, this didn't cause Soarin to do any more than leave himself half-exposed on the bed, still refusing to use his legs. He was like one of those newborn bunnies that could barely move around.
Still not gonna budge, huh? Spitfire leaned back through the doorway and couldn't help but smirk at seeing her stallion in such a compromising position. I can play this game with ya, big boy. Like a giant wild cat about to pounce on its prey she practically crawled toward the foot of the bed and snuck her head under the covers.
It took a moment for Soarin, in his dazed and confused state, to realize that something was brushing up against his hind legs and thighs. "Oh no," he said quietly, and with a hint of joy.
Once Spitfire got all four of her legs on the bed, she knew she was good to go. Now I just have to worry about the possibility of him kicking me by accident. Not that Soarin ever did such a thing; not in several years, anyway. Little morning sessions like this were a lot messier and ultimately unsatisfying when the two were much younger, back when they had first started dating.
It was somewhat hard to see what she was doing under all these sheets, but it didn't take too long for Spitfire to find what she was looking for. Just from the feel of it she could tell Soarin's cock was already a tad erect, having come out of its sheath. You naughty colt, getting hard before I could tell you to, she thought cheekily. You're totally getting reprimanded for this. Still, she couldn't help but feel slightly excited when she stuck out her tongue and licked at what she found to be the underside of her partner's shaft.
Those first tiny licks and flicks of the tongue always got Soarin going the fastest, and he emitted a small moan from his lips as Spitfire teased his thickening penis without mercy. "Oh, come on...!" He pushed the top of the covers away from him, revealing more of Spitfire's head and head-giving underneath. "This isn't fair, Spitty!"
It was too late to go back by this point, though; Soarin's cock had become deliciously erect, and also shiny from Spitfire's saliva all over it.
Except for the head. Uh oh.
Spitfire stopped and looked up at Soarin, the hairs of her mane partly covering her eyes. "Are you complaining to me, or are ya gonna take your punishment like a good Wonderbolt?" She exhaled deeply around Soarin's shaft, making it tingle and twitch in its hunger.
"I'll be..." Soarin breathed in, trying to calm himself. "I'll be good. I swear."
"That's a good birthday colt." Spitfire gave the length of her stallion's member a few loving kisses. "I'm not gonna go too hard on ya here; I want you in tip-top shape for after we come back from dinner." Now that's where the real fun begins, she thought. This is just an appetizer.
"Wait," Soarin uttered. "'Birthday colt'? I'm turning thirty-three toda—ffffffffffuh!" He got ambushed by the sensation of Spitfire's lips enveloping the bulbous tip of his cock in a swift motion, and before he even knew what hit him she had taken all of his head in her heated mouth.
Keeping her stallion's hind legs far enough apart, Spitfire took to lowering her head onto the throbbing cock which was already threatening to shoot its milky payload down her throat. Just hold on a little bit for me, she thought as she started to slowly, painstakingly bob her head up and down, gradually taking in a bit more of Soarin's shaft.
The taste of the actual thing wasn't exactly terrible, but it never impressed Spitfire either. In her many years of sexual conquest she got to try out several penises, and they all vaguely reminded her of a certain type of candy which was bitter but not too hard to chew.
Even so, getting these kinds of sounds and bodily reactions from them—especially Soarin, for he was so ticklish and lovable in the sack—was priceless. Worth every drop of warm semen.
Soarin's wings expanded and stiffened like crazy as he watched Spitfire suck eagerly on his cock, and both could tell that the session would end soon. In fireworks, to put it one way. "Uh, Spitty?" the stallion asked through his moans and sweat. "You sure you wanna keep going? I m-might come in there. Just—" He couldn't say anything more; he had to shut his eyes and keep them shut, and he pushed the back of his head into his pillow and hoped for the best.
In spite of her partner's warnings, or more likely because of them, Spitfire only continued to work harder to get Soarin to come in her mouth; she bobbed faster, not reckless enough to accidentally take in too much and choke herself but just enough to really mix her saliva with the precum that had started leaking from her partner's tip.
Then came the explosion.
The first shot of semen to hit Spitfire's throat never failed to take her by surprise, if only because it always seemed to be the strongest shot. She was a trained flyer, though, having gone through a great deal of pain in her life, and so getting her throat and mouth caked with hot jism was by no means the most unpleasant thing she had experienced. She never swallowed all of it anyway, and the image of some excess cum dribbling from of her lips—either those of her mouth or her pussy—was a surefire turn-on.
By the end of Soarin's orgasm, which went off like a machine gun, a lot of his cum had dripped onto his cock and testicles, almost reaching his taint, and Spitfire appeared even more sexily disheveled now, strands of mane across her face and some cooled semen covering her lips and chin.
It was nothing compared to what would come much later.
"I need to brush my teeth again," she said cheekily. "And also a shower."
"Sounds pretty good to me!" said Soarin, a little out of breath, and he sat up to a degree and caressed Spitfire's cheek with a forehoof.
Yeah, a shower together sounded pretty good.
On days like this, activity within the household Spitfire and Soarin shared moved at a dead snail's pace. It was such an antithesis to how life normally went for the two of them that the appeal was undeniable.
They were taking a quasi-nap on the sofa now—a "quasi-nap" because neither of them really lost consciousness, but they decided to embrace each other's warmth and get caught in a state of serene hypnosis while the record player over in the dining room spun a recently released Alicorn Jr. album. The chunky guitar solos and rapid-fire-yet-poppy basslines would have startled most ponies upon first listen, but such music would serve as pretty much nap-time tunes for several of the Wonderbolts. It was the kind of breakneck pace they almost always had going.
At the moment, though, life was good in a relaxing way, and if not for the fact that she hadn't been able to take a nap that lasted longer than fifteen minutes in over a decade now, Spitfire would have dozed off completely whilst snuggled between Soarin's chest and barrel and the sofa's cloudy surface.
Worst thing that could happen today was if she managed to forget where she had put her "big" present for Soarin, or if she somehow misplaced it. Whenever it came time for one of their birthdays, they each got a bunch of little gifts—chocolates, vinyl records, maybe a particular bottle of wine that, given their dedication to staying in shape, they would only drink from with great restraint—and then something special. The big one. The one that really counted.
Spitfire had entertained the idea of saving a feather from one of her wings as a token of engagement, giving it to her partner on his birthday to show that she wanted to one day get married in the way pegasi did, but she brushed it off like it was a sprinkling of dirt and never truly reconsidered the idea since then. Marriage meant having to transform their relationship into something it wasn't before; and if it didn't, then what was the point? And Spitfire and Soarin liked the way their relationship was already.
So no feathers. No we're-having-a-foal deal either.
Just gotta remember to get the thing when it's time, she thought. Something nagged at her mind when she thought this, but it took her a few seconds to get a hint as to what it was. The... thing...
Hold on a minute.
Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the realization. I didn't get him a "big" present, did I? Suddenly it was like she was back at the Academy, in her youth, having to survive all those death-defying stunts in order to prove herself; her heart began to speed up like you wouldn't believe. I forgot!
And it was at this moment that Spitfire knew... she fucked up.
How did I forget?! she screamed internally at herself. Spitfire, you dumb sack of crap! Have all these responsibilities and tribulations not taught you anything?! What the heck am I gonna do, huh? I can't disappoint him like this. Y'know this sort of thing only comes around once a year? I'll friggin' die if I mess up this badly.
The worst part was that, if she didn't find a solution soon, this would not be the first time she let Soarin down. Sure, a lot of ponies had since either forgiven or forgotten about the mistakes she'd made in the past, all those times she had grossly lied to her partner as a teammate, even betrayed him on at least one occasion, but her long-term memory still worked fine; she knew what she did.
"I'm gonna gooo..." she murmured uneasily.
Soarin rubbed his eyelids, waking from his trance, and gave Spitfire a quizzical look. "Huh?"
Spitfire rose from the embrace and stretched her legs. "I'm gonna check my closet. See if, uhh—" Think of something! "If I've got anything good to wear for when we go out!" She tried to make it look like it was nothing, but she couldn't; she ducked into the bedroom and pushed the sliding door to her closet wide open.
"But," Soarin started, "but we don't normally wear clothes, right? Outside of performing and stuff."
"I know!" She rifled through some junk that had gathered on the closet floor, thinking that maybe she had gotten the big present after all, and had only forgotten that she had it tucked away somewhere.
After a minute, though, and it was clear that there was no big present. Spitfire really did forget.
Flying feathers, she cursed. This sure was a pickle she found herself in—or however that saying went. She could compensate for the lack of a material gift with some birthday sex, but it would have to be really good. Like top-dollar, top-of-the-line, I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter stuff. Birthday sex, Spitfire knew well, could be highly satisfying if it catered to a kink or a fetish that normally wasn't paid attention to; she recalled, then, that one time she role-played as Rainbow Dash and asked Soarin out on a "date" of sorts. It was for Hearts and Hooves Day. Surprisingly enough, it was also Spitfire's idea.
But that wasn't even "birthday" sex: that was just a really good time.
What could I do, though? As Spitfire eyed her outfits, what few she had, she considered some of Soarin's other kinds that involved role-playing. She could dress up like an instructor, but that was what she was anyway, so it probably wouldn't be such a turn-on. A Wonderbolt who wasn't Rainbow or Fleetfoot? C'mon, Spitty, you can do better than that, she thought, mimicking Soarin's voice in her head.
As her train of thought sped across the landscape of her mind, Spitfire couldn't help but notice the music playing elsewhere in the house. That Alicorn Jr. record; it had those little modern touches in its production, true, but the band had been around for decades, and they still sounded very much like themselves. They were vintage. Classic. When her mind went back to those gold sounds, it also went back to imagining the pinup girls up the past.
Yeah, those young and curvy yet classy mares who posed for pictures and works of drawn art. The morale-boosters who, back when the Wonderbolts were still the new kids on the block, served as both eye candy and inspiration for many colts and fillies with raging hormones.
More often than not, Spitfire did not find the whole wearing-sexy-clothes fetish to be all that steamy, regardless of what member of which sex was wearing said clothes, but she did understand the allure of the pinup girls.
The bandana whose primary color always complimented that of the mane, the torn-open button-down shirt that provocatively revealed some chest and belly, the drops of perspiration scattered all along and down the mare's coat that said please-fuck-me-until-I-am-nothing-but-a-mess-of-sweat-and-cum, the sultry smile on the mare's lips that only reinforced this demand, the pair of panties that emphasized those thick and glistening thighs...
Needless to say, Soarin adored them. So much so that he tried to keep the posters he had collected over the years as close to mint condition as he could.
It was here that Spitfire got an idea.
An awful, awful, awful idea...
"Hey, Soarin," she called out. "Where'd you put those posters of yours?"
"The pinup ones?" Soarin was changing the record to Side B, as it had just finished. "What for?"
"Oh, just to have a quick look."
Unbeknownst to the stallion with the record player, Spitfire started to grin like a villain who was about to get away with everything.
The rest of the day had gone off without much of a hitch: Spitfire and Soarin met up with Fleetfoot and the others for an afternoon get-together to congratulate the birthday colt on progressing one year closer toward his eventual demise. After that, they—the two of them—went out for a nice dinner at a beautiful Cloudsdale restaurant they both had known for many years, and the visit never failed to at least bring back some fond memories.
But never mind that shit, because now came the real test. For Spitfire anyway.
It was late at night, around ten, and Soarin was sorting through his small gifts: the ones that didn't really matter, but they were nice to have nonetheless.
"Oh, their double album!" Soarin was turning over the vinyl sleeve for Cutie Mark Graffiti, a certified classic by a band whose name shall not be recanted in this story, lest the copyright hell-hounds wreak havoc. "Okay, lemme guess," he continued. "You got this at... that one store? Aw jeez, what was it called?"
"The one owned by that crotchety old mare with the funny eye?" Spitfire knew the one, though that was not the record shop she had gone to. Good guess, though.
Soarin beamed and kept the album close to his chest. "The mare with the funny friggin' eye!" After a moment he pouted. "That's not right, is it?"
"No." Spitfire couldn't help but smile back, in spite of the fact that her heartbeat was accelerating at waaay too fast a rate and she didn't want her stallion to notice this.
The gift-unwrapping lasted a good ten minutes, and Spitfire wished it had lasted longer—if only to stall just a bit longer; to give her more time to think about how much she was going to regret what she was about to do. Now's not the time to be a coward! she scolded herself. It's just a—y'know—an outfit that might make him laugh his block off. Maybe. It could also work like a charm! Maybe even better than my most optimistic prediction. Maybe, maybe...
Spitfire kept repeating that word in her head, as if it meant something.
"Hmm," Soarin hummed. "Is that it? I feel like I'm missing something. This has been pretty sweet, though." He tilted Cutie Mark Graffiti so as to test out its gnarly holographic front cover. "And I've been meaning to get this since my dad had a copy of his own! Oh man, that must've been, what, twenty years ago? Good times."
What's a "man" again? Spitfire wondered, but she knew she was only distracting herself from what she had to do. "Okay, big boy, calm down there."
"Or what?"
"There's a certain something I've been saving," she replied as coolly as she could, "and you might not get it."
Soarin seemed genuinely sad then, if his face said anything. "But come on..."
"I'm serious!" A pause. "Okay, maybe not that serious. But it's something that I've put a lot of effort into, and, y'know, I can't guarantee you'll love it." Maybe, maybe, maybe...
Soarin gave her a puzzled look. "What kind of thing is it? Wait... is it what I think it is?" He seemed less enthusiastic than inquisitive here, which didn't surprise Spitfire considering their mutual hesitance around the topic, but she still felt like she had to be quick to not give him the wrong impression.
Heading that off at the pass. "No, it's not that. I'd probably be more nervous if it was that, come to think of it."
"Wait," Soarin said quickly. "More nervous?"
"What?"
"You said you were nervous."
"No I didn't." Spitfire felt some blood rush into her cheeks, and for a moment she felt like she was back in high school, before she had met her beloved, before all that jazz, before she knew much about anything. She had a girlfriend from junior to senior year, a judgmental but deceptively kind-hearted filly who went to a lot of the same classes as Spitfire did, and she was considerably more feminine than Spitfire was; she was one of those purely "pretty" mares who only liked other mares, but she was harder to impress than she let on, and that made the young Spitfire nervous at several points.
And here she was again, feeling like she was about to be judged harshly. The worst part was that this was a stupid thing to even consider, what with Soarin's softness of personality and how sweet he had been to her through all their years together, even in times when Spitfire—to put it one way—screwed the pooch so hard that the pooch had to attend several sessions of group therapy in order to feel able to rejoin normal society.
"Ooookay," Soarin said, unassuming. "So what is it?"
"Well, I mean, it's kinda complicated." Then she thought of something that might suffice. "Actually, I'm gonna need ya in the bedroom, big boy."
Soarin's wings sprung wide apart at that. "Oh."
"But not yet!" Spitfire put a forehoof to Soarin's muzzle and chuckled uneasily. "I'll go in first, and then I'll let ya know when you can come in. I've got something in mind."
Rather than say anything right away, Soarin's smile returned, and he nodded. "Sounds like a pretty good idea, Spitty." Once she retracted her hoof, Soarin leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. Not a kiss of lust, Spitfire was surprised to find, but more like a I-trust-you-entirely-and-I-can't-wait-to-be-with-you-again-as-soon-as-possible kind of kiss, which, little known fact, was the kind that usually only came either after the wedding or the first date.
Now all Spitfire had to worry about for the time being was putting these ridiculous clothes on.
"All right, you can come in now!" She felt ready for either glory or disaster, although she was still not ready for how tightly the panties pressed against her crotch; they felt so unnatural, like they were designed for creatures whose anatomy was entirely different from that of ponies.
It even felt lewd, wearing all this, lying on the bed, feeling weirdly aware that she had been naked before. Isn't there a scientific theory about the appeal of this or something? she wondered. The bandana. The shirt. The nylon stockings. The panties that felt too tight. They all seemed placed in just the right areas so as to turn somepony on, to really to get his or her blood pumping.
Still, she felt like something she also wasn't before: a pinup girl. As a matter of fact she felt like one of those pictured mares, to the point where she was in one of those posters, and had now sprung to life, jumping from two dimensions to three. All for one night, and for one stallion.
Soarin creaked the door open and peeked inside, as if scared to see what he was about to, and his eyes took in the sight of Spitfire looking the way she did.
Let's say that he nearly fainted then.
"Oh," he uttered. "Oh, this is...!" He found he couldn't say anything more, and so he came into the room and visually digested every little detail of Spitfire's figure that he could see. On most days he did not pay much mind to how her mane looked, and much of the time it was gelled anyway, a kind of anti-sexual maneuver, but now he came to a certain conclusion: her mane, combed down and appearing as if shortened, fit really well with her image.
"See what y'like, big boy?" she said in a tone of voice that was less raspy, but Spitfire soon coughed up half a lung. "Sorry, I can't do that. The whole 'pretty filly' thing." Hey, looks like I didn't mess up after all! She giggled louder than she intended to, but it still felt good.
Soarin said, eyes widened, "Yeah. I... do." His legs wobbled and he rested his head on the bed before his beloved. "I think I'm gonna faint. Is it okay if I faint?"
"Naw." Spitfire smiled lovingly and caressed Soarin's mane, almost like petting a dog. "It'd be pretty lame if ya went down for the count on me before we could have some fun." Blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, "Would have to pour some cold water on your face or something, and that would be kind of a pain. Wouldn't be very sexy, right?"
"I guess so." Soarin, as if tired, crawled onto the bed and found himself in an interesting position: Spitfire had turned onto her back, her legs in the air, the gap between her hind legs making the presence of her pair of panties all the more apparent, and Soarin lay on his side, his head just inches from those panties. He was not used to seeing Spitfire's nethers covered like this; it was so provocative and such a tease that Soarin knew something had to be done about it.
Spitfire must have noticed her stallion staring at that particular article of clothing, though, because she said huskily, "Ya like 'em? I wasn't so sure about getting those, but they kinda completed the—I guess 'look' is the word."
"You sure you're okay with wearing them?" her stallion asked. "They look pretty tight."
"Oh, they are," Spitfire agreed. "But they're not gonna be on the whole time, are they?" Okay, this is pretty hot. Not bad. She gave him a knowing wink, her heartbeat refusing to slow down, but now in a good way.
"No," Soarin agreed. "No they're not." He re-positioned himself so that his forelegs were firmly on the bed while his hind legs sort of draped off the edge lazily, and he tried getting his snout closer to the object of his attention. "Hang on, if I can just—" Oops. He accidentally thrust his muzzle against the spot where Spitfire's pussy lips would be, harder than he expected to, and the sensation of his muzzle pressing up against that area was immediate.
"Woah!" Spitfire yelped, and then laughed like she had gotten tickled out of nowhere. "I'm definitely feeling something there." She wiggled her brow at her stallion teasingly. "Do that again, but more of it."
"Got it, Cap'n!" It didn't take long for Soarin's excitement to get the better of him, and within seconds he dug his snout into Spitfire's crotch again, feeling her slowly dampening pussy through the thin cloth of her panties with his nose and lips, and before long he stuck his tongue out and pushed its broad tip against the wet spot.
Spitfire knew exactly what her stallion wanted to do, and she was not taking any of this teasing crap. "Just take 'em off, Soarin!" Something fierce was raging inside her body, heading closer and closer toward her privates, and thought it didn't occur to her right off the bat what exactly this thing was, she soon came to realize that this whole removing-clothes business was doing a real number on her hormones. Okay, Spitty, good ol' gal, let's think about what he's gonna do: he'll take this thing off; then he can eat me out all he wants; then he can—
FUCK!
Soarin had grabbed the band of her panties and begun tugging them off her legs, relieving her pussy and flanks of pressure she didn't even know she had before. Alas, he couldn't get them all the way off, or at least he didn't feel compelled to do so, so instead Spitfire felt her panties hanging off near the end of one hind leg as her nethers became exposed to the stallion working his magic on her. In a flash, so quick that Spitfire could only process it as one profane word in her raddled mind, Soarin got his head more deeply embedded between her hind legs and used this extra leverage to drive his tongue with great vengeance into her pussy.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—
Her forelegs were practically useless to her at this stage, and she subconsciously lifted her hips off the surface of the sheets about half an inch as Soarin more and more aggressively ate her out; he had pulled his hind legs onto the bed and grabbed Spitfire's flanks with his forehooves, firmly but not too much, and he was writing out a nonexistent language with his tongue. His tongue, his lips—he was putting them to work, massaging and yet almost assaulting his beloved's tender pussy folds. It was too much, and yet this was only the first—maybe second—course in a grand five-course meal, the meal which went by several names except "food."
"Turn me—turn me over!" Spitfire knew that Soarin knew that she knew what she wanted, and that was more than what a pony's tongue could accomplish. She felt like her bandana, which was neatly wrapped around her head from the start, was threatening to come loose, but she found it hard to care.
Like a good birthday colt, Soarin did exactly that, and he used both his mouth and hooves to roll Spitfire onto her belly, her rump sticking up in the air, her pussy and anus fully exposed, and she felt a peculiar rush of lust and shame. The former for obvious reasons, and the latter because just a half-hour ago she was not exposed like this; she was clothed; but now she partly wasn't, in the part of her body that she hadn't thought of as naked before.
Spitfire felt her cheek get pressed against the pillow of her choosing, and she felt a faint tug coming from behind; it was Soarin pulling at her shirt with his teeth, less wanting to tear it off and more to use it as a balance—for he needed some for what he was about to do.
It occurred to Spitfire that she had barely seen her stallion's cock during all this, but that was nothing compared to how it felt when Soarin, who was undoubtedly rock-hard by now, thrust his member deep into her eager pussy, with little in the way of friction to stop the entry. Legs bent, ass in the air, Spitfire fell into a state of ecstacy she had never quite experienced before as Soarin pushed his thickened cock in and out of her with little regard for steady pacing or the like. Spitfire had heard something about this brand of pleasure, this pleasure which caused her to grunt through her clamped teeth—for she was not the kind of mare to let the neighborhood know of her sexual escapades with her moans—and to have her pussy almost suck in her partner's cock with insatiable hunger, and it had something to do with clothing and the anxious pleasure of mating in public as ponies in pre-tribal days did.
Soarin, for his part, did not grunt so much as breathe heavily through his nostrils as he pounded Spitfire from behind, as if he were pushing himself to his limit in a track-and-field competition, and his grip on Spitfire's shirt only tightened as he fucked her harder and harder, losing any semblance of restraint, knowing full well that doing so would lead what little friction there was amid all the fluids at play to bring him over the precipice of orgasm.
And, at some point, hard to tell exactly—it did.
Now, Spitfire was never a fan of rubbers—who really is?—and once she grew confident that she and Soarin would remain together as lovers and partners in crime, she would convince him to ditch those obstructions. This was because, on top of the fact that she did not have to worry about getting pregnant, as her body had already made that decision for her, albeit without her consent, she found she almost always came with the force and aftershock of a thunderbolt right after her insides got filled with nicely warm semen.
Fillies and gentlecolts, I give you Exhibit A!
There was a moment of utter tranquility in the aftermath of their shared climaxes. Spitfire wished her stallion's cock would stay buried in her nethers for just a little bit longer, but Soarin had to pull out eventually, and when he did he lied down beside her, his side brushing up against hers.
"Hey..." Spitfire said, drained but sweating with satisfaction. "That was pretty good."
Soarin sniffed and chuckled in agreement. "I can't feel my legs."
"Saaame."
"Really though," Soarin said half-jokingly, "I can't really move right now."
"We don't have to. We can stay right here, Soarin." They knew they could; there was no rush.
"Okay. Sounds good to me." Soarin extended a wing and rested it upon his lover's back, and she pressed her cheek softly against his neck in return.
Spitfire took off her bandana and wiped her face with it, feeling totally out of action in the best of ways. They would have to clean up all this mess at some point, but that didn't bother her much.
Gravity always won anyway.
Here, nothing could hurt them, and nothing could come between them.
Spitfire smiled with all her spirit at this.
Y'know, love is its own reward sometimes.
