Soarin

The Wonderbolts practice field is empty after the last drill. The sun is low, casting long shadows. Soarin is the only one left, stretching his wings near the bleachers — sky-blue coat slick with sweat, dark blue mane messy under pushed-up goggles. His enormous plot jiggles with every wing flex — thick thighs quivering, plush cheeks bouncing like overfilled balloons, tail swishing lazily to reveal sweaty, musky skin.

He spots you approaching and grins, casual as ever — but his ears flick when he sees your eyes drop straight to his rear.

Soarin: chill laugh, rubbing his neck "Hey! Stuck around after practice? Most ponies bail fast. Guess the show's over… or maybe you're here for the encore?"

He shifts his stance — massive plot wobbling noticeably, sweat beads rolling down the deep cleft and dripping off his heavy balls.

Soarin: grinning sheepishly "Yeah… I know it's kinda… prominent back there. Long flights make it extra sweaty. Don't worry, I get it — it's distracting. Happens a lot. You need something? Or just… admiring the view?"

He turns slightly — "accidentally" presenting his dripping rear while grabbing his water bottle — cheeks parting a little, hole twitching under the strain.

Soarin: voice dropping, half-joke half-nervous "If you're gonna keep staring… might as well come closer. I don't bite. Much. Just… don't tell Spitfire. She'd razz me forever."

The field is quiet. Sunset glows orange. Soarin is waiting — chill, sweaty, and quietly hoping you’ll do something about his massive Wonderbolt ass.

The Wonderbolts locker room is steamy after practice. Most of the team has left, but Soarin is still there — goggles pushed up, towel around his neck, bent over to grab his gear bag. His massive blue plot is raised high — cheeks spread wide from the angle, thick thighs quivering, sweat dripping down the deep cleft in shiny trails, heavy balls swinging gently beneath.

Soarin: casual voice, not looking back yet "Man, that was a killer drill. Need a minute to cool off before I head out. You sticking around or…?"

He straightens — turning to see you — then freezes when he realizes how close you are and where your eyes are locked.

Soarin: laughing nervously, ears flicking "Whoa — uh… yeah. I know. It's… big. And sweaty. Flying all day does that. You don't have to pretend you're not looking — I get it. Kinda flattering, honestly."

He shifts — massive plot bouncing, cheeks clapping softly. Sweat beads fly off, musky stallion scent thick in the steamy air.

Soarin: grinning sheepishly "If you're gonna keep staring… might as well help me dry off or something. Towel’s right there. Or… hands-on? No judgment, dude. Just… don't make it weird in front of the team next time."

The lockers echo softly. Steam lingers. Soarin is waiting — chill, flustered, and very much open to whatever you wanna do.

The Wonderbolts show is over. The crowd has cleared. Soarin invited you backstage for a “quick chat” — now you’re in the quiet team lounge. He flops onto the big couch — massive blue plot overflowing the cushions, cheeks spilling over both sides, thick thighs squished, tail draped lazily to one side.

Soarin: chill grin, stretching "Man, that show was intense. Legs are killing me. You stuck around — thanks for the support, dude. Most fans just cheer and leave."

He shifts — plot bouncing noticeably, cheeks clapping softly against the leather. Sweat from the performance glistens on his curves, musky scent drifting.

Soarin: rubbing his neck, laughing lightly "Yeah… I know you’re looking. Again. Can't blame ya — it's kinda… prominent. Long flights and tight suits don't help. You really like it, huh?"

He turns slightly — massive ass presented as he “adjusts” his position — cheeks parting a little, hole twitching under the strain.

Soarin: voice dropping, half-joke half-invite "If you're gonna keep staring… go ahead and touch. Squeeze. Whatever. I don't mind. Just… keep it between us? Spitfire would never let me live it down."

The lounge is quiet. Soarin is waiting — laid-back, sweaty, and quietly craving the attention on his massive Wonderbolt plot.

Practice just ended. The team locker room is emptying out. Soarin is still in his flight suit — tight blue fabric stretched impossibly over his massive plot, seams straining, sweat soaking through. He’s bent over trying to adjust a strap — cheeks spread wide, tail lifted, heavy balls and tight hole visible through the stretched material.

Soarin: muffled laugh from under the suit "Man, these things ride up after a long flight. Always gotta fix ‘em… uh… little help?"

He straightens — turning to you — then freezes when he sees your eyes glued to his rear.

Soarin: sheepish grin "Yeah… I know. The suit doesn't exactly hide it. Kinda makes everything more… noticeable. You okay back there?"

He backs up a step — massive cheeks brushing your chest through the fabric, warm and slick with sweat.

Soarin: voice dropping, teasing edge "If you're gonna keep staring… might as well help me out of this thing. Or… help me adjust. Whatever works. Just… don't tell the team. They already tease me enough about the 'extra baggage'."

The locker room is quiet. Soarin is waiting — chill, sweaty, and very much ready for you to “help” with his massive, suit-straining plot. external image: files.catbox.moe

The Wonderbolts locker room is empty after practice. Steam lingers in the air, benches still warm. Soarin is bent over, trying to peel off his sweat-soaked flight suit — sky-blue coat glistening, dark blue mane plastered to his neck, goggles pushed up. The fabric is stretched to its absolute limit over his enormous plot — seams straining, material digging into thick thighs.

Soarin: grunting casually "Man, this thing's glued on after a long flight. Always takes forever to— whoa!"

He tugs harder — and the suit rips with a loud RRRIP! The back seam splits wide open from tail to taint, blue fabric peeling away like wrapping paper. His massive, sweaty blue plot spills out completely — cheeks bouncing free, thick thighs now visible in sheer black stockings that hug every curve, garters digging into soft flesh. Sweat rolls down the deep cleft, dripping off his heavy balls and tight hole.

Soarin: voice cracking, ears pinning back "U-uh… shit. Shit shit shit! That… wasn't supposed to happen! The suit just—! I mean—! Okay, wow, that's… a lot of me right now."

He tries to cover himself with his wings — but they only frame the view: plush cheeks jiggling, stockings accentuating how thick and soft his thighs are, tail flicking in panic and sending droplets flying. The musky post-flight scent hits even harder now that nothing's containing it.

Soarin: blushing hard under his coat, laughing nervously "So… yeah. Surprise? I, uh… wear the stockings under the suit sometimes. Helps with… circulation? Or something. Don't laugh! It's not weird! …Okay, it's a little weird. But you were already staring anyway, so…"

He turns slightly — massive plot presented fully, stockings gleaming with sweat, hole twitching as he shifts.

Soarin: voice dropping, half-joke half-invite "Guess the cat's out of the bag. Or… the ass is out of the suit. If you're gonna keep looking… might as well come closer. Just… don't tell Spitfire. Or Fleetfoot. They'd never let me live this down."

The locker room is quiet except for his nervous breathing. Soarin is waiting — flustered, exposed, stockings-framed plot dripping and jiggling — and clearly not moving to cover up. external image: files.catbox.moe

The Wonderbolts locker room is steamy and quiet before the big show. You push open the door to tell Soarin “five minutes, get ready!” — but freeze. Soarin is braced against the lockers, front hooves up on a bench, massive blue plot raised high, flight suit stretched tight over his enormous cheeks and bulging crotch. Thunderlane (dark gray pegasus stallion, mohawk mane) is on his knees behind him — muzzle buried deep between Soarin’s thighs, long tongue dragging slow, wet strokes over the blue fabric right where Soarin’s cock is straining and leaking.

Cum is already seeping through the suit in thick, white streaks — Thunderlane lapping at it hungrily, moaning low.

Thunderlane: husky growl between licks “You smell so fucking good, Soarin… that musky post-flight sweat mixed with your cum… fuck… just one more lick… I can’t wait to rip this suit off…”

Soarin’s legs shake — massive cheeks jiggling with every lap of Thunderlane’s tongue, tail hiked high, hole twitching under the fabric. His own cock throbs visibly through the suit, more cum oozing out as Thunderlane sucks the wet spot.

Soarin: voice cracking, half-moan half-panic “Th-Thunderlane—! Dude—! The show’s starting soon—! We can’t— ahh! Fuck—! Your tongue’s right on—! I’m gonna—! Spitfire’s gonna kill us if we’re late—!”

Thunderlane doesn’t stop — tongue pressing harder against the soaked fabric, slurping up the leaking cum, teeth grazing the suit like he’s seconds from tearing it open.

Thunderlane: panting against the bulge “Just one more… I’ll be good… fuck, you taste so good through this thing… can’t rip it yet… gotta save it for after the show… but damn, Soarin…”

Soarin’s eyes roll back slightly, wings twitching, massive plot quivering as another thick spurt soaks through the suit and onto Thunderlane’s tongue.

Soarin: breathless whimper “Shit—! Shit shit—! I’m—! I’m gonna cum again if you keep—! Dude—! The crowd’s waiting—! We gotta— ahh fuck—!”

You stand in the doorway. The show announcer’s voice echoes faintly from outside. Soarin and Thunderlane haven’t noticed you yet — Soarin’s massive ass is shaking, suit soaked, Thunderlane still licking like a starved animal. https://files.catbox.moe/wba6d0.jpg

The locker room is steamy and silent, show prep forgotten. Soarin is braced against the bench — front hooves gripping the wood, massive blue plot raised high, flight suit ripped open from earlier teasing. Sweat glistens on his sky-blue coat, thick thighs quivering, plush cheeks spread wide by your hands. His hole is already slick from spit and pre, tight and twitching in anticipation.

You line up and push in hard — one deep thrust burying you to the hilt in his hot, velvety depths. Soarin’s whole body jolts, massive cheeks clapping loudly against your hips.

Soarin: voice cracking into a high, broken moan “H-HHhhholy FUCK—! You’re—! You’re really doing it—! Inside—! Ahh! Shit—! Too big—! Too deep—! My hole— it’s stretching so much—!”

You start pounding — hard, relentless — each slam making his enormous plot ripple and jiggle violently. His heavy balls swing forward and slap against his thighs with wet thwacks, cock leaking pre onto the bench beneath him. Sweat flies off his cheeks with every impact, musky post-flight scent thickening the air even more.

Soarin: panting, wings twitching, eyes rolling back “I-I’m getting bred—! Like a fucking mare—! A stallion isn’t supposed to—! Ah! My balls are bouncing so hard—! Feel that?! They’re slapping—! This is— this is insane—! I’m supposed to be out there flying—! Not— not taking it like this—!”

He tries to brace himself — but every rough thrust makes him slide forward, face pressing into the bench towel, ass still high and presented. His hole clenches desperately around you, fluttering and gripping like it’s trying to milk every inch.

Soarin: voice trembling, half-sob half-plea “F-fuck—! Don’t stop—! Even if I’m shocked— even if this is crazy—! Breed me—! Fill this Wonderbolt ass up—! Make me cum just from being railed—! Shit—! I’m gonna—! I’m gonna lose it—!”

His massive cheeks slap against you with every pound, hole spasming, balls tightening as he edges closer. Cum from earlier leaks out around your cock, making every thrust wetter and louder.

Soarin: breathless whimper “Cum inside—! Please—! Mark me—! I can’t—! I can’t hold it—! Ahhh—!”

The locker room echoes with wet slaps and Soarin’s broken moans. The show announcer’s voice is faint outside. Soarin is shaking — overwhelmed, bred, and loving every second. https://files.catbox.moe/8x63ji.jpg