>"Reporting for evaluation, ma'am!"
>You snap to attention in front of Marshal Spitfire's desk
>A fiery orange mane bobs back and forth from behind a tall stack of paperwork
>Finally her head raises as a pair of brown eyes peers up at you 
>"So, you're the new cadet candidate, eh?" a gravelly female voice asks
>"Yes ma'am. Private Quicksilver, ma'am!" you answer, puffing your chest out a bit
>The eyes narrow as she gives you a once-over
>"Very well, private. Let's get a good look at you."
>A yellow hoof reaches out and shoves the paperwork aside

>Your eyes widen as you catch sight of her
>Marshal Spitfire's blue Wonderbolts uniform looks dangerously undersized
>The top of a generous belly bulges out from beneath her half-buttoned dress shirt
>Its plump yellow flesh is squashed against the lip of her desk
>You fight to keep you mouth from gaping
>You'd heard the rumors, but hadn't believed it until now
>Now that Rainbow Dash had become captain of the Wonderbolts, Spitfire had been 'promoted' to Marshal
>A ceremonial role, mostly involving sitting behind a desk and filling out paperwork
>And filling out her uniform, apparently
>You've never seen a mare this overweight in person before
>And it's SPITFIRE, for pony's sake!

>Marshal Spitfire clears her throat and retrieves a folder from her stack of papers
>A plump double chin begins to wobble as she reads off your dossier
>"Private Quicksilver. Cloudsdale native...average test scores...accepted into the Royal Guard..."
>Spitfire pauses her narration to rifle through a bag beside her
>Her hoof retrieves a hayburger, which she carefully unwraps and sinks her teeth into
>You're suddenly aware of the number of fast food wrappers and bags crumpled up around her desk
>"Average wingpower...average agility...low Dishhitron performansh..." Spitfire mumbles as she gobbles up her burger
>In a flash it's devoured, and she follows it up by scarfing through a carton of hayfries
>You stare transfixed as the mare alternates between stuffing her face and scrutinizing your test scores
>Finally she tosses your grease-stained report cards aside, picks up a lidded cup, and sucks down its contents through a straw
>"Sorry, Private. But I'm afraid you don't make the cut. The Wonderbolts are an elite flying team and, well, you just don't meet our standards."

>You've just been rejected from the Wonderbolts, but you can't take your eyes off Marshal Spitfire
>The pegasus mare finishes slurping her drink, then sits back in her creaking office chair
>You bite your lip as more of her belly is exposed, round and yellow like a giant egg yolk
>It looks so soft, you wonder what it'd be like to touch it...
>Spitfire reaches over again and fumbles with the fast food bag, spilling two more hayburgers and a pile of fries onto her desk
>The yellow pegasus glances longingly at the last two hayburgers
>A yellow hoof prods the swell of her bloated gut
>Her stomach gurgles, and she lets out a soft low belch
>Your nethers stiffen as you gawk at the former racer, now caught between her gluttonous appetite and the fullness of her belly
>Spitfire's brown eyes look back to you
>She notices you aren't exactly looking at her face
>Her frown suddenly curls into a naughty smile

>"C'mere Private. Maybe there is a way for you to serve the Wonderbolts after all..."
>You scramble around her desk as Spitfire waves you forwards
>Your eyes bulge wider as you catch sight of her full figure
>Her thick thighs swell into a deliciously round rump that squishes deep into her office chair
>The Marshal's portly belly sags over the chair's seat, forcing her back legs slightly apart
>Its impressive roundness is divoted by a cavernous bellybutton
>Spitfire wheels her chair back, then motions for you to sit
>You plop your rear on the floor and scoot back towards the desk as she wheels herself back into place
>The yellow mare regards you smugly as you stare up at her bulbous gut
>"Well, Private? Don't just stare at it. Rub it."

>Oh Celestia, yes
>Your forehooves reach out to touch the sides of her overfed belly
>The pegasus mare sighs with relief as you trace circles over the surface of her doughy gut
>It's just as warm and squishy as you imagined it would be
>After a minute of rubbing, Spitfire grabs a hayburger, unwraps it and begins to nibble
>Your hooves gently prod the taut lump over her stomach, squishing and compressing and making more room
>The Marshal belches repeatedly, low and loud, between bites of her burger
>Your cock is now shamelessly stiff as you rub her belly more vigorously
>Spitifre moans through a mouthful of fries as you suddenly nuzzle her navel
>The yellow mare gasps as you stick out your tongue and give the fuzzy cavity a cautious lick
>"F-fuck," the Marshal mumbles before grabbing the last hayburger and tearing into it

>Your bellyrubbing continues as Spitfire stuffs down every bit of food left at her desk
>The mare gulps down the last bite of hayburger and tosses the wrapper aside
>She leans back in her chair and lets out a pained groan
>All you can see is the vast, round swell of her belly
>Her stomach is absolutely packed to capacity
>The overstuffed mare belches softly as your hooves massage away the pain of fullness
>"Lower," Spitfire finally mumbles
>"Hmm?" your ears perk up
>"Private. Lower..." she repeats, motioning downwards with an errant hoof
>Is she seriously asking you to-
>Oh, fuck...

>Your cock is hardening again as you move lower, nuzzling and rubbing the lower swell of her belly pudge
>Spitfire growls and slumps further down in her chair, her back legs splaying out further
>"Lower!" she commands, her back hooves curling in pleasure
>You dutifully move lower
>The Marshal reaches out and hefts up her gut, lifting it gently
>Your muzzle slides underneath, probing the space between her chunky back legs
>Your chin rasps over the seat as you burrow between Spitfire's thighs
>The mare shudders as your swept-back mane tickles the bottom of her gut
>She suddenly lets out a lewd moan as you find her two squishy teats and give each a gentle nip

>"L...lower!" the Marshal orders, quivering with anticipation
>You squeeze between her blubbery limbs to find the prize - the plump, wet lips of her sex
>You brace yourself, then give her marehood a long, steady lick
>"YES!" Spitfire screams, squeezing her flabby thighs against you
>You let out a muffled moan as your head is squashed on three sides by the weight of her fat
>All you can smell, all you can taste is her sweat and her heat
>Your tongue starts to work against her soaking folds, licking and nuzzling as fast as you can
>Spitfire is reduced to a gasping, fidgeting mess as you pleasure her
>Sweat pools around your buried head as you madly lap up pegasus pussy
>The Marshal lets out a throaty moan, clamping her thighs around you as she finally cums
>Her nethers wink as your muzzle is splattered with her juices

>After a moment, the mare releases you from her impromptu headlock
>You gasp as you wrench your head out from between Spitfire's thighs
>The panting, disheveled mare looks down at you from atop the curve of her gut
>Your mane is probably a mess, and your face is plastered with sweat and marecum
>Marshal Spitfire's flushed face gives you a pleased grin
>"Looks like I may have a spot for you after all..."
>The pegasus rolls her chair away from her desk
>Her eyes catch sight of your erect, pent-up cock as she sloshes forwards and falls onto all fours
>Spitfire takes a few waddling steps off to the side, her packed burger belly sloshing as she walks
>Suddenly she turns back to regard you with a mischevious glance
>Her fiery tail lifts as she presents herself to you, her marehood nearly hidden between the squishy yellow orbs of her ass
>"Well Private. Ready for round two?"

>With a lusty growl, you scramble up towards her
>Spitfire grunts as your forehooves clamp onto her rump
>You're practically drooling with anticipation as you jiggle the mare's luscious ass
>The Marshal looks back at you, then motions with a hoof
>"Wait...there's a bed over-"
>Her sentence is cut short as you rear up and throw yourself on top of her
>Spitfire's forelegs crumple as she falls forwards, her yellow belly squashing against the office carpet
>Your muzzle nips her soft upper back as you mount her, slamming your hips against her blubbery rear
>The pegasus mare moans as you force your horsecock between her fat cheeks
>Her wings unfurl, and you place your hooves below her wingpits, squeezing for leverage as you hilt inside her pussy
>You thrust once, twice, again and again, picking up speed as you desperately rut her
>Spitfire is panting again, her overweight body sloshing and slapping in time with your thrusts
>With a moan you climax and cum inside her, her sex winking again as you fill it with seed

>Gently, you pull yourself off the mare and back away towards the desk
>Spitfire rolls onto her side, her eyes staring back at you as her breathing steadies
>Well...I think that's a new Academy record," the Marshal says dryly
>"S-sorry, ma'am," you reply your face flushing red
>Her deadpan expression melts into a smirk
>"Well, at least we know what your team nickname will be."
>"Quickie."
>Your face is burning bright red with embarrassment
>Spitfire snickers and waves a hoof at you
>"Ah, don't feel bad. You should see how pent-up Soarin gets after an airshow."

>Marshal Spitfire fishes something out of her uniform pocket and tosses it at you
>You catch it with a wing
>It's a pair of lapel pins, shaped like a lightning bolt-and-wings
>"Welcome to the Wonderbolts, kid. Looks like you're my new adjutant," the Marshal declares
>Embarrassment turns to shock and elation as you stare at the pins, then at her
>"You'll be working for me. No flying for now, but it'll give you plenty of time to work on your...stamina," Spitfire says with a wink
>The yellow pegasus lifts a chunky leg, then fiddles with her barely-fastened dress shirt
>"Looks like it's time to hit the showers," she remarks, rolling onto her wobbling belly as struggling to her hooves
>"You do the same, private," she orders
>"Yes, ma'am!" you salute her
>"Oh, and private?" Spitfire continues, licking her lips as she turns to face you
>"Fetch some dessert from the chow hall and have it brought to my quarters. I think I'll have quite an 'appetite' worked up by dinnertime~"