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Ghost has been looking forward to this for months.
It happens so rarely, when he and Soap can escape to the countryside and meet up with their friends at the pony club. His heart is racing with excitement as Soap drives up and parks at the end of the half dozen cars and trucks already gathered. It's a beautiful day, warm with a light breeze, Ghost can already smell the fresh grass and hay, the scents of leather and oil and warm, musty rooms.
He stays in the passenger seat, waiting for Soap to get out and open the door for him after Soap slings their duffle bag of gear from the backseat over his shoulder. Already Ghost can feel his mind going fuzzy and loose at the edges, his shoulders low and limbs heavy like he's moving through molasses as Soap takes his hand and helps him out of the car. Soap grins at him, his eyes bright with similar joy; he cups Ghost's face and kisses him gently over his mask. Ghost is only wearing a medical mask, so Soap is able to slide his fingers into Ghost's hair, his thumbs a warm, soothing pressure along Ghost's temples, prompting his neck to go heavy, forehead falling to Soap's shoulder in a brief nuzzle.
Soap wraps his arms around Ghost's shoulders, petting the nape of his neck, a gentle scritch that makes Ghost shiver. He sighs, lashes going low, breathes in the scent of his husband in deep, long huffs. He loves how the outside clings to Soap's skin, how he flushes immediately at the slightest hint of sun, his skin darkening and soaking up the warmth and light like an eager plant.
"Ready, love?" Soap murmurs to him, sweet and low in his ear. Ghost takes another moment to gather himself, let the promise of mindless, soft feeling gather in the base of his spine. Once he nods, and allows Soap to start their scene, he doesn't have to think anymore. Doesn't have to worry about anything except being good and obedient, enjoying himself in the grassy fields under the tender caress of the warm, balmy air.
Ghost nods, lets his heavy head be guided up so Soap can kiss his forehead, and their scene begins. Soap smiles, his eyes adoring on Ghost's face, his hands so gentle when he takes Ghost by the wrist and clicks his tongue, prompting Ghost to follow along behind him and let Soap lead him into the large repurposed barn. This place once held actual horses, years ago, but has been refurbished and made comfortable for ponies and their owners.
Soap leads him to one of the stalls, the open door marking it as available for a new arrival. The padded mats are soft beneath Ghost's shoes, squishing pleasantly as Soap leads him in and closes the stall door behind him, sets their bag on the bench in the corner. Soap smiles at him and clicks him over, his movements careful and slow - despite trusting Soap with his life, Ghost can get head shy when he's in this kind of mental space.
But he doesn't flinch, his eyes set lovingly on Soap's as Soap removes his medical mask and folds it, tucking it into his pocket. He kneels down and unlaces Ghost's shoes, cups his ankles one by one to help him out of them and places them on the bench beside their bag. Soap pets up his thighs and along his waist, taking Ghost's shirt with him as he straightens. Ghost bows forward, lifts his arms so Soap can pull the shirt over his head and down his wrists. He shakes his limbs loose and snorts gently, watching Soap fold up his shirt and place it beside his shoes.
With each article of clothing shed, Ghost sinks deeper, his muscles going lax as Soap pets and praises him with gentle hums and soft words, helps Ghost out of his joggers and underwear until he's entirely naked. It's cooler in here than outside, has Ghost's skin pebbling and twitching slightly in response to the chill, Soap's hands so warm in contrast. Ghost lets out a quiet, happy sound, his head falling to Soap's shoulder again as Soap takes a moment to check him over for bruises or cuts - their normal life is fraught with injuries, and they have many variations in their gear to accommodate for that.
But Ghost is pristine, unharmed, thankfully. He'd told Soap he wanted to be fully kitted out this time, wanted to sink deep into the headspace, shed the weight of his regular human mind and just exist for a little while.
And Soap, his perfect, beautiful Johnny, is all too happy to oblige.
Ghost's fingers flex when Soap's hands skate over the golden ring on his finger, he twitches and grunts in disapproval when Soap tries to remove it. "Alright, darlin'," Soap soothes, petting one strong hand across Ghost's nape, settling him. "Pretty lad, love ye so much, Simon, yer goin' down so perfectly."
It was Soap who brought it up first, the idea of shedding their human skins and playing as animals for a while. Ghost has never denied Soap a thing when he can help it, and met Soap eagerly, suggestion for suggestion. They'd tried puppy play first, since it seemed the most accessible, and Ghost had enjoyed it, but felt cramped and strange crawling around their flat, bereft when Soap would call him a good puppy; the tail plug was too stiff and awkward, his knees would ache from being on pads all day, his wrists protesting the constant weight and angle.
They'd tried something more amorphous, next - just a pet and their handler. But Ghost, at the end of the day, feels more comfortable in defined roles. Knowing what noises and behaviors he should be doing to make Soap happy, if he should yip or whine or mewl. The constriction harness had felt too vague, the nondescript gloves and shoes too lacking in purpose. It yanked at his hindbrain like barbed wire, making him itchy and nervous, and he'd had to call an end in the middle of a scene because he didn't know what he should be doing.
The pony club practically fell into their laps. A night out with their married neighbors who live below them and have decided that the reclusive lads upstairs needed a friend, a passing remark that Ghost was a proper workhorse with his long hours and constant griping about paperwork - the only non-classified thing he can really complain about when he and Soap join them for dinner or movie nights.
A sudden blooming in his chest and a frantic longing that Soap clocked immediately, as he always does.
Endless research, scoping out clubs and ingratiating themselves to their members. Infiltration for beginners, a walk in the park really, before they'd ended up here. Ghost loves it here, loves all the friends he's made in the pasture, loves that Soap is always laughing and giddy whenever he gets to talk with the other handlers, admiring their ponies from behind the fence. The joy of running around just because it's fun, of wrestling and grappling other ponies just for the pleasure of it - exercise with no real direction, no barking orders, no personal bests.
He shivers, blinks slowly when Soap taps his cheek, drawing his eyes. "Where'd ye go there, darlin'?" he asks, his brow creased lightly with concern. Ghost smiles at him and nudges their foreheads together, shakes his head slightly until Soap's expression smoothes back into a warm smile. "Ye with me, baby? Can call it a day if ye're not feelin' it."
Ghost shakes his head, blustering loudly, and Soap laughs. "Alright, alright," he chides, petting Ghost's cheek again. "Just checkin', love, ye ken Ah worry."
Ghost's face softens, adoring. He nudges their foreheads together again, lips at the tip of Soap's nose because it always makes him laugh.
"God, I love you," Soap murmurs, making Ghost's chest warm. He blinks slowly, once, twice - a silent I love you, too.
Soap kisses his cheek and then turns away, gathers the bucket and soft sponges beside the bench and slings it into the crook of his elbow. "Ah'll be right back," he promises. "Be good."
Ghost nods, following him to the stall door and peering over it when Soap closes it behind him, watching Soap head to the wash station to fill the bucket with warm, soapy water. As Soap leaves, he passes by another handler and pony Ghost recognizes, and he whinnies brightly in greeting.
"Oh, Simon! John! Good to see you," the handler says - a woman in her mid-twenties with her older stallion, one of Ghost's friends in the pasture. The stallion grins at him beneath his half-mask, snorting quietly when his handler leads him over so Ghost can dip his head and touch their noses together.
"Good tae see ye too, Kels," Soap calls over the rush of water filling the bucket. "Headed out already?"
"Aye, 've got work early tomorrow and the drive back's a bit long to Sam's place," Kels says, petting her pony fondly on the shoulder. He looks lovely in his gear, a dark brown that perfectly compliments his red hair and pale skin. Ghost blinks at him, nuzzling into the muzzle of his mask when Sam rubs his cheek against Ghost's.
Soap reappears with his bucket, grinning and giving Sam a fond pat as he passes, presses a greeting kiss to Kels' cheek. "Aye, best to leave then," he says. "Might overnight here, ourselves."
"Oh?"
"Simon's got some energy tae let out," Soap says, stepping into the stall, which forces Ghost to back away from Sam, following the lead of his handler. "D'ye ken if Yvonne's here? Been speakin' with her about some one-on-one playtime with her lad."
"Mm, I'm not sure," Kels replies, her brow creasing. "I don't think so, but if Ah see 'er on the way out Ah'll send her yer way."
"Cheers," Soap says, grinning. He plops the bucket down on the last free part of the bench, douses one of the sponges in the warm water and wrings it out.
"Solo playtime, eh?" Kels asks, folding her arms over the stall door, one of her thin blonde brows arched. "Finally breedin' yer mare out, then?"
Ghost shivers, though whether it's in response to the first brush of the warm, wet sponge on his skin, or the conversation, he can't possibly say. Handing control over to Johnny brings him no end of satisfaction, trusting his husband, his handler, to know what's best for him and ease him through his headspace - as easily as when they're at work. They'd talked about it - mares, fillies, geldings, and stallions are all released together in the pasture, and it's not uncommon for one of the stallions to get excited and try to mount a willing mare if she and their handlers consent. He's never even looked twice at another person, no one could compare to Johnny, but when Soap had brought it up, hushed and hesitant, Ghost hadn't been able to ignore the frantic flutter of excitement and intrigue in his chest.
But with that had come…complicated feelings. Feelings too writhing and knotted for him to bear as a pony. He'd asked Soap for time to think about it, reluctant on the surface to let another pony try to mount him - he's always kicked out and snarled when a stallion tries in the pasture - and terrified that it would disgust Soap in the aftermath. Or himself.
Johnny loves him, can't hide it any more than he can hide his blue eyes or his tanned skin, and Ghost knows he wouldn't ask anything of him that might threaten that - if there even is something that could change how Soap looks at him. It's not picking up a random person in a pub, it's not one of them stepping out.
It's…play. Fun.
Enticing, when Ghost allows himself to admit it.
"Aye," Soap replies, making Ghost's head twitch in his direction. So lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed that Soap has thoroughly washed his shoulders and arms, is now working at his knees and down to his feet. "If they're up fer it."
He tilts his head up, meeting Ghost's eyes. Checking in with him again, as he always does. Ghost swallows and smiles, nodding once, and Soap answers him with a smile of his own before lifting one of Ghost's feet to clean the sole. It tickles and Ghost kicks at him lightly, earning a playful swat to his thigh. Soap cleans his other foot and stands, wincing when he knee cracks.
"Well, Ah'll leave ye to it," Kels says with a grin, waving at them before tugging on Sam's lead. "See you lads later!"
"Drive safe!" Soap calls after her, his eyes never leaving Ghost's. He goes to dip the sponge and wring it out again before returning, his hand gentle on Ghost's chin, tilting his head up. "Simon," he croons, earning another slow blink, "Ah mean it, darlin'. Ye say the word and this doesn't happen."
Ghost swallows, his chest so warm it's near painful. He leans in and nudges his nose to Soap's, lets their lips brush in a chaste kiss. It's hard to talk in this headspace, his tongue near-numb and his lips unable to form the right words, but Soap knows him so well, knows Ghost's tells; when he's anxious or angry or scared.
He's not scared. He knows Yvonne, and her stallion, Roach. A sweet little lad, handsome and charming and an utter gentleman when they're in the pasture together. When Soap suggested him, some of that tension had uncurled in Ghost's gut, the knowledge that Roach is so kind and respectful, would never do him harm even as a pony, would do his damnedest to make mounting good.
Soap's smile is soft, his eyes utterly adoring. He pets Ghost's cheek and up into his hair, then turns his attention to washing Ghost's chest and stomach. Ghost clenches, can never help himself when Soap touches him, a slave to his husband in any headspace. Soap's hands on him are settling and assured, stained with blood down to the bone but always so good to him.
Soap finishes washing his front and circles to his back, warm water dripping in thin lines down Ghost's spine, around his flanks, down the backs of his thighs in a way that makes him shiver. By the time Soap is done, Ghost's skin shines, flushing pink, a warm ache gathered low in his belly.
Soap pulls him close with a hand around his nape, guides Ghost to rest on his shoulder, his fingers sliding down between Ghost's legs. Ghost gasps, lashes fluttering, as Soap sinks two fingers inside him without flair, curls them to brush, firm and knowing, along his g-spot. "Easy there, baby, just checkin' yer ready," Soap rasps, his voice low and breathy, familiar to Ghost's sensitive psyche. Soap always gets this quality to his voice when he's inside Ghost, even with just his fingers or tongue, like a predator glutting himself on a fresh kill. Ghost's hands flex at his sides, inner walls fluttering as Soap spreads his fingers and works them around in slow, wide circles. His palm presses against Ghost's cock, warm and firm, making Ghost clench up and whine quietly, his eyes closing as he quickly douses Soap's hand in slick.
Soap hums, pulls his fingers out, tests them with his tongue. His eyes are dark, now, pupils swallowing the blue, heavy-lidded as he licks his own fingers clean. Soap's always loved tasting him, has said more than once he'd take all his meals between Ghost's thighs if Ghost let him.
Ghost nudges his cheek to Soap's, plaintive, and Soap huffs a laugh. "Need tae get ye dressed, darlin'," he chides, giving Ghost's wet folds a light pat. "Gotta look all pretty fer yer stud, aye?"
His husband is such a bloody tease.
But Ghost doesn't protest, that's not his place. He stands, shivering, his body heat quickly drying the water still clinging to his skin. He watches Soap as he goes to their duffle bag and starts pulling out all their gear. Most of it is soft suede or faux leather, tight but gentle on Ghost's scarred skin, fleeced at the edges so it doesn't pinch or rub. All black, severe and sharp, with gleaming golden buckles. Ghost had fallen in love with it the second he'd seen it.
Soap takes a moment to hang it all over the stall door, making sure nothing's tangled. Ghost's leg coverings go on first - long, stocking-like things that end at his ankles and run all the way up to his thighs, garter attachments hanging freely for now. They're warm and soft on Ghost's skin, making him hum, pleased.
Next, his shoes - fashioned like a horse's hooves at the toe like a steel-toed boot, though with not quite as severe an arch as some other ponies wear. Ghost doesn't like to be so unsteady on his feet or put too much weight on just his toes, so Soap broke the hard soles off and replaced them with thinner wedges that allow him to walk properly. They're entirely black and encase his feet and ankles, strapped in with velcro around the joint to keep them secure.
Ghost shifts his weight, testing, gives Soap a nod when Soap meets his eyes. Soap stands and fetches his belt, the harness straps hanging free from the bottom of it. He circles Ghost and wraps the belt just above his hips, cinching it in at the waist with a soft grunt. Ghost sighs at the pressure, the thick faux leather compressing his stomach and ending just below his ribs, heavy-duty and solid. That fuzziness is coming back with a vengeance, forcing little gasps from his chest when Soap guides the straps between his thighs, attaching them to the stocking garters so that they stay up. It's not unlike some of his own tactical gear, all it's missing is the thigh holsters and any covering beneath. Thick straps tighten around Ghost's thighs, cradle the curve of his hips until they meet the belt. His tail arches proudly behind him, the same golden color as his mane, wrapped with leather at the base to help it keep its shape and allowing it to swish against his thighs whenever he walks.
He bows forward when Soap presses on his spine, cants his hips up proudly, braces himself on the edge of the stall door so he doesn't lose his balance. Behind him, Soap huffs another low, aroused sound, slides his tail to one side and pets two fingers between his thighs again.
Says, gruff and shaky; "Nice and easy access. Fuck, darlin', yer soaked."
Ghost whines, shifting his weight, his back bowing in a severe arch, wordlessly begging Soap to penetrate him again. He doesn't, just keeps dragging his callused fingers over Ghost's twitching hole, not even dipping inside.
"Can't wait tae see the mess yer stud makes of ye, baby," Soap rasps. Ghost lets out a mournful sound when Soap pulls his fingers away and corrects his tail, guides Ghost to straighten up. The straps on his thighs are too low for him to rub against, and he knows if he tried to touch himself Soap would just swat him away, so he stands, trembling finely, watching Soap with wide, hazy eyes as Soap goes to the stall door and picks up the rest of his gear.
His chest harness goes on next, fleece lining cupping his pecs, resting over his faded top surgery scars. The faux leather hugs his body, up over his shoulders and low beneath his arms so he doesn't chafe when he sweats. There are soft pads that cover his nipples, and clinging straps that wrap beneath his pecs and push them up and together, creating the faintest hint of cleavage. Soap carefully tests them with his slick, tacky fingers, making sure the harness isn't too tight. Pleased with the results, he tightens Ghost's collar around his throat - a thick, buttery soft piece of leather with fine boning running from edge to edge that forces Ghost's head up, makes him stand proud and tall, only able to dip his chin or bend at the waist if he needs to for any reason.
More straps connect the collar to his chest harness, two longer ones running down to attach to his tail belt at the front, drawing the eye naturally to the muscles in his stomach, the inward curve of his waist made narrow by the belt. One final strap runs down his spine, interlocking with the buckles at the back of his chest harness and tail belt, pulling him completely upright.
He barely feels the strain in his muscles, leans into the subtle tugs and clinging hands of the leather. Not unlike body armor, protective and secure, settled and comfortable in the same way being on his knees for Johnny makes him, or holding stress poses just because it makes his handler smile. He already relishes the burn, the way his shoulders will ache after he has his playtime. Like this, he can't lean down easily to nuzzle at Soap's neck or jaw, can only lip lovingly at his hair whenever Soap gets close enough.
Soap fetches his gloves, similarly long enough to settle beneath his elbows. They lack any specific finger holes, are solid and padded across his knuckles, forcing his fingers together and into a subtle curve. He can't tighten his fist or easily flex his hands in these, but he's never minded handing over total reliance to Johnny in this way. Things as simple as eating or opening a door or taking a piss are beyond his control, he doesn't need to worry his pretty little head about a single thing; his handler will take care of him, always does.
Soap reaches up to cup his face, his eyes dark and loving when Ghost blinks at him. "Ready for yer bridle?" he asks, and when Ghost whinnies his assent, Soap fetches the final piece of Ghost's gear. Some handlers put their ponies in complete masks, emulating the shape of a regular horse with extended muzzles that can comfortably fit a traditional bridle, but Ghost prefers having his face exposed in case he needs to show his teeth, likes being able to touch his nose to his friends' and nuzzle close to them.
Soap made this himself, learning how to work leather and metal into something truly gorgeous, flattering to a fault. Ghost parts his lips, accepting the soft rubber bit between his teeth happily, the edges narrower so he can almost completely close his jaw and feel the tug at the corners of his mouth. The metal rings are cool against his face, leather straps encasing his jaw, his forehead, the base of his skull. Soft pads cover his human ears, replaced instead with softer pointed ones atop his head, framing a thick mane the same color as his tail and his human hair that's long enough to fall to the center of his back.
When the final strap tightens, and Soap pulls Ghost's forelock free of the straps so it's not pinched and chafing, Ghost feels his entire body go lax, supple and happy. Joy warms his chest and stomach, his body held so lovingly in all his gear, and he knows from the look in his handler's eyes that he wears it well.
Now, he's Simon. Sweet, docile, empty-headed Simon, and Johnny will take care of him.
He whickers happily, lashes low and blinking lazily - once, twice. Johnny's entire face softens, his eyes almost sparkling with a mix of desire and affection. He cups Simon's face and brings him down so their noses can touch, the strap along Simon's spine tugging pleasantly at his collar, making him moan.
Johnny brushes their lips together, gently, just for a moment, and then allows Simon to straighten. He pulls a long black lead rope from their duffle and clips it into the ring at the front of Simon's collar, leading him to the stall door and through it. Simon's heavy toes clop dully on the concrete floor, his tail swishing lazily behind him as he follows Johnny back out into the sunshine. More cars have arrived, handlers chatting with their ponies and each other in various degrees of geared-up, and Simon whinnies in greeting when he recognizes some.
He receives a few chirps and snorts in response, but pays them no mind; Johnny is leading him to the pasture, opening the gate for him, unclipping his lead rope. "Have fun, darlin', and be good," Johnny says, as he always does.
Simon leans down as best he can, brushes his cheek through Johnny's hair, and then trots happily away. There are a few fellow mares clustered at the far end so he heads towards them, all of them smiling and nuzzling him in welcome. They're gorgeous in their gear, some of them flushed and panting from having had their romps already. One of his long-time friends, a mare named Sorcha, lips at his chest harness and rubs up against his flank, purrs sweetly and butts her head under his chin when he embraces her. She's wearing lighter gear today in deference to the warm weather, her thighs exposed and her harness only barely covering her breasts, having slipped low without her shoulder straps. She tosses her mane at him and herds him along the fence line, bidding him walk with her.
Simon follows, happy to defer to the lead mare, her bright red tail swishing with every sway of her hips. She's exposed like he is, tassels hanging from the bottom of her corset to provide vague and paltry modesty, but ponies don't feel shame or shyness over things like that, not with their dulled, fuzzy heads and all their needs met.
She grins at him, bitless, and gestures to his own exposed state, arches a brow. Simon snorts, smiling, and jerks his head back towards the handlers, who have gathered by the fence to watch their ponies enjoy themselves. Sorcha's other brow rises, and she casts a meaningful look around the pasture, to where the geldings and fillies are already at play, wrestling and chasing each other, their laughter shrill and bright. Beyond them, the stallions, who are doing their usual song and dance, blustering and posturing at each other as they decide the hierarchy between them.
Mares have no such trouble, Simon has found; Sorcha is always in charge, and she's always here. Her handler owns the club and farm, she's the only permanent resident Simon's aware of.
Simon follows her gaze, then shakes his head, as he cannot see Roach. She snorts as though in agreement, rolling her bright eyes, and nudges his shoulder with a conspiratorial smirk.
"One day," she murmurs, her voice raspy and soft. She doesn't speak often, not in the pasture, but she also doesn't sink as deep into the headspace as Simon does unless she's put to work. Simon tilts his head curiously at her, and she sighs, running her gloved hands around the ends of her long red mane. "One day," she says again.
Simon makes a mental note to recommend Roach to her, if he proves a good stallion today.
The stallions break apart, apparently having determined their pecking order at last. The leader charges forward, the rest of the herd loping behind him as they mingle with the fillies and mares, earning bright laughs and warm welcomes. Simon watches as two of the ponies meet, greet each other with a casual intimacy that implies they often stick together in the pasture. He doesn't recognize either of them, both of them wearing face coverings and harnessed up tight to cover their arms and legs. He watches the mare as she puts her hands on the stallion's chest, pushes her nose tight to his throat. His gloved hands curl around her hips, he snorts and presses up close to her, his cock hardening quickly when she turns and presents for him. Beyond them, he sees their handlers smiling, arms around each other, wedding rings shining on their fingers.
The mare moans roughly as she's mounted, her braided black tail pushed to one side, her thighs and arms straining as she fights to keep position when the stallion slides home. Another pair, a stallion and filly, are curled up together on the grass, the filly grinning and nipping at his full mask when he tries to impotently fuck her through her chastity belt.
Simon snorts, rolling his eyes. She seems to be delighted by the stallion's attempts to mount her, so he doesn't feel the need to intervene. The mares and fillies protect each other in the pasture, the geldings too if there's an extreme difference in population, but thankfully Simon has never had to break apart a pair or chase a stallion away. This club is a good place, everyone here knows their roles and is respectful, the rules firmly upheld.
Sorcha nudges at him again, prompting him to walk on, so Simon falls into step beside her as they take their turn around the field. Some of the stallions eye them but do not pursue when they receive no interest, and soon enough Simon and Sorcha are running, wanting to expel all this built-up energy. A few geldings join them, grinning and panting as they try to keep stride - both the mares are tall and long-legged and it's hard to keep up, and their attempts delight Simon to no end.
When Sorcha grows tired of running, she dismisses Simon with a flick of her mane and a nuzzle under his chin. Simon keeps running with a few of the geldings, and when they fall behind he allows them to catch up and tackle him, sending them sprawling into the grass. All geldings wear chastity, either cock cages or belts that render their cocks useless, so Simon doesn't worry about any of them trying it on with him. He chirps in recognition when he sees Ghoti join the fray, the gelding grinning and jumping up on Simon's back, sending them both rolling in the soft, long grass. Simon snorts and pins him easily, always does, but lets him up soon after so they can keep playing.
It's exhilarating, comforting, having no thoughts in his head but enjoying himself. He's still warm and wet, subtly aching low in his belly, but he can easily ignore that when surrounded by all his friends, some of them shyly introducing themselves with soft chitters and friendly touches of their noses.
He doesn't have to think about anything, doesn't have to worry about anything. He can feel Johnny's eyes on him, warm and attentive, so Simon has no concerns of his own.
The day draws on and Simon plays and runs with the rest of the herd until he's exhausted, his limbs shaking, satisfyingly sore. Ghoti and Sorcha have joined him in laying out in the grass, soaking up the sun, Sorcha's head on Simon's hip and Ghoti sprawled out on his back nearby, breathing hard from all the play.
Movement in his periphery draws his attention, and Simon lifts his head. He whinnies brightly when he recognizes Roach, the little stallion smiling, his green eyes warm, dimples cutting into his cheeks. Simon rolls away from Sorcha, ignoring her disgruntled huff at being disturbed, and rises to his feet.
Roach chirps up at him, having to tilt his head to meet Simon's eyes. He's not wearing a visibly harness, only a thick woolen blanket and his bridle, gloves, and shoes, which are flat and plain. All of his gear is soft-looking, spandex and nylon instead of leather. He doesn't speak much even as a human, prefers to sign and relies on his noises and body language to communicate, so his gloves have fingers to allow him to more effectively sign, and his bridle is more like a netted fly hood, only really exposing his eyes but allowing Simon to see when he smiles or moves his mouth along with his signs.
Simon isn't quite fluent in BSL, but he's made a concerted effort since Roach and Yvonne started attending the club, wanting Roach to feel welcome and like he won't be ostracized for his inability to speak much. In his own gear, bending down to Roach's height is difficult - he's shorter even than Johnny - but he does his best to tuck Roach beneath his chin, slings an arm around his shoulders in a brief hug.
Roach grins when they part, eyes crinkling at the corners. His fingers twitch and Simon's eyes fall to them.
"Handlers," he signs, and gestures to the fence. "Come?"
Simon nods, content to let Roach lead him back to their handlers. Yvonne is a tiny Irish woman, barely coming to Johnny's shoulder, but she makes up for it with boundless energy and a personality like a firework - all bright and loud and lovely. She turns when the ponies approach, her smile wide enough to make her eyes almost disappear, the apples of her cheeks lightly flushed.
"Roach, hi baby," she coos, reaching out to pet Roach's exposed neck fondly. "I thought you'd want to play a bit?"
Roach blushes, darts his eyes to Simon, and signs something too quickly for Simon to follow, but it makes Yvonne laugh.
"Eager, are we?" Johnny teases, grinning as well.
"Oh, hush, don't make fun of him," Yvonne says, smacking Johnny's chest, chiding without heat. "You're no better."
"Aye, too right," Johnny agrees easily, his dark eyes raking Simon up and down, approving and warming Simon all over. He shivers, shifting his weight, clamping down hard on his bit since he can't bite his lower lip with it in his mouth. Turns out even Johnny looking at him like that is enough to make him wet.
"Well," Yvonne says after a moment, her voice soft, nodding once to Simon. "If we're all ready, then we can get into one of the solo pens." She turns away immediately to check in with Roach, and Johnny jerks his head, guiding Simon down a little ways away. Johnny reaches over the fence to unfasten Simon's bit, smooths his thumbs gently along the corners of his mouth as Simon stretches his jaw.
"Are ye done playin', love? There's no rush." Johnny's tone is stern, commanding Simon pay attention. He blinks, once, to show he's listening. "And ye can still bow out. Ah won't be angry, no one will, Ah promise."
Simon stares at him. Inside his gloves, he's able to just about fold his thumb, running it along the warm metal band encasing his ring finger. He nods, eyes darting back to Roach and Yvonne, but Johnny shakes his head, cups his face and forces their eyes to meet.
"Ah'm sorry, darlin', but Ah need ye tae say it. Fer me," he presses, insistent enough that Simon swallows. Speaking is hard, it's so hard, and the care and attentiveness Johnny shows him makes his throat tighten beneath his collar. He clenches his eyes shut, willing his tongue to move, wishing for the words to come.
When he opens his eyes again, Johnny is still watching him, still waiting. He's so patient, he knows Simon so fucking well, Simon loves him so much it makes him tremble.
"I want to," he rasps, his voice hoarse even after going an afternoon without talking. "I want to breed for you, Johnny."
Johnny smiles, and brings Simon down so their noses can touch. "Thank ye, darlin', Ah ken that was hard. Yer bein' so good fer me; Ah'll make sure he treats ye right, aye? He's a good lad, you know he is. He'll be good tae ye."
Simon nods, trusting Johnny completely, and his choice of a stallion. Roach and Yvonne are still signing, far too quickly for Simon to follow, but they seem to come to the same agreement. Yvonne smiles and clips a blue lead rope to one of the buckles of Roach's blanket, leading him to the gate and through it.
Johnny follows suit, attaching Simon's lead rope to his collar and leading him out behind. Roach smiles at Simon, nudging his hooded muzzle to Simon's arm, his bright eyes warm and fond when their gazes meet. Simon smiles back, settled and trusting, happily sinking back to his dull, fuzzy headspace as Soap and Yvonne lead them back into the barn and through it, to where the solo pens are.
Some of them are more like training arenas, where ponies can do harder labor or be taken for short rides in their more heavy-duty harnesses, the ground covered in soft yellow sand and poles laying flat against the wall. Others are smaller still, for ponies that are nervous or prefer to play separately from the herd - newcomers or ponies that are injured in some way, unable to risk hurting themselves further in the herd's more exuberant romps.
Simon has never been led deeper than these pens, and he shivers with excitement as Yvonne and Soap lead them into a small, stall-like pen. The ground is soft, more like mulch than sand, and there is little furniture except a platform right in the center. Bolted to the smooth, shining wooden surface, is a mounting block and breeding bench.
Simon's breath catches at the sight of it, his low-grade arousal returning full-force, taking in the thick leather padding, the hooks and hobbling rope. Johnny leads him, first, to the far wall where there's a place to attach his lead rope. He removes the straps that tie Simon's bridle to his harness, allowing Simon to roll and stretch his shoulders, easing the strain that's gathered from so long being forced upright during his play.
"Do ye want anythin' else off?" Johnny asks him quietly, as Yvonne leads Roach to another station and starts to undress him.
Simon considers it, looking at the bench, comparing his own height to Roach's. Bent over it, he doesn't imagine the stallion will have much trouble, but after a moment he lifts one leg and nods to his shoes. Johnny smiles and pets his cheek, then crouches down to help him out of them, allowing Simon to stand on his bare feet. It doesn't make much of a difference overall, but every little helps.
The unzipping of Roach's fly hood and the rustle of his blanket draws Simon's attention. He watches, rapt, as Roach's blanket gets pulled off and folded over Yvonne's arm, revealing a rather fetching series of straps that wind around his chest and hips like rope; the same softer material but thick and a lovely dark mesh of brown and green. Roach's cock is already stiffening, he meets Simon's eyes, dark and wanting, and gasps when Yvonne reaches down to give his hardening cock a few gentle strokes.
"I haven't let him come in a month," she tells Johnny, smiling. "Want to make sure he's got a lot to give."
Simon whimpers, flushing all over at her words. It's no secret between him and his handler than he loves being fucked raw, filled up with so much come he can't possibly hold it all. The thought of this beautiful stallion filling him with a month of release has his insides clenching, wanton. Roach's cock hardens quickly, turning a dark red and dripping already at the tip.
Johnny arches a brow, gently pets Simon's exposed belly. "Will he be able to last long enough?" he taunts, his eyes on the stallion. "Ah won't be happy if ye leave Simon hangin', little bug."
Roach shakes his head, his russet mane now loose enough to shake in front of his eyes, curling around his ears. His twitching fingers rise, signing frantically; "I'll be good. I swear."
"Trust me," Yvonne assures them both, her free hand possessive on Roach's sweaty nape, "my boy knows how to treat a mare right."
Simon isn't honestly certain he'd mind. The thought of Roach mounting him and not even lasting long enough to make him come is strangely enticing, fills him with a deep, pleased sort of pride. He snorts gently, shifting his weight again, suddenly so eager he can hardly stand it.
Johnny hums, and takes Simon's lead rope off the hook, leading him over to the bench. He's gentle but firm, bidding Simon to step on and bow low, his feet flat on the floor, hips raised over the padded edge, the bench slanting sharply enough that he can brace himself on his gloved hands or his elbows if he needs to. Johnny kneels down and ties the lead rope through the thick metal hook at the edge of the platform, hobbling him in place, then winds the cuffs of the second hobbling rope around his ankles, tying the end of it to the same hook. Like this, Simon can't buck or kick or even lift his head; he's completely prone and exposed, ready to be mounted.
Johnny cups his chin, checks that his collar isn't too tight, and whispers; "Nod once if yer ready, darlin'."
Simon nods. Once.
"Good boy," Johnny praises, his voice unbearably rough and warm. He stands and pulls Simon's tail to one side, exposing his dripping, ready hole. Simon whimpers when Johnny spreads his lips wide, pushes in with two fingers and targets his g-spot with relentless pressure until Simon shudders and gushes for him, slick enough it drips thick and wet onto the floor between his feet. He can hear Roach blustering softly, letting out fast, heavy breaths. Simon braces his hands as best he can against the floor, forces himself lax when Johnny lets his fingers slip free with one last tender stroke to his cock.
"C'mon, pretty lad," Johnny purrs, "breed him good."
Yvonne leads Roach over, drapes his lead rope over the bench and ties it with only a little give, taut enough Roach can't step back off the platform until she lets him. Roach presses close, panting already, his hands flattening wide on Simon's hips and curling through the straps connecting his belt to those around his thighs, his bare hips warm against Simon's arse, grinding once.
And, to Simon's surprise, he drops down to his knees and wraps his lips around Simon's cock.
"Fuck," Johnny snarls, somewhere above Simon's head. One hand is still on Simon's back, grounding and firm, and Simon needs it because he immediately seizes up, crying out roughly as Roach's tongue curls around his cock, sucking him with lewd, wet sounds.
"Told you," Yvonne says smugly, off to his right. "My boy knows what he's doing."
Simon can't disagree. Roach's tongue is slick and soft, his mouth sucking hard, breathy little gasps punctuating Simon's high-pitched moans. He collapses onto his chest, unable to lock his elbows and stay upright, his thighs trembling, overwhelmed by the onslaught of pleasure. Roach does know what he's doing, his talented and eager mouth sucking and licking with a dizzying mix of sharp tension and tender strokes of his tongue. It's like he read a fucking manual on how to please Simon - and maybe he did, maybe Johnny trained him, taught him just how Simon likes a mouth to touch him.
Or Yvonne taught him. Simon can't see her very well, his vision greying at the edges as he pants and whines in place, shuddering over the bench. He doesn't know if Yvonne's relationship with Roach is sexual when they're humans, but he's quickly losing his ability to think or care about anything that isn't the stallion's sweet, hot mouth, the rut of his nose over Simon's hole.
Johnny breathes deeply, his fingers curling to press blunt into the muscles of Simon's back where his chest harness ends, skin sweaty and pink. He does his best to lift onto his toes, presenting more readily for his handler and his stallion, and Roach bows down tighter, head tilted up, working his jaw as he curls his tongue around Simon's cock and sucks him down. His hands slide around the front of Simon's knees, gloved nails dragging over his stockings, helping to keep him steady.
That motion, that small, near-inconsequential act of care, does Simon in. He groans loudly, pressing his sweaty forehead to the bench, his hips bucking fiercely as he comes. Roach moans, the sound wet and rough, his tongue stroking up Simon's cock and into his hole so he can feel Simon twitch and clench around him, soaking down his chin.
"Tha's a good fuckin' boy," Johnny growls, giving Simon's tail a sharp yank to jerk his hips up and let him ride Roach's face. "Good job, little bug, Christ he's made a mess of ye, hasn't he?"
Simon can't see, but he can feel how wet Roach's cheeks are as he nuzzles into Simon's folds, panting and wet. His hands slide up Simon's thighs, using the straps around them as leverage to haul himself up with a sweet, low huff. He shoves his face between Simon's cheeks, licking at his rim briefly before he straightens, braces his hands once again on Simon's hips.
Johnny steps forward, pulls Simon's lips apart to fully bare his flushed, clenching hole. Simon's cheeks darken at being so exposed, he can feel Roach's eyes on him, hot and heavy as a brand. Yvonne comes forward, then, her fingers wrapping around Roach's dripping cock and guiding the tip to Simon's hole.
"Nice and easy, baby," she coos, pushing Simon's trembling thigh a little wider, holding him steady. Roach whimpers as he sinks inside, his cock thick and long, fucking perfect as it splits Simon apart, nudges deep enough to bloom a tender ache low in his belly. He tosses his head, the leather bench warm and damp beneath his flushed cheek, fighting to keep still and not grind back against the stallion. He's so deep in it, knows nothing except his handler is here with him, and a good, gorgeous stallion is about to come inside him, and he wants it so badly he can barely think.
Roach's thighs press flush against his own, trembling just as harshly. With Simon bent so low their height difference isn't an issue, has Roach angled down to scrape against his sweet spot with unerring precision, his heavy sac a teasing warmth against Simon's cock. Yvonne says something, too softly for Simon's addled mind to process, cups Roach's balls with a tender hand, her nails scraping Simon's folds.
Another hand, fingers callused and familiar, strokes along Simon's cock, and he's coming, suddenly and violently. He clamps down hard on Roach's cock, slick escaping in a pitiful dribble since he's plugged so full, his feet stamping the platform and hips jerking outside of his control. He knows he's making noises, high-pitched and breathless and downright obscene; he can't stop them, can't do anything but brace himself and take it as Roach starts moving.
And fuck, he knows what he's doing. Knows to pull out slow and fuck in quicker, wrenching more desperate noises from deep in Simon's chest. He can hardly breathe, his lips pulled back and teeth buried in the seam of the leather bench, utterly limp along the leather as Roach's heavy, hard cock pummels all thought from his head.
It doesn't last long, and at the same time it lasts for hours, Simon's head soupy, his eyes hazy and unseeing as Roach mounts him, deep and hard and steady until his hands tighten, digging into Simon's hips. Yvonne's hand flattens on the small of his back, urging him to press as deep as he's able, gently massaging and milking his sac as he comes with a breathy whine. Like a good boy, he stays put, letting Simon take his entire load until his stomach cramps with it, his tail belt somehow feeling too tight as he's filled to the brim.
Johnny's fingers stroke Simon's cock through it, not with any real intent, but Simon is so sensitive and overwhelmed - his orgasm feels absent, far away, but powerful enough to exhaust him, shivering and loose all over. Roach bows over him, nuzzles tenderly at the exposed skin of Simon's waist, arms coming forward to hug him around the bench; a long, fond embrace.
The tender act brings tears to Simon's eyes. He's so satisfied, so full. He does his best to communicate that to Roach, lifting his shoulders and tilting his head so he can meet the stallion's eyes, finding them similarly hazy, low-lidded and dark, his flushed cheeks and sweaty mane and completely lax expression letting Simon know that he's similarly fucked-out, lost deep in his headspace; his grateful little whine makes Simon shiver.
Yvonne unhooks Roach's lead rope. She carefully pulls him upright, cupping his face and murmuring soft praises to him. Simon whimpers when he pulls out, a thick river of come pouring out of him and onto the platform. Roach's shoulders slump with exhaustion, his chest heaving as Yvonne leads him away to wipe him down and put his blanket back on.
Johnny's hand on his spine is the only thing keeping him settled, restless now that he's been bred. Warring desires to be released and to lie still and catch his breath are tempered with the knowledge that his handler wants him to stay put, and he trusts Johnny completely.
Yvonne smiles at them both, cradling Roach's head to her shoulder so he can lean on her, still breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, pupils wide, not pushing Roach away when he dips an ungloved hand under the waistband of her long skirt and settles there, his cock twitching beneath his blanket when she sucks in a shaky breath.
"Do ye need the room?" Johnny rasps, sounding just as fucked-out as Simon feels.
"I'll take the one next door," she replies, urgent. Johnny nods. Neither he nor Simon watch the pair leave.
Simon shifts his weight, whining softly, and Johnny falls over him with a bestial snarl, his hands rough when he shoves Simon's thighs apart and pushes three fingers suddenly inside him. "The fuckin' sounds you make, darlin'," he growls, his other hand fighting clumsily with the button and zip of his jeans, shoving them down and fisting his throbbing cock. He pulls his fingers out and fucks in, desperate and hard and right where Simon wants him. "Steamin' bloody Jesus, next time Ah'm gonna record ye, let ye hear how much of a fuckin' slut you are, cock-hungry little slag, fuck, love ye so much Simon, thank you, thank you fer doin' this fer me, fuck…"
He shoves deep, shuddering as he comes, keeps fucking Simon through his orgasm, Roach's come squelching along with Simon's gushing slick and his own fresh load. Johnny's normally not so quick to finish, can fuck Simon for hours when they have the time; feeling him shoot off so fast, knowing Simon could give that to him, floods his mind like honey, saccharine and delightful, has him whining and clenching up around his handler's cock in gratitude.
Johnny pulls out with another growl, circles to Simon's head and drops to his knees in front of him. A hand fists in his mane, forcing his head up, his mouth slack enough that there's no resistance when Johnny feeds him his cock. Bitter-salt coats his numb tongue, his throat sore from all the sounds he's made, his own slick like a chaser. Simon dutifully licks his handler clean, moaning and blinking up at Johnny, his lust-blown eyes and red cheeks.
Simon did that, Simon made Johnny feel good. He was good.
He tilts his head, wanting Johnny deeper even as he feels Johnny soften, careful not to overstimulate him as he licks and sucks him clean. Johnny's hands feel worshipful on his cheeks, his shoulders, the bare skin of his back. He slips free and collapses over Simon's back, both of them breathing hard, trembling in the wake of the crest of their scene.
Johnny gathers himself soon after, tucks himself away and works to untie the hobbling ropes and lead from the platform's hooks. He helps Simon to stand, massaging his sore shoulders and hips, loosening the straps of his harness and tail belt a notch so Simon can breathe easier. Simon flinches at the touch to his collar, hands flying up to pull Johnny's away with a protesting snort.
"Alright, darlin', not yet," Johnny says, understanding Simon so easily. Thick, warm come drips down Simon's thighs, stains his stockings and puddles on the floor. Johnny's eyes fall to it, lips parted, pupils huge. He bites his lower lip and spreads Simon's lips apart, making more spill. "Christ alive," he breathes. "There's so much."
Simon can feel it, warm and coating his insides. He blinks once, twice when Johnny meets his eyes, making his handler smile brightly up at him. Johnny leads him off the platform and hooks him to the wall, takes wipes and cleaner from the sanitation station at the back of the room and thoroughly wipes the bench and platform down so that it's ready for whoever uses it next.
They didn't bring Simon's blanket, but he's hot and sweaty, happy to let the cooler air touch his bare skin. After Johnny returns the equipment, he comes back with a bottle of water and twists off the top, cups Simon's face and feeds him a few big swallows before Simon pulls away, content.
Johnny takes the water with them, wraps his fingers in Simon's lead rope after he unhitches Simon from the wall, grabs his shoes and leads him out of the room. Next door, another solo play room has its door closed, but Simon can hear more grunting, Yvonne's familiar voice encouraging and moaning loud. Simon shivers, wonders if some of his slick is still coating Roach's cock and tongue, if Yvonne is tasting him right now; all ponies and handlers have regular check-ups so that they can play naturally together, and he knows Johnny would have insisted on a recent test just as they both went through themselves, not even a week ago.
They emerge into the sunlight again, and Simon sees Sorcha and Ghoti lingering near the fence, Sorcha's handler at her side and speaking to her quietly while she smiles and nods along. Sorcha's eyes catch his, and she arches a brow. She saw Simon leave with Roach, and Simon can see the interest in her eyes.
He nods, can't give her a thumbs up but wants to make sure she knows Roach passed with flying colors. She grins at him brightly, and then Johnny is leading him along back to the stables, and he loses sight of his friends.
"Do ye want tae play some more, darlin'? Yer chastity's still in the car but Ah can fetch it fer ye," Johnny says.
Simon considers it, but shakes his head. Now that he's drier and cooled off his harness and bridle are starting to itch, and he wants to be able to speak again - to tell Johnny all the things he felt during the scene, how happy and grateful he is that Johnny chose Roach and how good it all was. Sometimes he thinks Johnny gets off harder on hearing Simon's approval than he does during their actual play, and he wants to give his husband that sweet pleasure again; see him settle, knowing that Simon is satisfied.
Johnny nods, and sets to work taking off Simon's gear. His shoes get tucked away first, deep in their duffle. Then his bridle, allowing Simon to hear properly and stretch his jaw. The straps connecting his collar to his belt and harness come off next, though he leaves the collar on for now. Simon's chest harness is quickly loosened and pulled off, then his thigh straps and soiled stockings, then finally his tail belt. The weight of them shed from Simon's body makes his breath come a little easier, allows him to unwind from the tight compression.
After Johnny pulls off Simon's gloves, he takes a moment to stretch as Johnny puts all the gear away, Simon left only in his collar, still. When Johnny comes back, he's carrying another collar - a soft solid coil of nylon, similar to the throat mic he sometimes wears, though this one has a piece of iron that has his initials engraved on the inside - Simon's day collar. He needs it, sometimes, after a heavy scene; needs something secure and physical to ease his brain back online.
Seeing it, Simon is content this time to let Johnny take off his thicker pony collar, pulling the nylon one over his head and letting it settle in place once it's gone. Simon closes his eyes, touching it, swallowing just to feel it flex and cling to his skin. Awareness and higher thought is coming back to him in waves, like the gentle laps of the ocean on the shore, cool and constant. He's able to feel the aches and strains in his body - his sore shoulders and jaw, his thighs and knees gone fluid from bracing himself, the subtle but settling ache in his hips from Roach's hands and the pressure of the bench; his fucked-full, come-soaked pussy.
Johnny cups his face, meets his eyes. Simon smiles and dips his head, far enough that Johnny's lips can touch his forehead, calling an end to their scene.
"Fuck," is the first thing he says, fighting the urge to just collapse to his knees.
Soap huffs, grinning against his sweaty temple. "That a good 'fuck' or…?"
Like he has to ask. Ghost cups the back of his neck and kisses him, deep and hard and human, knows Soap can taste himself and Roach and Ghost still lingering on his tongue. He presses his naked body tight against Soap's clothed one. Soap answers him just as easily, hands skating down Ghost's sides and around his back to settle at his tailbone, his silver wedding band warm and solid and catching on one of Ghost's scars.
He's hard again, they both are, and Ghost's hands are greedy, sweeping up through Soap's hair, down to his hip. "Let me suck you off, Johnny," he breathes, begs. "Please, sweet'eart."
Soap sighs, kisses him again. "Not here, darlin', you know the rules." No sexual contact in the stables, as it's meant to be a safe and removed transition space for the ponies and their handlers. Ghost nods, biting his lower lip, and lets Soap gather his clothes, helping him back into them since Ghost is still not quite coordinated enough to do it himself, and they both like it when Soap does it for him. Soap hurries to pack their duffle, tucking in Ghost's lead rope and collar and zipping up the bag. He slings it over his shoulder and takes Ghost's hand, practically sprinting out of the barn. Yvonne and Roach are nowhere in sight, and some of the ponies snort as they pass, their handlers waving.
Ghost barely sees them; he follows Soap to their car and yanks open the backseat, climbing in and turning so Soap can follow him. Their bag falls to the foot-well and Ghost pulls Soap on top of him, kissing him hard and tucking in his legs so that Soap can haul the door closed, trapping them in the warm, musty space.
It's cramped and uncomfortable in their backseat, try as Ghost might he can't get Soap closer like this, so he shoves himself up and pushes Soap onto his heels, tearing at Soap's jeans so he can get his mouth on him. Soap growls under his breath, fists a hand in Ghost's hair and settles in his seat, letting Ghost suck him down the second his cock's free. He's rougher, now, a slave to Ghost's open desire as much as Ghost is to his, fingers clenched tight as he works Ghost's head up and down, fucks deep enough to make him choke.
Ghost braces one hand on the door handle, sore shoulders tightening to hold his weight so he can suck his husband's cock properly. He's sweating all over again in the cramped heat of the car, the windows fogged up, suspension creaking as Ghost does his best to give Soap his throat, his tongue, his choked and gagging moans. His husband deserves it, deserves all the pleasure Ghost can give him for being so good to him, leading him into and out of his headspace so safely, Ghost loves him so fucking much and he needs Johnny to come, needs it more than anything.
Cursing, Soap hauls his head up, high enough that Ghost can only stretch out his tongue to taste him, moaning roughly as Soap takes himself in hand and strokes his cock. "Talk tae me, baby," he demands, hoarse and low and with that predatory rasp. "How'd it feel? Didja imagine it was me?"
Ghost whines, instinctively wanting to say yes, but honestly saying, "Didn't matter." Soap's cock twitches, another spurt of precum landing on Ghost's eager tongue. "Couldn't think of anything at all, just felt so - so good. Being owned. Being bred just because you wanted me to, fuck."
Soap's fingers flex in his hair, tighten until the pull stings pleasantly along Ghost's scalp. "Ye looked incredible," he groans, hand stroking faster. "Should'a recorded it, Simon, ye looked so fuckin' gorgeous, couldn't see a single thought in that pretty little head o' yers."
He can barely imagine, has no idea what he looked like, only that Soap enjoyed it. He slips his tongue around the head of Soap's cock, whining softly when Soap's cock jerks again, seeking. "Next time," he promises.
Soap's hips hitch, his rhythm stuttering. "Yeah?" he rasps, breathless, fingers flexing in Ghost's hair. "Gonna let me breed ye out again, darlin'?"
"Whenever you want," Ghost tells him, panting. "As often as you want, Johnny, please, come, come for me, give it to me."
"C'mere," Soap demands, wrenching his head up. Ghost kisses him, desperate, lets Soap pull him close and into his lap. The car ceiling is low, forcing Ghost to curl tight on top of him, not leaving him much room to move at all, but Soap still manages to yank his joggers down his thighs, the saddle of them bunched up on Soap's lap, and sink his cock back inside Ghost's sore, swollen hole. He whimpers, turns his head to bite down at the arch of Soap's ear, clinging to his hair as Soap comes inside him - shallowly, immediately leaking down his shaft and knuckles. He pushes his fingers in when his cock slips free, limp, bullies his fingertips against Ghost's g-spot, squelching and loud. Ghost ruts down onto him, oversensitive and crying out when Soap wrenches another brutal orgasm from him, whining when Ghost squirts all over him, ruining their clothes.
He fucks Ghost through it, until Ghost bites down harder, warning. Soap, the bastard, just laughs, but obediently slows his fingers until they go still, just keeping Ghost full even as come and slick leaks down his hands. Then, out - he feeds Ghost his messy fingers, lets him suck at them as Ghost tries to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. His teeth click against Soap's wedding ring, making them both shiver.
Ghost floats, utterly satisfied, in love with Soap's gentle hand petting through his hair, soothing the stinging in his scalp. Down his back, the part of his thighs still exposed. Respecting that Ghost is sensitive and lost in that quiet, luxurious place, he doesn't try to touch Ghost again, leaves his cock and pussy alone and just holds him until his fingers are clean, and Ghost is no longer panting quite so shakily.
Ghost sucks in a breath, his face buried in Soap's neck, Soap's fingers latched into his stretchy collar, thumb brushing the engraving inside the metal. "Love you so much, Johnny," he whispers, throat thick, tongue heavy.
Soap's entire body shivers beneath him, he swallows loud enough Ghost hears his throat click. "Love ye too, Si," he says, turning his head to kiss Ghost's sweaty temple.
"Don't wanna move," he admits, huffing when Soap laughs at him.
"Aye, Ah ken, love, but yer gonna start bitchin' when all this mess dries and yer still stuck in these clothes."
His husband knows him so well. Ghost huffs again and nips at Soap's neck, parts his lips after a moment to suck a big, bruising kiss over his pulse. It's vindicating to feel Soap's cock twitch against him, his nails briefly dragging along Ghost's hairline.
"Could still overnight," he suggests, with no real emotion.
Soap shakes his head. "Nae. Gonna take ye home and give ye a nice bath, get some food in ye, then eat ye out 'til yer makin' all those pretty noises fer me again."
…Well, when he puts it like that, Ghost supposes he can find the strength of will to dismount and let Soap fix his clothes. The windows are indeed fogged up, totally opaque, the car warm and musky, filled with the scent of sex. Ghost loves that smell, loves how it'll cling to Johnny like static, how everyone who happens to get near him will smell Ghost all over him and know he belongs to Ghost.
As if the wedding ring, the bite marks, and the way he never looks at anyone else isn't proof enough.
Soap smiles at him, leans in to pet his hair from his face and kiss him gently, then clambers out and gets into the driver seat. The fresh air feels nice, has Ghost sighing and lax in the backseat, idly petting over his collar, down his throat and stomach, between his legs before he pulls his sodden joggers back up.
Soap starts the car and peels off, gravel turning to road beneath their tires, scenery barely visible as they speed along back home.
"What've we got in the fridge?" Ghost asks after a while, once his brain has come back online.
Soap huffs. "After today, darlin', Ah'm treatin' ye. We'll order in. Whatever ye want."
"Mm." Ghost sits up, puts his chin over Soap's shoulder, ignoring Soap's little complaining huff that Ghost hasn't put his seatbelt on yet. "Chinese," he decides. "Stir fry and rice."
"Sure," Soap replies, smiling.
Ghost smiles too, wraps his arms around Soap from behind, just about able to lock his fingers around his wrists and squeeze at Soap's chest. He can feel where Soap's shirt is still soaked through, stained up to his sternum.
"And I want to get somethin' from the bakery down the road. They deliver. They have the coffee you like."
Soap rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Alright."
"And," Ghost adds, making Soap huff again, "I want to ride your face. Think you can make me come so hard we have to sleep on the sofa?"
Soap gasps, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. When he meets Ghost's eyes in the rearview, they're dark and shining, his swallow loud.
"Ah think Ah can arrange that," he rasps.
Ghost grins, and leans over the seat to kiss Soap's flushed neck, squeezing once more. "Thank you, Johnny," he whispers. "I love you."
Soap smiles, brings one hand to rest over Ghost's and pets his thumb over Ghost's wedding ring. "Love you too, darlin'," he replies, unbearably affectionate. "Now put yer seatbelt on. And finish yer water."
Ghost rolls his eyes, but obediently sits back with a sigh, puts his seatbelt on and salutes Soap in the rearview with his half-empty water bottle. "Yes, dear."
"Good lad."