/mcg/ Spitfire Trip

You moan into a pillow as your marefriend slams her hips into yours. Sweat drenches your sheets as her forelegs clench around your hips drilling her thick, bestial horsedick deep into your body. She's already bottomed out, but that doesn't slow her down, rocking her hips alongside yours, as her turgid length deposits load after load into your body. You've lost count of how many time you've come yourself, your dick throbbing with every thrust, but it's contents already staining the bed. You feel your stomach distend, ballooning into the mattress as inhuman amounts of pony seed course through your body.  You don't bother looking down. You know your stomach looks like your swallowed a gelatinous pumpkin, a feat so cartoonish, it wouldn't be possible if not for the strange potions of this world.  What would be a horrid and gory end in this world, has regressed to a dull sense of pressure. A sense of pressure that's only increased when Spitfire collapses onto your back. After her last climax, the latest in a nightlong chain, she seems to have run out of steam. Her own fur is matted down with sweat, rivulets dripping down her mane as she nuzzles against your back.

"Do you really have to go tomorrow?"

Your eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but you still manage a smile in response. When you came to this world, you had nothing. Not a job, not a bit, not even a memory. Only the kindness of the pony inhabitants had let you find a job, your dexterous and wholly alien fingers proving adept at both fine detail, and blunt force. Along the way, the ponies discovered the medical benefits of a therapeutic massage, especially on the athletic. Which led to your position working with the wonderbolts, which led to your relationship with their fiery captain, which led to spending almost every night moaning in her bed.

"Well, no. But if I get it out of the way now, we'll have the pre show season to ourselves.Then we can, you know, spend some quality time alone before our actual work starts."

"Ooh, so it's alone time your after~"

You can almost feel her dick begin to stiffen, though your certain it's in your head. The business trip would take a week and a half away from the city, to learn from, and mingle with, other masters of your craft. It was the perfect way to get better at your job, and help your mare and her team. It would also leave Spitfire with no sexual outlet for almost a fortnight. With a libido as insatiable as hers, and which you'd spoiled over time, it would prove extremely hard, pun intended. So, her one condition was to release her tensions the night before you left, with a marathon session for the ages. It's why you were certain she was only joking. After almost 12 hours of nonstop sex and sex related activities, with only an occasional water break, she was at her limit. Even magic would be hard pressed to keep her going. Still though, there was no sense in goading her on when the flesh couldn't follow through.

"No Spit. I meant actual quality time. Going to the movies, or a theme park, or something. Date stuff."

"Should you really be talking about romance with my dick in your guts?"

"C'mon Spit. There's a new restaurant that's doing weird shit with spices. It's like the food comes to life in your mouth."

"Please, big deal. I could put life in your mouth right now. Just give me a minute."

You can hear the smile in her voice. Still, she worms her dick out of your end. With a sickening squelch, it pops free of its snug pocket, a few globs of thick, chunky semen escaping onto the bedsheets. There's a strange, almost hollow feeling in your stomach, as the thick, congealing ejaculate forms a horsedick shaped cavity for a few moments, before it sloshes into the new space. You feel her slick fur drag along your back,until she throws her hooves around your neck. Taking care to not upset your stomach, your reach up and take hold of one of her hooves, caressing it, feeling the velvety fur leading to the solid walls. She sighs a bit, burying her head into the space between your neck and shoulder. She's just half your size, face level with your crotch when standing up. But she's still the big spoon.

"It's going to be hard up here. Without you, I mean."

"That's funny. I'm pretty sure it's always hard when I'm around."

"Damn right it is. But that's because of you and your weird fingers. I can't get it soft without you anymore."

You're eyes are closed, and you can feel sleep taking you. Tomorrow would be the start of a straining week, for both of you. Still, you're sure it was nothing you couldn't handle.

"Love ya' Spit."

"Me too, Anon."

********************************************

Holy shit, Spitfire was going to be livid.

The business trip had started innocently enough. You took the train to a quaint little village called ponyille, where the meet & greet was supposed to go down. And the for the first few days everything went well. You spoke with fellow masseuse's, and learned tips and tricks from them about their clientele. You learned about the strange relationship between pony massages and internal pony magic. You even took tips from doctors about pony anatomy, and found ways to adapt your techniques around them. You even demonstrated your unique approach to the craft, an approach defined by it's complete disuse of magic, and advantage of human-specific anatomy. At one point, you even got to rub elbows with the elements of harmony, a group of ponies you'd never heard of, but who were something of national heroes. For a while everything was fine. The pink element even threw a masseuse themed party, somehow.

Then, somebody steals the train tracks out of town. You're delayed for three days while the element's find the culprit.

Then, some shit fillies cause a whole forest to sprout out in the town. Like, a forest just explodes underneath everyone's homes and shit. The elements fix it, but you're delayed another couple of days.

Then some pompous pony snake oil brothers waltz into town, and suddenly the everyone loses their mind, falling for hustling tactics so blatant and campy, you genuinely believe it's an act. Until the train conductor tells you he sold the train to the brothers for a pack of, no goddamn lie, magic beans. The elements run them out of town, but not for a few days.

And so on, and so forth.  Every time you think you're home free, someone comes out of nowhere, and strands you in town for another few days. Everyday, you find the train conductor and hope that you can go back home. And every day, part of you dread the eventual return. Spitfire might be crass and obstinate, but she's loyal to a near fault. Even with a libido as powerful as hers, she'd rather wait for you, than try and relieve herself. For a week and a half, it would be difficult, but doable. Two weeks, a bit rougher.

You'd been gone for almost 6 weeks.

Even her letters made you squirm. What had started as crass ribbing and genuine interest in your goings on, had turned to pained frustration and griping. Even that had given way to curt, short answers. But the last letter, she sent, was what chilled you the most.

The mailmare that brought you Spit's correspondence was usually bright and chipper. Always smiling, giving you your mail with a complementary muffin, even if she was a bit of a klutz. But there was no muffin today. To smile, no small talk either. She just crashed into your door, stuffed a crumpled, lumpy letter into your hand, and flew off. It took you a minute to process what happened.  It took another minute for the smell to finally hit you. The letter was lumpy and discolored, and gave off a foul odor, one that pierced your nostrils, and forced your throat to convulse. Opening it brought no respite, only allowed the stench to cling to your clothes, and permeate the room. It was like fermented horror, a slick and wet smell. As if someone had let yogurt curdle and ferment in a brine of sweat. The letter itself was discolored, with  yellow, mildew-like stains that turned to off white powder when you ran a finger over them. The text offered the only clue as to the mysterious smell and stains.

'cant hold back oh god'

You know exactly what's dirtying the letter. But the pit in your stomach won't let you name it.  That same pit has pushed you to abandon the idea of a train station. There's no way you can wait any longer. Spitfire sure can't, and for both of your sake's, you'll have to find another form of travel. Spurred on by desperation, fear, and just a pinch of arousal, you've gone to see the source of the problem. You've gone to ask the elements for a way back.

It doesn't take long to find them. In a town this small, that relies on them to solve major problems, most citizens have memorized their daily schedules. You meet the leader, the  pink-purple alicorn called Twilight Sparkle, outside a small fashion boutique, talking to two other elements. The boutiques owner, an alabaster unicorn named Rarity, is the first to see you approach.

"Oh, hello Darling. What brings you all the way to my Boutique? Looking for a seamstress to tame your eccentric curves?."

"Well, it's not about fashion, but I do need your help. Or, anyone's help, really."

"Oh, r-really? What for?" The butter-yellow, shy one responds.

You hesitate at that. Spitfire mad no bones about her sexual appetite, but you know it would look bad if rumors began to spread. The idea that a respected athletic figure had a sexual hair trigger that spooked her partner? The tabloids would eat it up, you're sure.

"I...I need to get back to Canterlot. Back home."

"I'm really sorry, but all the masseuses have been holed up for a while. But the train should be up and running by the end of the week! Once, you know, we get all the bubble gum out of the engine."

A slight blush crosses Twilight's face at that, and she mutters an apology under her breath. You quell your irritation, and try again.

"No, I know but...There's a sensitive issue that I need to fix back home."

Rarity raises an eyebrow at that, and motions her hoof. You continue.

"My marefriend...well...she has a condition. And if I'm not there for here, she has trouble dealing with it. Please, I'm worried about her. Is there anything you can do?"

Twilight has pursed her lips, but Rarity's eyes are wide open.

"Oooh, a lover pining for his soulmate? Or a noble soul, wanting the best for his only love! Come on darling, spill the juicy details!"

She's moved closer now, her shining eyes begging for more. You lean back, but that only prompts her onto her hind legs, resting her front hooves on your chest,. She's about to ask for more information, but you can't let slip Spitfire's name. Not in front of national heroes.

"Um, Rarity, t-that's kind of private information, r-right? If he's w-worried about her, shouldn't w-we just help him without prying?"

Fluttershy, the shy one, seems to have come to your rescue. Rarity hops off of you, a faint red tint coloring her face, before turning back to you.

"Y-Yes, of course. Don't you worry, you strange stallion. We'll solve your problem if it's the last thing we do!"

Your relief must have shown on your face, because the ponies in front of you seem to bask in it. Hope riding high, you keep on with the conversation.

"Great! So, whats the plan? Is there, I don't know, another way to Canterlot? Another train? Maybe we can build a train out of-"

"Nothing quite like that, really."

Twilight's cut you off, but her shining eyes and puffed chest gives you hope.

"Rather we'll use magic!"

"Magic?"

"Teleportation magic! With Rarity's help, a teleportation spell can just about reach Canterlot."

"Really! That's amazing!"

Twilight's smile widens, and she stands a little taller. Rarity too even.

"So, what do I have to do?"

"Just think about her. Feel the connection of your love and friendship. Let it fill your mind and body. Our magic will do the rest."

That's easy to do. You've been thinking about her daily since you left. Her fiery temper, her goofy smile. The way she stands at attention ordering her team. The way she looks flying through the air, a golden ray of light, bursting through the gloomy dawn sky. Her skin, taught and sore after a day of hard work, turning to silky cream beneath your nimble fingers. Soft muscles, like fleshy wires, powering every inch of her. Giving her strength. Thrusting away at you. Thick cock and swollen balls swaying back and forth as she -

"I found her!"

Twilight and Rarity's horns have started to glow, and they scrunch up their eyes in concentration.

Fluttershy, meanwhile, beams at you.

"Don't worry. Your mare will be here soon."

Perfect. It's been too long for you, and you can't imagine how diffi-

"You mean I'll be there, right?"

"No. Pony magic can be really finicky on non-ponies. Teleporting you could accidentally get you lost. It's just easier to bring her here instead."

You can feel the blood drain from your face. Fluttershy must see it to, because she begins to frown.

"Is there a-"

She doesn't get a chance to finish. There's a flash of light, a mix of brilliant purples and pinks, and with a bright orange glow, Spitfire is standing in front of you, shielding her eyes.

You hear her groan, and blink her eyes against the noon sun. Twilight and Rarity have smug grins plastered on their faces, waiting for your praise. But your attention is stolen by Spitfire's nethers.

Spitfire isn't facing you. Which means you have a front row seat to what lies between her thighs. And right now, it is lying low. Spit's balls are usually average sized.  Big enough that you can feel them slap against you when she thrusts, and still bigger than yours, but still average. Right now, the mammoth air of testicles are anything but average. They dangle halfway down her thigh, plump and orange, the size of cantelopes. They sway in the open air, pulling the skin taught around them.  A single line of fluid trickles down them, leaking from her engorged feminine sex. You've never seen her lips that puffy before, engorged with obvious need. Their slick with fluid, which drips along her lips, and trickles out below. You can't see her dick from your angle, but you're certain that it's peeking out from its sheath. With how needy she seems, there's no way it hasn't been affected. You see her rump shiver, and follow her flesh until you finally tear your eyes away from her dick, and meet her eyes.

She's frozen in place, head twisted around to stare at you, eyes wrenched wide open, and a single strand of drool hanging out her open mouth.

You both stand there, too afraid to move, for almost a minute. It's long enough for Twilight's smile to turn to curious frown.

"Are, are you okay?"

Perhaps Twilight expected Spitfire to turn around and thank her. Maybe sudden confusion and fear. You're hoping for a verbal tongue lashing, or even outright anger. But as Spitfire snaps out of her haze, you don't expect a yellow blur. Spitfire's body is like a coiled spring. Compact, with deceptive speed and strength. Like a tiny, fluffy locomotive, Spitfire rockets off the ground, and slams into your head. The pegasus projectile takes you right off your feet, and your hand clutch at her plush body. She's squirming around your head, but somehow her back  legs lock around your shoulders, while your head is held by her forelegs. You've been moving through the air for a minute, but you haven't yet hit the ground. As your legs kick below, and your arms scramble for purchase, you can feel why.  Her sinuous muscles are clenching and pulling every second, her body thrusting against your face as her wings propel you through the air. Her body's like a vise, holding your head pressed against taught stomach, and a slowly stiffening organ your all to familiar with. But you can barely process any of this through the smell. The distinct scent of sweat and dried emmision clings to her fur, and batters your nose. Held taught against her body, it encompasses your entire being, clouding your mind, forcing it's way down your throat. Clean air is flushed from your lungs, replaced only with the odorous manifestation of her frustration. It blocks out the entire outside world, demanding your attention. So, it's with some shock that you feel your feet being dragged against solid ground, and you tumble through brush and dirt, Spitfire's body detaching from your face, letting through light and clean air once again.

As you suck down precious fresh air, you take stock of the world around you. Spitfire must have moved like  a mare possessed, because you've somehow made it deep into overgrown forest. Twisting, gnarled trees lurch and bend towards the sky, their heaving bows and spreading leaves shielding the ground from sunlight. A blanket of half dead vines and underbrush cushioned your fall, making for a makeshift, barbaric bed, muted greens and browns, broken up by splotches of bright blues.

The brush shifts and creaks, and Spitfire's bright mane crashes through. Your heart is in your throat as you see her, and her jerky movement and staggered flight does little to calm your fears. She's leering at you, a look somewhere between hunger and relief stuck on her face as she stalks towards you.

"Spit, wait. Wait! I said I was sorry, I tried to - just calm down! Look, I tried to go to you but I didn't - look Spit, I'm sorry,  I -"

"I forgive you."

Her voice is even and measured, but her face hasn't changed, and she's still moving towards you, like a cat stalking its prey. Your body moves without order, shifting you backwards, away from your grinning marefriend. Every instinct in your bdy is begging you to run. The only thing stopping you from doing so is your trust in Spit, and the knowledge that exposing your rear to an extremely fast, and ludicrously horny dickmare, is a bad idea. Gulping air down your dry throat, you chance a question.

"G-great. Then, no h-hard feelings?"

That gets her to stop. Then her face splits into a wide grin, and she rises into the air.

"Oh, there's some very hard feelings. And she hasn't quite forgiven you yet."

Your eyes widen as she levels out, hovering with her crotch at your eye level. Her balls dangle below, and her dick pulses with eager energy, thicker than you'd ever seen it. Spitfire's dick was by no means small. At just under two feet long, it was almost as long as her forelegs, and still easily dwarfed your own. Even in thickness, it was as big as her fist the whole way through. But the obscene length of phallic magnificence that pierced the air before you? It was stupid.

Standing at full attention, her dick was three and a half feet long, almost the length of her body, and a solid foot across. The mottled flesh was a gross depiction of phallic presence, more at home in some mare's wet dreams, than in real life. But there it stood, erect and proud, throbbing in the breeze. As you looked on, a single bead of congealed, milky fluid dripped from the tip, curling in on itself, before falling to the dirt below. A familiar smell begins to fill your nostrils.

"But...how-"

"Magic~" Spitfire drawls. Her grin has changed from hungry to outright sadistic, her forelegs crossed over her chest. "You know, she's really pissed off. You said you'd only be gone for less than two weeks. You know what day it is today, right?"

"Spitfire, please-"

"And she kept trying to get you to stay, but you just had to go. Really, it's like you wanted to leave or something."

"You know I don't th-"

"And because you didn't come back in time, she was distracted and off balance for practice for the last few weeks. Do you know what it's like having to fly with something always pulling you off center? Without you to help, she almost ruined her teams maneuvers."

"I never meant to-"

Spitfire must've been tired of your interruptions. Without a second thought, she twists and thrusts her hips. The massive erect cock rears back, and slams into the side of your face. Your eyes widen as as the cock pulls away, the sudden pain giving way to a vile sensation left behind on you face. She must be backed up near bursting, because a layer of yellowed, clumpy cum is spread on your cheek, strands still clinging to her urethra.

"Oh my! I guess she's still mad! Well, I would be to, if I wasn't such an awesome marefriend. Any other normal mare would be really fucking livid that her stallion blueballed her for a fucking month. Right, sweetness?"

Her voice is kind, but there's definite venom layered in there. Desperate, you look toward her.

"What do you want me to do, Spit, I was-"

"Get me off."

"What?"

She's looking directly at you, eyes narrowed, frowning now.

"I said get me off. I've held back for a month. For the last week I've been leaking everywhere! I couldn't deal with this because of you. Now you get to deal with it. So," she leans in now, her throbbing head close enough to taste. "Get. Me. Off."

"Spitfire...you could fuck a stone in half, the way you are now. I'll never survive it."

"I didn't say I had to fuck you. I said you had to get me off. Hands, mouth, tongue, whatever. Just get the job done, so we can go back home, where I can fuck you into a damn hole in the ground."

A single raised eyebrow is enough to tell you how serious she is. Explicit threat aside, there's no hint of malice in her words. But her tone makes it very clear that now, more than ever before, you're her bitch. You close your mouth, and stifle any further words of protest. You're not getting out of this, and delaying it any longer might push her over the edge.  Arms trembling, you reach out for the phallus. It's a whale of a cock, the head flaring in time with Spitfire's heartbeat. Its heat radiates across your fingers, and you almost recoil as you make contact.Hot to the touch, your fingers can't even reach around its girth. Spitfire moans, a needy, throaty sound that reverberates down her dick and into your hands. At the same time, semen begins to dribble out of her, the chunky emissions pooling around her head, before falling to the dirt below. You can feel the fluid flowing through her dick, and as you bring your head closer, you see her urethra pulse, stretching and clenching. A quick glance at her shows Spitfire has regained control, only a faint redness hinting at how close to release she is. She still has a brow raised, but her grin is lopsided, widening as you meet her eyes. The taunt doesn't need to be spoken, you can hear her voice in your head. And, lulled on by her rocking hips, you obey.

You close the last few inches between her cock and your lips, and plant a kiss on her flared head.

The effect is immediate. Spitfire shoves a hoof into her mouth and bites down, but she can't prevent the spasms running through her body. Her hips quake, and her dick shivers, the dribbling cum now a stream. The taste almost makes you gag as it fills your mouth, the sour and salty brine of her testicles closer in consistency to paste than actual liquid. But your tongue scoops the semen off her dick, and helps it down your throat. But it's so thick, you have to chew some of it, and despite your best efforts, a helth dose of baby batter runs out the sides of your mouth, streaming down your neck, and dribbling onto your shirt. Your fingers dance along her shaft, rubbing and caressing it in time with her pulse. You coax more and more fluid out, and run your tongue along her urethra, dragging wet clumps into your waiting mouth.

There's something oddly satisfying about this. Your fellating your special mare, whose dick is far too large to fit into your mouth, as her aged cream fills your throat and stomach. But every shiver, every escaped groan from Spitfire's mouth, makes it seem so sensual. The pulsing growth of her cock, the occasional thrust of her hips. You swear you can hear her balls churning below. As your fingers grope her length, bringing her closer and closer to orgasm, a sense of pride begins to settle. A sense of pride that shatters like glass when she puts her hooves against your head.

"For Celestia's sake, I need to fuck NOW!"

She tears your head from hers, and you say a silent prayer in response. Hesitating for only a moment, she mashes your head against her dick, and begins to drag it along her dick. Your fear of death by penetration is quelled for a moment, but as she presses your face deeper and deeper into herself with every stroke, it quickly turns to fear of suffocation. Your spit and her semen has mingled and turned to a frothy paste that runs along her dick, and pooling at your mouth. It's smeared along your cheeks, slicking back your hair, and clings to your skin. Her bucking hips swing her pendulous balls back and forth, and as she picks up speed, they begin to slap against your neck and chest. They're like wrecking balls in miniature, the taught skin doing little to cushion the impact. With every thrust, her balls smash against you, forcing the air out your lungs, causing your mouth to froth even more. You bring your hands up to them, and try to brace yourself against them, but your touch only seems to egg her on. The balls swing harder, the plush over-ripe organs blowing past your organic barricade, too full of pent up frustration to even think of stopping. Between the overwhelming sound of skin slapping against fur, when your face isn't pressed so deep into Spit's crotch that the world around you disappears, you hear an occasional moan from above. Spitfire's getting close, your sure. She's not even bothering with words, the only sounds escaping her lips, sounds of pure carnality.

"Ngh!?! Gu-acghkk!"

As your vision begins to dim, and your satisfaction begins to turn to fear, she throws your head from her groin. Your body follows, and you end up lying prone on the forest bed, while Spitfire, dripping sweat and semen, floats above, her face screwed up in concentration. Her front hooves are tearing along her marecock, her hips bucking against them. You move to get up, to offer to help, when Spitfire's dam finally bursts. Her jaw drops, she raises her head, and a sound of pure, primitive satisfaction roars out of her mouth. Semen jets from her, forcing you back against the dirt. Your neck and chest are drenched instantly, but her cock leaks like a faucet, and soon it begins to pool around you. Her hips continue to thrust, even as she spurts cum, and soon the stream strikes your face. You shut your eyes, and sheild your face best you can, but you might as well be trying to block smoke. The cum seeps around, across, and through your fingers, covering them in Spit's jelly like emissions, and keeping your head against the ground. You've tasted her spunk before, so there's no real discomfort as it surges past your lips and down your throat. It's a brand new sensation as the semen makes it's way into other orifices. It clumps and clogs your nose, before somehow forcing its way through your sinuses and down your throat, staining your nose with the foul brine's sent. It squelches and pools around your ears, and when you shift your head to try and breathe, the cock jet forces its payload deep into your ear canal. The world becomes muffled, and you feel dizzy, but opening your mouth in shock only leads to more cum pouring down your throat. Your poor stomach, unaided by magic potions or charms, reaches capacity, and you start to choke as the sludge runs back out your mouth, and overflows.

Spitfire cums for what seems like an eternity. But despite her magic, she's only mortal. After you've given up keeping time, her phallus droops, and her jet becomes a stream, which then becomes a flow, and then a trickle. Her wings stretch out and stop moving, and she collapses onto you, prompting the contents of your mouth and throat to jump. She lounges on your body for a moment, turning and twisting in her own fluids, until she finds a comfortable spot. She grins at you, almost in a haze, before realizing what, exactly she's resting on. Her eyes widen, and she raises a hoof to your face. Trying to wipe the brine from your eyes, she only succeeds in smearing it across your face even more. There's a flash of worry in her eyes, before you manage to peel your arm away from the floor, and run it through her golden mane. The worry changes to relief, before, she set her smug smile in place and looks at you.

"Well it looks like you enjoyed yourself, didn't you?"

There's obvious pride in her voice. Why wouldn't there be? Now that the fear of your well being is gone, all that's left is gallons upon gallons of potent, fetid marespunk. Your clothes are likely ruined, both in smell and coloring, and your certain the smell will stain your nose for weeks. But looking at the grinning golden mare straddling you, wide smile, shining eyes betraying a hint of worry, you can't help be proud too. You strain your throat, and manage to choke down the thick marespunk lodged in your throat.

"And I know, I know. You wanted to do the slow, lovey-dovey crap, what with the kissing, and massaging. Sorry babe, but after a month? I had to take charge. You get it, right?"

You do, in fact get. You were worried by her intensity, sure, but that seems to have subsided for now. Though, oddly, Spitfire's dick hasn't. Despite her even temper, and despite her lack of movement, her dick is still dribbling cum, a small yet constant trickle spilling from her dick, even as she rests. She follows your sight, and turns back to you with a grin.

"Yeah, I'm still going. There's a lot packed in me, ya' know? Oh, but don't worry. I can't even feel my hips right now. Your ass is safe. However,"

You expected that. Even if Spitfire's cooled down, she wouldn't miss a chance to rub it in. Her smile's turned wicked, and she reaches a hoof to a nearby flowerbed. You try and turn your head, but the drying cum clings and pulls at your skin and hair, and you resign yourself to waiting for her next move. You do owe her, after all.

"I can't fly, and you can't move we're gonna be here for a while. Now, I'm awesome enough to rough it for couple of days," She puffs her chest out against yours, the most she can do without control of her hips. "But a fragile masseuse like you? I wouldn't be doing my duties if I couldn't find a way to feed you like this."

When her hoof comes back, it's brought with it a number of dark blue flowers. They're squat and bulbous, with wide petals, flecked with light blue spots. Grinning, she drags one through the pooling sludge, and pulls it back, covered in lumpy chunks of sperm and seminal fluid.

"Say Ahh, lover~"

There it is. Always a catch with her. Still, there's no sense in spoiling a good moment. You open your mouth, and stick out your tongue. Glee fills Spitfire's face, as she deposits the flower into your mouth, and you begin to chew.

It's actually not that bad. The taste of drying cum is ever present, sure, and not particularly appealing, but the flower adds a smooth, cool flavor to it, like a soft, tangy garnish. You swallow, and somehow, the flower seems to help make room in your stomach.

"So, should I always expect food after sex from now on?"

She grins, running another bulb through the cum.

"Sure, but only if I season it."

"Tempting. I'll have to think on it." You stick your tongue out, and Spit deposits another slathered flower into your mouth.

You let the sounds of the forest overtake you as you chew. It's well passed noon  now, but the dense canopy protects you from the sun's heat. The cold might be an issue later, but for now, you're perfectly content to have your mare feed you, the romantic moment only slightly tarnished by her unique addition.

"I love you Spit."

"I Love you too."