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"You've got your toothbrush?"

"Ugh, yes Poppa," Ace says with a smile. "And soap, and all the other things that you insisted I pack."

"Me too," Hotshot says as he bounces along behind her. "I'm all set!"

You give the kids a once over before smiling and hugging them close. Ace returns the affection with her full, impressive force, while Hotshot makes a mock choking sound. After you step back, Spitfire, that irritated swish still present in her tail, hugs the kids as well.

"Remember to behave," she says, giving her son a pointed look. "Obey your sister and Darcy."

"And remember to represent the family well to the Apple clan out there."

The locomotive hisses as the children nod. From inside one of the cars, you can see Little Mac peeking out, watching the four of you intently. No doubt his sister is beside him, probably with her nose in a book. The silence lingers into an uncomfortable state before you finally clap your hands together and smile.

"All right, family. We're all going to have a great weekend." The kids cheer, and Spitfire rolls her eyes, smiling as you attempt to hype everyone up. "Remember to stay safe, and be smart."

"We will; bye Momma, bye Poppa!" Hotshot says, hopping onto the train and hustling into the car with his things. Ace stays about a moment more before smiling at you both.

"Thanks. Have fun tonight."

"Oh, I'm sure we will," you smile, reaching down and placing a hand on Spitfire's rump. 

The two of you smile and wave as Ace climbs on board. A few seconds later, you see both your children pressed close to the glass, smiling happily and waving as the train whistles and begins to make a chugging sound.

"You realize this could end horribly," Spitfire says through her teeth as she waves her hoof.

"Or, it could be really great for them," you quip back without dropping your grin.

"Maybe. So how long are you going to leave your hand on my flank?"

"Not sure, it's a very nice flank, and my hand would be comfortable staying here all night."

The train begins to work its way down the track as you and Spitfire stand on the platform. Once the kids disappear from view, the mare looks up at you. "We've got that dinner tonight."

"But not for another hour."

The tip of Spitfire's tongue darts out as she adopts a thoughtful expression.

"That leaves us about ten minutes once we get back to do whatever we please."

"More like four." When she raises her eyebrow, you grin. "The other six are for you to get feeling back in your legs."

“Is that how it is?” a sly grin crosses your mare's face as she pushes her rump back into your hand. "In that case, what are we standing around here jawing for?"

===

The door to your home opens with a tremendous thud as it hammers into the backstop. There isn’t even enough time to curse your mistake before Spitfire lunges at you, her muzzle connecting solidly with your nose and driving you up towards your bedroom. The door hangs open, forgotten, as you stumble your way through the house together; lips locked and tongues already wrestling for top billing.

While it’s certainly not the most romantic of rendezvous, the better part of a decade and a half of raising children has taught you both that time is a precious commodity. While neither of you were especially keen on letting Ace and Hotshot make a trip to Appleoosa without you, it’s had to deny that the pair have grown up well. It’s hard to admit, but maybe you ought to trust them to be out on their own a little bit more. But the story of their adventures is for another time. Right now it’s all about you and your mare.

The pleasant fact that the children’s absence affords you and our spouse a few, brief, uninterrupted moments is simply a happy accident. But neither of you are inclined to let it pass by. So there are no tender words, no gentle touches. It’s all redlining, straight from the start.

It really is a shame, but after weeks of quiet words, gentle teasings made in passing and a seemingly ever present child whenever things had a chance to get hot and heavy, neither of you are in the mood to drag things out. So you toss Spitfire on the bed. Take her from behind. Ravage her. And just barely manage to meet your stipulated time of four minutes. However you do. And the mare is just like you said she would be.

“Oh, what a relief,” Spitfire moans, her haunches still up in the air and quivering in short, cute back and forth motions. You flop onto the bed beside her and laugh, running your thumb along her snout.

“Tell me about it. Maybe we should send the kids away more often?”

“As if you’d let them out of your sight.”

The two of you exchange tired smiles, basking in the brief moment like lovers seeing each other again after an extended absence. A wonderful, luxurious sensation covers you like a blanket, inviting you to wrap yourself up and be carried away. Just close your eyes and-

“Sötnos.” You groan at your spouse as she nudges you with a hoof. “Don’t give me that. We’ve got business tonight; the state dinner?”

Rolling onto your side, you open one of your eyes and frown at her. “Yeah, but you don’t really want to go to this thing, right?”

“What’s that matter?” Dropping her belly to the mattress Spitfire turns towards you and snorts. “I might not be in the air anymore, but I’m still dealing with all official Wonderbolt paperwork and training. That means I’m expected to show up to this dinner, and I’m not going to march through this, this cow patty alone.”

Well, that’s certainly a little out of sorts. Donning a smirk, you try to goad her further. “Snippy. Why are you so on edge?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Squirming closer, you place your hand on her back between her wings. The mare stiffens before grinding her spine into your palm with a sigh. “It’s these girls.”

“Oh, the new recruits?”

“Mm,” Spitfire grunts, her eyes fluttering as you close your fist and begin sliding your knuckles back and forth. “They’re a bunch of harpies; always prattling on about anything that gets their attention, which is usually Soarin’s hind parts by the way.” The two of you share a brief laugh, the pegasus pony arching her back into your touch. “But it’s gotten a good deal worse as of late.”

“How’s that? They aren’t giving you too much grief, right?” you murmur, your sliding hand up her neck then nestling itself into her mane. You can hardly holding back a laugh as you see a gasp catch in Spitfire’s throat.

Your words finally seem to register as she rests her head against your arm. “Nothing like that, they know their place. But, well…” A pause, then a scowl graces her snout. “They’re on their cycle. All of them.”

“Ah.”

It’s not much of a response, but is anything more really necessary? As spring comes to a close and the long days of summer begin, the signal goes out to every mare that it’s time to consider breeding again. Some have them early, some have them late, but they all have to go through it at some point before the days become too short.

While most can go about their daily tasks without being too obsessed with fulfilling their baser desires, active ponies can suffer from sharper, more abrupt spikes in their needs. At least, that’s how things have been with Spitfire over the years, though things certainly settled once she stepped down as Performance Captain. That being said, it’s somewhat unclear why she’s in such a state.

With her cinnamon colored eyes looking up at you expectantly, you decide to probe a little deeper. “So is it that you can’t keep them on track anymore?”

“Hardly,” Spitfire snaps with a derisive snort, “if anything they’re more eager to show off and put themselves out there. No, it’s a little more personal than that.” Averting her eyes, the mare sighs and grumbles a few choice words before admitting what’s bothering her. “I’ve synced up with them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Right now you’re-” a quick head bob cuts you short.

“I’m in season too.” Hm, imagine that. Of course, when you don’t react, she puffs out her cheeks. “This is a big deal!”

“Oh, I know.” You don’t actually, but Spitfire nods and continues.

“I’m a fall mare after all, I’ve always been a fall mare; but now we’re barely past spring and,” her voice trails off as she sighs. “It’s yet another sign that my best days are behind me. I’m just old and starting to fall apart.”

“Hey, don’t be like that,” you chide her, pressing your nose against hers and giving a short, quick rub. “We’re still in the prime of our lives. You don’t need to worry about getting old.”

Spitfire gives a noncommittal grunt back, but responds to the eskimo kiss with as much affection as she can muster. The two of you lay on the bed for a few moments longer before she moves to push herself to her hooves. “Well, enough of that; we should get going. We’re already going to be late after all.”

One look to her eyes is enough to tell you that her attitude is a front. Spitfire, the love of your life, is hurting and you haven’t done a lick of good to help her. Well, you certainly can’t abide that, so you roll over on top of her and pin her underneath you. She gives a surprised squawk before glaring up at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re in season, right?” you say with a smile, pressing your lips to her neck. The pegasus mare whimpers, squirming underneath you as you lavish her with attention. “In that case, we ought to do things properly.”

For a moment, color seems to drain from Spitfire’s face before she offers up a nervous laugh and tries to push you away with her hooves. “C-Come off it, you can’t be serious. We’ve got the dinner and-”

“Oh, I’m serious,” you cut her off with a finger to her muzzle. “We’ve done this every year, and just because you’re a little early doesn’t mean that this time should be any different.”

An audible gulp escapes the mare as she blushes and does her best to frown, even as the edges up her snout turn up. “Ten heats after ‘Shot and you’re still going to try? I’m old and worn out. I mean, I appreciate the thought bu-”

Taking her face in your hand, you give her a serious scowl and declare, “Spitfire stop. This is the year that I put another foal in your belly.”

The words hang in the air for an eternity. Even if you did try, and fail, every year, the fact that you’re willing to keep at it brings a slight shimmer of wetness to her eyes. With a cough and a laugh, she gives a happy sigh, “Sötnos…” then presses her lips to yours.

It’s slower this time, but no less intense, as the long, ferocious kiss that brought you to the bedroom becomes instead a series of small, red hot meetings of lips to lips, to skin, and to hair. You bury your face in her mane as Spitfire’s snout meets your collarbone and trails lingering affections across as much of it as she can.

Part of you feels foolish for not noticing that she was in season earlier, the familiar scent of your mare seems even sharper than usual, to say nothing of the rapid thudding of her heart and the heat rolling off of her body; like a miniature space heater. If she could manage to go into season in winter, well- never mind, that’s not what’s important right now.

Breathless and red-faced, the two of you finally pull apart. Despite her earlier reluctance, Spitfire now wears an excited smile. Leaning forward, she brushes her cheek against hers and whispers in a low, eager voice, “Did you mean it, Sötnos? About the foal?”

“Absolutely,” you murmur back. “I won’t be happy until I see your belly bulging.”

“Don’t say that.” Spitfire chuckles and closes her eyes. “If you say something like that, I’ll look forward to getting grounded.”

“Do you really think that you’d get too big to fly?”

“Ah, what a terrible thought,” the mare moans into your ear, obviously not as put off by the thought as she’d have you believe.

“Isn’t it though?” Your palm cradles the gentle slope of her belly. “I won’t be satisfied unless you’re off your hooves for at least two months.”

A delighted laugh escapes your mare as you bury your face in her chest fluff and she grips your head between her hooves. “Good luck with that; the foal would need to be a real beast to manage that.”

“Then I suppose,” you respond around the mouthful of mane, “I’ll just have to put in extra effort.” Spitfire gives an excited squeal as you suddenly push yourself inside of her again, but her laughter quickly descends into breathless sighs and groans.

Missionary with a pony is awkward, if only because of the distance it takes to get from flank to face. Even though Spitfire isn’t especially tall, she has a long body that ends up putting your face right in the middle of her chest fluff when you try this position. While it’s not quite as intimate as it might be with a human partner, it really does work out well for both of you; she can wrap her hooves comfortably around your neck, and you have a comfortable place to rest your head as you look up into her eyes.

And so you do, and with as much adoration as you can manage. Though it’s honestly hard to do anything else; Spitfire is a one of a kind mare and the mother of your two children on top of that. If anyone deserves the world, it’s her.

The golden mare cradles your head against her hooves, and you can hear the heavy thud of her heartbeat as it begins to pump faster and faster, egging on your long, loving thrusts into something much more eager, though no less passionate. She tightens up around you again, trying to milk you for all you’re worth and the athlete’s highly developed muscles come through in spades once more.

“Ah, you did it again,” Spitfire chuckles, her limbs clutching tightly against the back of your neck despite the obvious trembling down their length. Looking up into the cinnamon colored eyes of your lover, you don a wry smile.

“Not bad for a couple of old timers, huh?” you ask, and are promptly met with a tired knock to the back of your head. Still, her breathy sigh sends shivers down your spine all the same, and you remain locked in an embrace with her for what feels like an eternity. Well at least long enough for you to feel like you could go again.

But as you open your mouth, the dazed mare snaps back to reality, her eyes wide and anxious. “The dinner!”

The wh- Oh, right. The thing. That you don’t want to go to. Glancing over towards the clock, you see that the two of you have already burned the better part of an hour. Doing some quick math you smirk as it dawns on you that the shindig has probably already started. The unintentional diversion was a major success!

Still, that doesn’t stop Spitfire from pulling herself away from you. The lewd squelch of your combined fluids brings a flush of red to her face, but that’s still not enough to slow her trot to the closet. With a few anxious flutters off the ground, she begins muttering to herself, “Dress uniform, dress uniform, I know I had it pressed last week…”

“Fireball,” you begin, but are quickly silenced with a rather stern look.

“I don’t want to hear a word from you about skipping the dinner. You’ve had your fun, and now we’re going to handle one of my responsibilities together, okay?”

Oh, she’s not happy. When you don’t respond, Spitfire huffs and goes back to looking through her closet before making a relieved, chirping sound as she declares, “I got it!” Struggling into the top of her uniform, she finally casts a glance back at you and raises an eyebrow. “So, are you just going to lay in bed or what? Get up and get it together, lover!”

Grumbling to yourself, you slip out of the sticky mess of sheets, making a face as the cooler air causes the wetness on your lower body to stiffen. “We’re going to reek of sex, you realize that, right?”

Spitfire doesn’t meet your eyes as she adjusts her lapels in the mirror. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”

Your little Fireball being both unhappy and snippy? That simply won’t do for meeting with foreign dignitaries. Or local ones for that matter. So, you do what any reasonable man would do when confronted with a frustrated female.

You goose her.

Okay, maybe it’s not the most reasonable course of action, but for the love of your life? A smile breaks across your face as her scowl disappears, replaced instead with a wide eyed shock.

“Sötnos,” she chokes before you grab another big handful of her meaty backside. The still sexually excited mare moans, her legs trembling as her snout very nearly becomes acquainted with the floor. But, why stop there? Dragging a quick circle around her plump anus causes the former flygirl to moan out loud, the medals on her uniform clattering loudly against the floorboards as her forelegs give out.

However her hind legs stay rigid, in fact she seems to bounce a little higher at your touch. You again run your hand over the expanse of her flank, tutting your tongue as you sigh. “Oh dear, you seem to have forgotten something.”

Spitfire’s face is a mixture of frustration, anxiety, and delight as she rocks her heavy hindquarters against your palm. When you first began noticing her in ‘that way’, they had been slim and sleek, but after years of a rigorous diet and exercise routine, two beautiful little monsters and then getting saddled with near-permanent desk duty, the just more than barely-there derriere has grown into a full-formed fanny. As you pull your hand away, she remembers how to speak, her words strangled as she chokes out, “Wh-what’s that?”

Reaching out and toying with her mane, you position yourself behind her. The mirror reflects both of you, and you can see Spitfire’s warm eyes dancing back and forth between your reflection and her own. She trembles, her tongue lolling out ever so slightly as you slide your erection up and down across her nethers. Seeing that she’s far more receptive now, you give a small tug on her tail and remind her of the rules you’d set out many, many years ago.

“We don’t stop until you’re glued shut so we can be sure it takes.”

The mare moans, her hips pushing back against you as you continue to tease her. But there’s still fight in her eyes, even if not so much in her voice, as she stammers, “Sötnos, the, the dinner. Princesses. Heads of State. They-”

“-Are nowhere near as important as making sure my wife is well and thoroughly satisfied.”

And just like that, Spitfire’s resistance crumbles. Within ten seconds, she’s already riding high towards her next orgasm as you rail her from behind. A happy grimace works its way onto her face as those bright eyes you fell in love with begin to roll back into her head, the word soup rolling off her tongue unrecognizable. But after her third, she becomes slightly more lucid, her eyes focusing back on your reflection as she grins madly.

“You, you’re really something, lover. Do you want to put a foal in me that badly?”

“You know I do.”

Seeing your smile, Spitfire finally glances over her shoulder and laughs. “Then do it, stud. Mark me as yours again, forever.”

As if you needed another reason. Tugging on her tail, you rudely pull her flanks to your thighs, the two of you reduced to another string of murmurs as your bodies threaten to give out under your own individual weights. The perils of getting older, apparently.

But with a hand on the mirror, you remain standing. Spitfire slumps forward off of you, breathless as her lower body trembles in satisfaction. You remain in your respective positions for a short while more before the tired eyed mare looks up at you with a grin.

“So, about the thing…”

Your heart drops in your chest. “Really?”

“Well, we’re already late,” Spitfire murmurs with a sly smile that does all sorts of wonderful things to your body. Seems like she’s finally figured out what’s important.

“So we don’t have to go to the dinner?”

“Oh no, we’re going.”

“But-”

“Sorry lover, but I can’t miss it,” the mare says, righting herself and planting a kiss on your hand. “But, we could both use a shower to wash the love-stink off.”

Sliding out of her shirt, the mare trots towards the bathroom, swinging her tail behind her as she calls back to you, “And I could probably stand one more round, if you’ve got it in you.”

A slow smile crosses your face as you shake your head. "This mare."