Desc.: Short oneshot; Anon torments Spitfire on and off the track.
> Wonderbolts races are, by definition, loud events.
> Crowds screaming, horns blowing, magically-enhanced announcers straining to be heard.
> When five distinctly colored forms their place at the starting line, the volume only rises.
> Even in this VIP box, the excitement is palpable.
> Ponies all around you craning forward as if a few extra inches would give them some unique insight.
> You, though - you merely sit back in your well-cushioned seat, arms folded over your chest.
> One hand slipping within your coat to check the plastic rectangle is still safely within your pocket.
> "And there they go! Spitfire in the lead, with Misty Fly right behind her and Rapidfire..."
> Though the announcer can clearly be heard over the thunderous roar of the crowd, you pay him no attention.
> You have eyes only for the mare in the lead, now a two-toned blob of blue and orange.circling around the far half of the track.
> "Halfway around the first lap and Spitfire still holds the lead, though Soarin' is pulling up close behind, and..."
> Just as the pack of racers swings through the turn into the home stretch, your fingertips caress once over the plastic box.
> A switch is drawn to its first position.
> "...and Spitfire flinches! What a shock - she's fallen to third, behind..."
> You allow the slightest smirk to creep onto your lips.
> Flinches indeed - you hadn't told her you had control before the match, and now she was surely cursing your name with every swear she knew.
> "...passing the first lap now, going around into the second, Misty now in the lead with Soarin' behind her and Spitfire tied with Rapidfire for third..."
> You nudge the switch to its second position - earning another unexpected flutter from Spitfire.
> The announcer doesn't comment on it, to caught up in the neck-and-neck competition between the two ponies for the first place.
> They couldn't matter less to you, though - all that you care for is that orange-maned blob in the middle of the pack.
> Before she slips from the little radio's range the switch finds its way twice up more, to the highest setting.
> Her reaction certainly gets the announcer's attention.
> "...and Spitfire's in trouble! She must've sprained something, she's seems to be clutching one leg and certainly seems surprised - but at this rate, she might have to make a medical landing..."
> Spitfire would never, ever let anyone see what she's going through right now.
> The sheer humiliation that would result aside, her pride demands she finish the race - to show you she can compete even with your... interference.
"She's fallen well behind, but is still trying to go on - but can she catch up? Well, Misty's still holding the lead..."
> "Such a pity, if she has been injured."
> You turn your gaze to the pony seated directly beside you, his forehooves crossed over an elaborate cane.
> "Yes; she's been a very good captain for the Wonderbolts - a very adept manager as well a racer. It would be a true shame if she had to bow out for a while, even retire... perhaps an allowance could be made for her to continue to lead them as she recovers?
> Though he does not say it, one questioning eye has turned to you at the end - the question is meant for you.
"As team owner, I'm quite sure I could adjust the rules to give her a position... but I think she would rapidly go stir-crazy from being grounded."
> "Better that, than having to give up her life's work, no?"
> You chuckle softly.
"Perhaps? Certainly it might be good to allow her to remain the public face of the Wonderbolts."
> "Indeed! She could even-"
> He is interrupted by the white-coated, pink-maned slim pony clinging to his leg.
> "Look, Fancy! They're onto the third lap!"
> All three of your gazes turn back to the racing track.
> Sure enough, the racers have rounded again - passing the finish line for the second time, and now streaking away to the last lap around.
> At the rear, a blue and orange blob still bouncing along.
> Had you gotten distracted for that long?
> Another small smirk graces your lips.
> How... unfortunate.
> Your careful fingers brush the switch, sliding it back to the off position.
> "...and Spitfire seems to have found her pace again! She's catching up to the others - passing, now in fourth! Half a lap left! Can she make it still?"
> Again the crowds lean forward, straining to see every beat of their wings.
> "Coming into the final stretch, Spitfire's pulled into second place, passing Soarin' and now neck and neck with Misty..."
> You aren't surprised.
> Easily an image slips into your mind - her teeth gritted, eyes burning with furious anger and humiliation that fueled her drive to win.
> To prove that you couldn't control her.
> "....and Spitfire is first at the finish! What a shocker after dropping behind like that, folks, she's just..."
> The crowd's cheers finally drown out the announcer's voice, but from the VIP box this close to the track you can still see the landing racer's.
> Gathering around Spitfire, issuing friendly pats and congratulations - and, undoubtedly, questioning the reason for her sudden trouble.
> Spitfire is surely thankful, you think, that her entire flight suit is soaked with sweat.
> No need to explain any other awkward wet spots.
> Allowing her a few moments, you finally reach into your jacket once more.
> Again the switch finds its way to the maximum position; Spitfire jerks up straight and nearly leaps into the air in shock.
> Brushing off her teammates, she trots off the field towards the entrance hall - back to her room.
> Standing, you quietly slip from the VIP box as well - knowing Spitfire will have broken into a gallop the second she was clear from sight.
> Humming gently, you wind your way through the halls until you find the room marked with her familiar mark.
> Not even bothering to knock, you slide the door open before you and stride in.
> Anyone else bothering to enter would have been met with a shocking sight, but for you it was entirely expected.
> Spitfire lay on her side, damp flight suit still clinging to her well-toned form and sweat-soaked mane dripping on the floor.
> Other things were dripping as well; both her forelegs were firmly clamped between her rear and every few moments another shudder would run through her body.
> At last she sees you, eyes finally filling with tears.
> The door quietly shuts behind you, just in time to prevent a moan from escaping the room as yet another tremor rips through Spitfire.
> Even as you move to kneel by her side the tremors reach a peak, her wings locking out as unwanted ecstasy ripples through her body.
> Tears, sweat, and other fluids drip to the floor as another moan, this one equal parts pleasure and shame, escapes her lips.
> For the final time your fingers brush the switch, the barely-audible whining buzzes from between her flanks dying at last.
> Moments pass with the only noise in the room her heavy panting as her breath finally catches.
> "I... I hate you, Anonymous."
> You gently cup her cheek in one hand, relishing in the hatred flowing from her eyes and the venom in her voice.
"I know you do, Spitfire."
> "You... you humiliated me out there. In front of all of them..."
"You still won. They loved the comeback."
> "I won despite you, asshole!"
> Her voice rises as she staggers to her hooves, legs spread wide and head low.
> "I won even with you screwing me over in every way you could!"
"Would you like to end our private little agreement, then?"
> She shudders, forcing her eyes shut and breathing back under control.
> "...I hate you. I hate you, I hate these things you put in me, I hate what they do to me, I hate that I can't tell you and your fucking agreement to go bite a thundercloud!"
"Then I will see you tonight. Are you going to change before you go out to face the crowds?"
> Spitfire fixes you with another glare.
> "Even if you would let me take those things out now, you know very well why I can't be seen without this suit."
> Your hand brushes lightly along her withers; Spitfire winces as they pass over the whip marks hidden beneath the fabric.
> Not from any pain she felt now, but from the memory of what had brought them.
"Then you'd best get out there. Don't forget to come tonight."
> Leaning over, you whisper into one ear.
"Just for that little outburst earlier, I've got a new punishment toy I've been just dying to try out..."
> Yet another shudder runs through Spitfire's frame as she pulls away from you, throwing one final nasty look over her shoulder as she stalks out of her room.
> You let her go, still smirking, head filled with visions of what you are going to do to her tonight.