"A Bumpy Predicament"
 
[Note: Sequel to http://pastebin.com/wrcr7hZc]
 
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"Your numbers are rising again, you know."
> "Mmrph."
"No, seriously. After that last showing, it looks like the fans have almost forgiven you for that business up in Rainbow Falls."
> "Mreeesh!"
"I still think we should've gone with the injury story over just 'mid-flight cramp', though. It'd have been a good counterpoint to how they criticized you for 'abandoning' Soarin."
> "Ffshuu-uup!"
"No, seriously. The papers love a comeback story; they'd have fallen all over each other to see you 'learning' to overcome your injury with your 'spurned' teammate."
> Flipping to the next page of the report, you run a finger down the list of polling results until you find the relevant entry.
"As it is, you got a brief boost in the ratings. You're going to need to try a bit harder if you want to keep those rising though."
> Glancing over at the brightly-coated mare shuddering in her chains, you raise an eyebrow.
"Maybe I should arrange another mid-race 'cramp' for you to benefit from? After all, your last time flying like that was quite motivating."
> Spitfire's eyes live up to her name, alive with glimmers of fiery rage as she remembers the humiliation you'd put her through at the last race.
> Not that her current predicament was any better.
> The mare was caught in an awkward position: Hind legs suspended outstretched in the air behind her by shackles, rump held up in mid-air, and forelegs barely touching the ground at full extension.
> It gave the impression she'd been trapped mid-buck - or, perhaps, a mocking similarity to the sportsmare coming in for a hooves-outstretched dive.
> Emerging from somewhere unseen between her rear legs was a cord, the low whining issuing from within the sportsmare hinting as to what it lead to.
> As if the steadily-growing puddle of fluids beneath her groin didn't tell enough.
> Even as you watch, Spitfire's mouth opens to deliver another insult garbled by the bit anchored between her jaws, but as she does the strongest shudder yet runs through her and it instead turns to a screeching cry of pain instead.
> "Fuggooooaargh!"
> For just a second her concentration had broken, hips falling from the upwards-arched position they'd been held in.
> As soon as they did so, however, the whine dies; Spitfire cried out and quickly jerked herself back up again.
> But the strain was showing; cords of taught muscle stood out taught beneath her coat, struggling to support the awkward position.
"Twenty minutes in, and you're already struggling. Not a very good showing, Spitfire - I think you need to keep yourself in a bit better shape."
> It was, of course, an exercise in futility.
> Spitfire was an athlete, not a bodybuilder; her muscles were meant for movement, not for straining constantly in one position.
> She would, inevitably, fall from deliciously-arched position she was forced to hold - but still tries anyhow.
> As much as it is surely an attempt at avoiding the shock that would come whenever she failed, you're also quite certain that Spitfire was pushing herself just as much to spite you:
> To show that she could resist the predicament you'd put her in.
> And that was, honestly, quite fine with you.
> She was quite the pleasure to watch, after all - coat gleaming with a sheen of sweat, chest heaving against the sensations running through her, ears splayed angrily and eyes alight with fury.
> With a chuckle, you dial a knob down to its lowest setting, giving her time to come down from the edge of climax.
> Pushing yourself to your feet, you pad over to the bound and half-suspended mare; dropping to one knee brings you approximately to the same head-height.
> Stroking her mane back, you peer around to glance underneath her; now you could clearly see not only the wire emerging from her dripping sex, but where a pair of jagged-toothed clamps had been fixed in place over her teats.
> Each bit cruelly into the nerve-laden flesh between its jaws, a slight gleam hinting to the conductive gel that had been rubbed in first to ensure she would feel every jolt that ran through them.
> It was a setup fiendish in its simplicity:
> Any time she came close to climax, any time her control over her muscles grew weak and allowed her hips to fall, the wires hanging from her teats would fall to a contact and close a simple circuit.
> Instantly it would cut the vibrator off and instead deliver a jolt through the same clamped nipples - dragging her back away from the sweet release that would end the game.
> The cycle was quite safe; the current would cut off if she collapsed or somehow couldn't push herself back up, and pegasi could absorb a startling amount of voltage harmlessly.
> Well - harmlessly, except for that the jolt forced Spitfire to roll her hips back up again, switching the vibrator buried deep in her sex back on and starting the cycle anew.
> Exactly how long it would go on you weren't sure.
> You'd deliberately kept Spitfire constantly on the edge of climax - filling her with an aching, burning need for release, using a remote to adjust the intensity preventing her from reaching climax too quickly and ending the game.
> Surely it was a feeling she would find disgusting, but at the same time couldn't help but desire:
> It was the only ending she would accept; the threat to have her race with the "uniform" you had shown her if she didn't play your game here was barely neccessary.
> Her own pride demanded Spitfire fight until her muscles gave out irregardless of her will, or she finally held out long enough to reach climax.
> A quick snap of a latch releases the bit from her mouth, Spitfire doesn't hesitate to spit and clear the taste from her mouth but pointedly does not speak first.
"So, Spitfire. What have we learned from this?"
> "F-fuck-"
> Her sputtered reply dies as the remote's dial twists under your finger, the toy's buzzing whine again rising in response.
> Despite the additional sensations being driven into her sex Spitfire grits her teeth, gathers herself, and completes the curse:
> "Fuck y-you, Anonymous."
"Wrong answer."
> Running a hand underneath her, you relish the feeling of the taught skin over her belly - velveteen coat heaving beneath your fingers as she tries to pace her breathing.
> Spitfire, for her part, closes her eyes and tries to block out your touch - pushing her mind away to somewhere else, presumably the same sort of trance she would use to block out aching muscles on the track.
> Can't be having any of that.
"What we've learned here, Spitfire, is that when I say I want to see you in my office that means I see you in my office. Not ten minutes later, not an hour later, and certainly not two and a half hours later."
> You lean back, meeting her re-opened eyes easily and drinking in the hate pouring from them.
"We could have been having this conversation nice and comfortably. Next time, I hope you'll remember that just being captain doesn't mean you can ignore me."
> Already Spitfire is struggling against the increased stimulation, hips subtly bucking - though whether as an instinctual response or a futile attempt to dislodge the source of her torment, you don't know.
> "Soarin' had it rough at practice. I had t-to see him-"
> Of course she did.
> Wouldn't want to leave her poor, neglected teammate alone.
> "Besides. You just w-wanted an excuse."
> Again she spits on the floor in front of her, though this time out of disgust.
> "I know you'd h-have strung m-me up like this no matter what I d-did."
> She has you there, and it must have shown in your face.
> A rare smile crosses Spitfire's face, daring and toothy.
> "Don't f-fucking play with me, Anonymous. I know you just want mess with me because you can't get anypony else to sleep with you!"
"...you'll want to consider your next words very, very carefully."
> "Don't like the truth? That no normal mare would ever put up with a hundredth of what I do, so you have to mess with me because I'm all you'll ever haaaaaargh!"
> Again her voice dissolves into a scream; this time, however, her hips hadn't fallen on their own but in response to your touch:
> Tugging down the wire linked to the jagged-toothed clamp, she'd had no choice but to let her hips drop and the circuit close.
> This time you hold it for a few seconds, watching her wings twitch as current flows through her teats.
> Eventually your fingers withdraw, leaving the sportsmare openly panting as the buzzing again issues from her nethers.
> The second she gathers the strength to look up, however, you realize your mistake:
> That same grin, now with a victorious touch added, still graces her face.
> Even though she'd suffered, she'd also won - getting beneath your skin and provoking you to punish her beyond the predicament you'd already put her in.
> "Like I was saying... no normal mare... ever put up with... hundredth of this."
> After a moment, though, you let your own grin - feral and vicious - touch your lips.
"You know, Spitfire, this is why I like you. Always challenging, always pushing yourself..."
> Rising to your feet, you watch as her eyes widen with the first hints of fear.
"...or maybe, always pushing your luck."
> It doesn't take you long to find what you're looking for, and when you do return to her side Spitfire's pupils shrink.
> "Is that - going -"
"Exactly where you think it does."
> The gleaming steel hook is dangled in front of her eyes, letting her take in the bulbous sphere at the tip, the curve that will fit to one side of her dock, and the oil you'd spread over it to ensure it would slide into her without trouble.
> "Y-You won't do it. If I get hurt, I won't be able to race. The papers will want to know how-"
> Her voice is confident, but you can see the first touches of fear creeping into her eyes.
"Like I said: The papers will fall over each other to see you 'overcome' a sprain with your poor, spurned teammate."
> Any further replies are turned to enraged gibberish as the bit returns to her mouth; Spitfire shakes her head sharply but can do nothing as you move to her side.
> Her tail clamps down over her rump, desperately trying to keep your target concealed - but it's to little use.
> Again you dial up the vibrator's intensity and before long her muscles have gone weak as she fights to keep her hooves up; with relative ease you're able to seize her tail and lift it.
> When the cold steel bulb touches her crinkled rose Spitfire seizes up, wings shooting out and a cry issuing deep from in her throat.
> It's a cry that trails off into a miserable groan as you work the steel further into her, settling the curve of the hook into place over her rump.
> Even when you buckle the collar about her throat Spitfire doesn't respond, but when you draw tight the strap between the collar and the eyebolt on the end of the hook another squeal issues from her throat.
> Now a new set of muscles was set to be put to the test:
> If she couldn't keep her head upright as she struggled with the existing predicament, she'd be certain to feel it quite quickly.
"There, there..."
> Mockingly you stroke Spitfire's cheek, letting the misery in her fiery eyes flow out again.
"...I know you meant exactly what you said earlier, so don't even try to protest. But, if you apologize now, I'll reconsider making it worse."
> For a second she seems to hesitate, but then Spitfire shakes her head - quickly emitting another short squeal as even the slight movement shifts the hook buried deep within her ass.
> Of course - she was too proud to beg, even now.
> Perhaps she figures this is another situation where you would punish her anyhow.
> Well, then, you'd be happy to oblige - and there's still one last trick up your sleeve.
> Once more you push yourself to your feet.
> Checking the control was set to its highest setting, you turn and take a first few steps towards the exit.
"Well, then. I"ll give you some time to think over your actions."
> Spitfire's questioning screech rises from somewhere behind, obviously disbelieving that you would truly leave her in such a predicament.
> And, at least in part, she was right:
> There was no way you could allow the Wonderbolts' captain to be truly injured - nothing that would require a visit to a hospital, or actually end her career.
> That didn't mean you couldn't give the impression that you were beyond the point of caring though, ready to let her suffer indefinitely.
> Passing through the door, you promptly turn aside and open a peep-hole, peering back in to keep a steady eye on the mare and step in if she looked to be at risk.
> Spitfire holds out for a fair amount of time, eyes locked on the doorway as if thinking you'd only leave for a few seconds.
> But as it becomes increasingly clear that she has been left "alone", her struggles become increasingly frantic.
> Despite how it must be working the hook around in her she writhes in the chains, hind legs kicking madly in their shackles as if they could dislodge the madly-buzzing tormentor lodged between them.
> Her voice rises in a furious scream that although muffled by both bit and wall is still clear enough to make it clear that, had it been intelligible, would be filled with a varying array of invectives.
> Finally she accepts her fate; eyes slide shut as she tries to again pull her mind away from what she is experiencing, but it's little use:
> The invader lodged firmly in her anus was more than enough to be an anchor, keeping her firmly in the here and now no matter how much she wishes to escape it.
> Screams turn to sobs as her emotional dam breaks, free to expose her misery while you were 'absent'.
> Yet even still, Spitfire puts up a valiant fight to hold out and not merely give up.
> Yes - there it is.
> The reason you loved toying with her so much:
> A ceaseless determination to meet any obstacle head on, to plunge herself head-first into any challenge.
> You could always rely on her to meet whatever you threw at her, no matter how degrading it was.
> Eventually however, her body reaches its limit.
> Halts in the toy's buzzing come increasingly often as trembling legs struggle to keep her hips raised; though each interruption is ended quickly, you can tell the game was coming to an end.
> Spitfire doesn't even respond when you return, head hanging despite how it must tug on the hook.
> Only when you cut the power to both the toy and clamps does she finally seem to notice, rising to stare dully as you approach to kneel by her side.
> Sweat and juices dripping from her have been joined by tears and drool seeping from around the bit to form an indescribable mixture that ran down to stain the floor beneath her.
> Though grunts issue from her throat when you carefully left the clamps from her teats, no real response comes until you finally disconnect the hook from her collar.
> Finally free of its tormenting tug she collapses, forelegs folding beneath her and chest coming to rest on the floor
> Laying there silently, Spitfire somehow still manages to roll one eye about to lock on you - and fix you with a glare that hinted at fury still burning just below the surface.
> Your only response is a smirk and a comment:
"You stink, Spitfire."
> It takes a few tries to put the sounds together, but she manages to work out a response.
> "Fuck... fuck off, Anonymous. I'm the captain... I had to see to my team."
> The insult only draws your smile wider; even exhausted and unable to lift herself, she still clung to the same attitude.
> Seeing you weren't going to listen, Spitfire lets her gaze fall.
> "Are we done here?"
> Her voice is shaky, but has managed to regain its underlying confident tone.
> "Have you had enough fun yet? Or are you going to make me strut around in front of a crowd wearing some whorse's rags to get yourself off?"
"Oh, no. I think you've earned yourself a relief from that."
> Just as the relieved sigh is leaving her, lungs, you add:
"But I must say, watching you was quite - enticing, and it's left me quite pent up without any release..."
> It takes a second for Spitfire to figure out what you mean, and when she does her lips curl in disgust.
> "You've got to be joking."
"Not one bit."
> For the first time Spitfire shows something like real hesitation.
> But, calculating the risks of refusing you, she swallows and heaves herself back upright to face your groin.
> That doesn't stop her from fixing you with a glare that could kill a dragon, though.
> It's a look that sends a pleasurable tremble through you, however, goosebumps rising across your skin.
> Finding your zipper with her teeth, Spitfire again hesitates - until your hand again closes around the strap still linked the hook wedged inside her anus and gives it an encouraging tug.
> Almost falling forward, Spitfire's lips take in your shaft.
> Tentatively her head begins to bob along its length - ears splayed wide apart and mane still wild from her earlier ordeal.
> What quickly becomes clear is that Spitfire is almost laughably amateur at this, having almost no idea of what to do beyond simply running her lips up and down your shaft.
> Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you switch the toy still lodged within her back on to its highest setting and seize her head in both hands.
> A questioning noise from Spitfire's throat is quickly replaced by a squeal of surprise as you use your leverage to tilt her head straight back.
> Her eyes go wide as you hilt yourself against her lips, sack crudely slapping against her jaw.
> Your shaft rakes the back of her throat; quickly she begins to gag against the intruder and tongue frantically pushes against it as she tries to push it out.
> But even in this panicked state Spitfire manages to keep her wits enough not to bite down.
> Instead she struggles wildly, forehooves scrabbling wildly against your legs as she tries to gain purchase and support herself.
> All the while you have begun bucking your own hips - savagely raking her throat with the tip of your shaft.
> Drool falls from her lips as she sputters, taking any opportunity to draw in brief breaths to keep herself going.
> Tears fall freely from Spitfire's eyes and muscles ripple beneath her coat as she struggles, back bowed in an impressive arch as she tries to hold herself steady in the face of your assault.
> For a time the two of you rock together as one, you forcing Spitfire to swing on her still-suspended hind hooves and she desperately trying to meet your thrusts and not fall from her precarious hold on your legs.
> There's no denying she is a magnificent sight:
> Struggling against your own violent thrusts and the unwanted twitches of her own hips as the toy whirs away inside of her, eyes locked upward towards yours in a mix of desperation, humiliation and rage as the vibrator works incessantly inside her.
> You can tell she is trying to hide its effects - had the shackles not prevented it, no doubt she would have locked her legs together to hide her shame if she could.
> As it is, she cannot help but display how her hips rock at the unwanted stimulation.
> And despite the immediate situation, nearly an hour of being denied just at the cusp of her release has left her vulnerable to this new assault on her sex.
> Before too long a low, keening cry issues from her throat as shudders wrack her from muzzle to wingtip to tail, juices pattering against the floor as the climax rips through her.
> Despite your best efforts at pacing yourself (and giving her moments to catch her breath), you had already been quickly reaching your limit; the sight of her orgasm pushes you rapidly to your own limit.
> Again you drive in against her muzzle as far as you can, head lodging back against her throat and erupting in a pulsing bursts.
> Her instinctual gagging only drives the climax to even greater heights as her throat massages your member, struggling to draw in any air at all.
> But Spitfire is an athlete and no stranger to burning lungs; she manages to hold her breath until at long last, when the final surges have faded, you withdraw yourself.
> Once more she falls to the floor, gasping sobs finally spilling out as she rests a cheek against the hard, cool tile.
> Not even when you finally open the shackles and allow her hind legs free does she really respond, although sliding both hook and now-silent vibrator out from her do yield muffled grunts.
> It takes her several minutes to compose herself enough to speak again; when she does, her typical tone has returned.
> "Now... now have you had your fun? Finally done enough?"
"I think that's enough for tonight, yes."
> You lightly pat her fiery-toned, sweat drenched mane; Spitfire wrenches her head away as she struggles to her hooves one last time and takes the first cautious steps away.
"Just remember: I expect to see you at practice bright and early tomorrow."