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The morning sun blazed on the horizon, the bare aluminum bleachers of the racetrack shimmering with dew. The long, creeping shadows off the track's light poles blurred into light and dark flashes as a single open-wheeled formula car screamed around the oval. The car, a muscular beauty of wings, sculpted fiberglass, and a raging V8, suddenly backed off the throttle and slowed into the pit lane, easing up past empty pit boxes to a trio of golden-yellow pit wagons, with a handful of crew members milling about. Two more identical cars, each adorned in equally brilliant golden-yellow livery, stood parked in the more forward of the three pit stalls, awaiting their drivers, as the first car pulled in behind them.

As the monstrous engine rumbled to a stop, the driver unbuckled himself, removed the steering wheel, and pried himself from the cockpit, his silver, fireproof-shoed hooves exiting first, before he stood up, stretched, unfastened his face shield, and lifted off his helmet, letting an unkempt mane of blonde headfur spill out. Robin yawned, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light, and fumbled in his firesuit pockets for sunglasses. He scratched at the shaggy fur hanging at the sides of his muzzle, unzipping the top of his firesuit a little before hopping over the pit wall and walking towards the pit wagon.

These early morning test sessions were never much fun, Robin mused to himself, the pony unzipping his firesuit nearly down to the waist, revealing a mess of scraggly palomino fur underneath as he grabbed a sports drink from an ice chest, chugging the icy liquid in less than a minute before tossing the empty bottle back inside and closing the lid. At the very least, he supposed, it wasn't as if he or any of the rest of the team was under any pressure versus a race weekend, so it was nice for a change to be able to screw around on the track in a bit more laid back circumstance. The Group 6 season was over, after all. These sessions were so typically relaxed, that it made him wonder what was so vitally important for his crew chief to call him in after such a good bunch of laps.

"I'm here Chris, what did you want?"

A chunky fox, also clad in a golden-yellow Sunchaser Airlines firesuit, was perched atop the pit wagon beneath an umbrella, a desk full of computers and tablets sprawled in front of him. He looked down, saw the pony, and stood up, taking off his headset and walking to the edge of the war wagon. The fox took a deep breath and sighed.

"I've got bad news and bad news," the fox said, a hint of hesitation in his voice.

Robin paused. Chambers had been his crew chief for the better part of two years now, and it must've been some seriously bad news for him to be this tentative about telling him, though he had a hunch what it was, and had suspected it might be coming. "What, about that conference call this morning?"

"Yeah. Group 6 Formula is as good as dead," the fox muttered. "That sponsorship deal they were trying to ink with Macek Sportswear just fell through."

Yeah, that, uh, definitely wasn't good, Robin thought. He had joined the Group 6 series, his lifeblood, his breadwinner for the last five years, right on the downslope of a boom period, with full fields, bountiful sponsorship, and plenty of media attention to showcase the cars, the technology, and most importantly to him, the drivers. But the recession had taken its toll on the sponsor dollars, the public had found something else to grab their attention, and more and more drivers had begun to defect to Hyperleague Grand Prix, leaving the series in a perilous situation and the management in increasingly obvious denial. As much as the reckoning was obviously on the horizon, though, it was still a punch in the gut.

"Well, it's not like we didn't see that coming," Robin said, seemingly brushing it off, as he rubbed a smudge out of his aviators with his suit sleeve. "Weren't we going to be changing over to Hyperleague next season anyway?"

His crew chief stiffened, looking away. "Yeah, about that," Chambers said. The fox hopped down from atop the wagon, landed on his feet, and walked over, his eyes still avoiding contact with Robin's. "That same conference call I took while you were out there, Mr. Masterson said to, uh, tell you that you're fired."

"I'm what?"

"Yeah, I didn't want to be the one to tell you, but--"

"Son of a BITCH!"

The glass in Robin's aviators shattered as the pony's grip became deathly clenched, before he tossed them aside and hefted a toolbox off the wagon, hurling it across the pit area, wrenches and parts exploding everywhere with a metallic clatter.

"...Mr. Masterson apparently didn't want to be near you when you found out."

Robin stormed back to the pit wall, grabbed his helmet, and swung it as hard as he could into the side of the pit wagon, leaving an enormous dent with a thunderous bang, before spiking the helmet into the concrete. From the other pits, crew members backed away tentatively, as Robin's increasingly snarling breaths became louder and louder.

"Yeah, I'll just, uh, talk to you again when you're calmed down," Chambers said, backing away from Robin like he was backing away from a bomb, before sprinting off.

Robin sat in an empty corner of the garage, next to a hole in the drywall he had punched, still breathing heavy, audible breaths, repeatedly counting to one hundred, his eyes red, muttering unintelligible curse words under his breath. He thought everyone had his back, that everyone at Meade-Masterson Motorsports knew he had his little issues, but that he was good enough of a racer to deal with them. It wasn't as if he had, okay, well, he actually had wrecked other racers out of spite more than once, he'd nearly gotten arrested for shoving a reporter, and, well, it definitely wasn't a good thing that the motorsport blogs called him a garage cancer. He hated it, he hated them all, he wanted to punch another hole in the wall, but his knuckles still stung from the last one, but it was all he could do to keep himself from actually punching someone, which was the last thing he needed to do right now.

"Uh, Robin," he heard the same hesitating voice say.

The pony didn't bother to verbally reply, instead lifting his head and opening his eyes, before squinting at the sun glaring through the garage skylights, seeing the blurry visage of his now former crew chief standing before him.

"I'm really sorry that I sort of wound up having to, uh, fire you by proxy. There's no hard feelings, and whatever you do in the future, I'll be there for you whenever you need it, but before we close up everything for you at Meade-Masterson, I thought it'd be a good time to introduce you to someone."

"Now?" Robin stammered. "How is _now_ a good time?" It didn't take a genius or even a high school diploma to know that this wasn't remotely his most flattering appearance, or the best time to meet someone new, but before he could protest any further, another figure, taller and slimmer than his hefty crew chief, walked in alongside him.

"This is Blake Reinhold," Chambers said, indicating the auburn-haired, golden-furred lion next to him, who nodded with acknowledgement. "He's a scout for Sounder Championship Racing."

Robin's jaw gaped. Team Sounder was one of the perennial frontrunners in Hyperleague GP, powered by the unyielding bank account of Sounder's Ltd and that entire old money family. But their drivers were also young, and as far as he remembered, both of them had signed long-term contracts with the team. What the hell could he possibly have done to get their attention?

"If you hadn't, well, exploded, ten minutes ago, I was going to introduce him a bit earlier."

The pony's face turned an even deeper red under his fur, as he stumbled to his feet, zipping up the chest of his firesuit and wiping his mane out of his face, before awkwardly shaking the lion's hand. "Robin Fleischer. Sorry, uh, that your first impressions of me were, uh, in the midst of a fit like that."

"Blake Reinhold, it's a pleasure." the lion said, with a deep, confident baritone. The lion, clothed in a terribly expensive-looking suit jacket that was painfully out of place amongst the firesuits and jumpsuits of the garage area, stood almost a full head above him, but that wasn't unusual. The nature of the motorsport dictated most formula drivers to be on the smaller side, after all. He just knew it was just more unusual seeing a pony race car driver, particularly compared to the larger, muscular equines more typical of other sports. Robin suddenly felt rather small, in more ways than one.

"That's okay, Robin, we know all about you."

* * *

Robin lifted the white and green coffee cup to his muzzle and took a deep sip, calming his nerves in the rush of the bitter, caffeinated liquid as the din of the coffee shop surrounded him. Across the table sat Reinhold, the lion now in a more casual black polo with the royal purple Sounder's Ltd logo on it.

"I figured you'd be a little more relaxed once we got away from the track and once you finished everything up with Meade-Masterson," Blake said, dipping his biscotti into his coffee before munching the end off of it.

"Yeah, I'm still so embarrassed about that," Robin said, looking away and cringing. "I don't know why I get like that, I swear, it's like I'm a completely different person when I'm in that mood."

"I know, you hear that a lot from people with your type of anger management issues," Blake said. "But we've got ways we can work with it."

Robin tilted his head, his expression curious. "What's that supposed to mean? And who's 'we', Team Sounder? Is that something I can assume?"

Blake paused, and nodded. "Yes, you can assume that. You're right, I haven't actually briefed you on what exactly I'm proposing, but I was trying to get you to relax, to lighten up."

"Then why are we drinking coffee?"

"Coffee, for you, is as much of a relaxant as driving at full speed. Do you know who Elisha Sounder is, Robin?" Blake unzipped his messenger bag and pulled out a leather-bound file.

"I'm going to guess he's one of the Sounder sons?"

"Write his name down, it'll be important for you later," Blake said, sliding a pen across the table. "And yes, he's one of the sons of Elias Sounder, the mogul, the patriarch, the big pachyderm himself. Basically, Elias only owns the team and directs money into it, but Elisha actually runs the day-to-day ops. He's my boss, basically, he's the one who calls the shots. And he likes you."

"Say what?" said Robin, nearly gagging on his coffee.

"Like any big team, as you would imagine, Elisha keeps tabs on drivers in the other series, on who he'd like as future acquisitions should their contracts run up or otherwise. He's had his eyes on you for a while, as sort of like a pet project, even."

"I guess that's, uh, sort of flattering?" Robin scrawled Elisha's name on a napkin, tearing into the paper with the sharp nub of the pen, before pulling the sleeve off his cup and writing it there instead.

"I'd think so," Blake said, finishing off his biscotti. "I'll be blunt, he basically sees you as a fixer-upper, the same way a real estate guy might see an old dilapidated mansion."

Robin paused, wondering if that analogy was actually all that flattering after all. The way Blake had described it so far, made it sound like he'd be set up for a developmental contract, and basically have to start from square one like he had done when he had first joined Group 6 that many years ago. Yeah, he'd still be racing, but it wouldn't be on the same level; to him, it'd almost be like going back to high school after getting a doctorate. "So what does he want me to do, start in the Hyperleague Lights?"

"Actually, no," Blake replied. "I'll be blunt again. He's starting a fourth team and he wants you to drive it."

The pony's eyes bugged out, and he stammered, nearly coughing up his coffee again. "Me? Drive for Team Sounder? Just straight away? Where's the fixer-upper bit?"

"I'm getting to it," Blake said, the lion's calm, unwavering demeanor contrasting starkly with the frenetic pony's. "Mr. Sounder is forming the fourth team because he's just secured a major sponsorship from a German brewery, Wurfel. You know, it's the beer with the red dice on the bottle."

Robin nodded, thinking deeply as he took in the information.

"They're looking for a very specific type of driver, and Mr. Sounder thinks you could be it. He wants you to brush up on your driving skills, as well as get your anger management under control, under his directions, and my tutelage."

"What's wrong with the way I was?" Robin regretted saying that as soon as the words had left his mouth. What was wrong with him was blindingly obvious to everybody else around him. First off, there was enough of a fundamental difference between Group 6 cars and HLGP cars that he'd basically have to learn to race all over again. He'd seen enough drivers attempt the changeover and fall flat on their faces that he knew he didn't want to be one of them, but at least he had the entire off-season to work with the cars. Second off, he had just run amok through the garage area in a way that would have gotten him fast-tracked onto most race teams' do-not-call lists if it had happened during a race weekend, and it wasn't the first time, either. If he was going to keep racing, things were definitely going to have to change. "Actually, don't answer that."

Blake chuckled to himself, running his fingers through his auburn mane and pausing to check his phone, before turning back to the pony. "Anyways, here's the fixer-upper bit. Mr. Sounder has had incredible success utilizing subliminal hypnosis tracks with his drivers in the past. It has helped their focus, their determination, and their concentration on the track, and I'm sure you've seen the results. Most of the faults that the team has suffered in the championship since he's started this program have been primarily on the engineering side of things, not the driver's."

"Hypnosis?" Robin paused, the pony taking another long swig from his coffee as he contemplated. "Like, with the wavy watch in front of my face, like with a guy going 'you are getting sleepy'?"

"Actually, it's nothing like that." the lion replied, digging further in his messenger bag and producing a tiny music player, about the size of a postage stamp. "It's all subliminal audio. Don't ask me how it works, that's Elisha's territory. At the track, we splice it into your radio and it blends right in with the roar of the motor, but you'll pick up everything it says."

Robin nodded again, slurping his coffee, trying to maintain his attention on the lion as a brightly-colored gryphoex began to argue with the barista on the opposite side of the room. "I want to remember reading somewhere," he began, "that hypnosis can't make you do anything you don't want to do, right?"

The lion nodded. "Even the subliminal stuff, for the most part, if you don't want it to take, it won't. But I mean, this is all self-improvement material, even if it's like, I dunno, 'I want to go fast' repeated on the subconscious track. And I'm pretty damn sure you want to go fast," he said with a cocky grin.

* * *

Robin hefted his duffle bag from the trunk of the taxi, before slamming it shut and handing the driver his tip. The duffle bag was more for afterwards, as he had come dressed to drive, albeit in a plain white firesuit since he had had to return his Sunchaser suit when he'd closed his affairs with Meade-Masterson. His face was still rather unkempt, his scraggly muzzle fur hanging like a mountain horse's and his mane full of tangles and clumps, but this wasn't a media day, so he wasn't overly concerned. The only person he had to impress today was Reinhold, and hopefully the first day of the audio hypnotherapy would help.

Still, he couldn't help but gawk as he walked past the security gate into the Sounder test track. The place was obviously built on an abandoned airbase, as he passed rusting military-grade cyclone fence onto the runways where chicanes had been set up with traffic cones. In contrast, the garages built in the center of the track stuck out like a nail file in a cake, shining with brand-new sheet metal and sponsorship logos for products he couldn't afford. Such it was in Hyperleague, he mumbled to himself.

He walked up, looking rather lost, to the largest of the garage doors, standing outside where Blake had told him to meet, before with a clang and a rumble, the door lifted up, revealing a firesuit-clad Blake and the most gorgeous piece of racing machinery that Robin had ever laid his eyes upon.

The Sounder SR-15 before him was bereft of sponsor logos, wearing only the bare black carbon fiber of a recently finished car, but the naked, shimmering material only emphasized the organic curves, delicate engineering, and hours of wind-tunnel work that had gone into the machine. It looked like it deserved a speeding ticket simply standing still, and every fragile vane, every intricately molded wing on the car looked like it would break off if he looked at it the wrong way. The car looked nearly flat to the ground, lacking the pyramidal air box behind the roll hoop that the Group 6 cars had had, and Robin could already envision the turbocharged V12 engine within growling to life in his head.

"You can stop drooling now, Robin," Blake said, stifling a chuckle, as Robin hurriedly licked up the corners of his muzzle and snapped himself out of his entrancement. "Before we let you play with this, though, there's a few things I want to talk to you about," the lion continued, his auburn mane and crisp, golden facial fur standing out dramatically against his black firesuit. He indicated a small conference room to the right of the entranceway. "Come over here so we can get started."

Robin again felt incredibly small sitting in the conference room across from Blake. This was just a garage building and it already felt more expensive than his house or even his family's house, and the posters lining the walls of past champions weren't helping. He could definitely see why they called it Sounder Championship Racing, and Robin wondered how often developmental drivers were intimidated out of the program before they could even start.

"Take a look at this." Blake walked over to him, the lion towering over the seated equine, and handed Robin a photo. It was of the pony, posing in front of his Group 6 car, the obligate beginning-of-season photo that every team took.

"This is a publicity picture from last season," Blake continued. "I want you to look at how many sponsors are on your car. I don't mean the big stickers, I mean the little ones."

Robin turned his head, and studied the car's bodywork; indeed, aside from the big decals for Sunchaser, there were maybe two or three others that weren't the manufacture or engine logos. The copious empty spaces where the stickers for Fleischer Automotive had been the year before became even more glaring the longer he stared at the car.

"Even five years ago, you would have had barely an inch of free advertising space on this car. Everyone wanted a piece of Group 6, it was the hottest marketing tool this side of the World Cup, but it's amazing what a good bit of mismanagement at the sanctioning body level will do, isn't it?"

The pony nodded.

"From what Mr. Masterson has told me, Sunchaser Airlines is actually most of the reason you got cut. You know as well as I do that the team budgets in HLGP are almost twice as much as that in Group 6, so your old team was going to have to cut down to two cars to keep the same amount of sponsorship support, and you were the most expendable team member."

"Especially since I can't pay-to-drive anymore," Robin muttered, trying not to dwell too hard on the past.

"That's the problem with poorer teams. Less sponsorship means the rides get to go to the drivers who can bring their own cash, which is basically what you were, I understand," the lion said, before pausing for emphasis. "Getting cut off sucks, doesn't it?" Blake said, his comment sinking into Robin like needles under hooves.

It was true. When teams were that desperate for money, he could no longer buy his way into a ride, what with Group 6 drying up, the inflated costs in Hyperleague, and most pivotally, without his family's support. Yes, his father had supported him at first; it wasn't that huge of a deal to make it up to where he'd gotten just from karting, and things had only really gotten to be bad once the sponsorships started declining, but once his anger had started becoming his defining characteristic, he was no longer a good investment. Even to his father.

"Yeah, yeah it does," Robin mumbled. "My family's into cars, but they still said that racing was a fool's endeavor, and I wonder if they weren't right sometimes. I don't know who said 'you make a small fortune in racing by spending a large fortune,' but damn, if that isn't true. I nearly bankrupted my father's company just from, well, being me. I just don't know what I'd do without it, though. I've never really considered life without motorsports."

Robin dreaded the real world like a child dreading a bath. The adrenaline rush from racing had gotten to be too much of an addiction to really consider making a living in a more mundane setting. He couldn't help it that he was the tiniest equine he had ever seen, even amongst his extended family, and there really wasn't too much that one of his size could really do and be taken seriously. Though it was also sort of his fault, he pondered. As much as he had been advised to hang around the garage area and make nice with the mechanics, he really... hadn't. With G6F completely dried up, if he didn't score this job with Team Sounder, there was nothing. No mechanics jobs in HLGP, no test driving jobs, nothing along those lines he could easily bounce into from where he was now.

"Take a deep breath, Robin," Blake said warmly, leaning down to better be on the same level. "You're a smart kid, you can get over this, but you've got to listen. As much as the sponsors love a bad boy, they like a _controlled_ bad boy. They don't want their logo to be on your firesuit while you're punching reporters or getting into fights, because they know that that video's going to be played over and over again. It's just plain bad publicity. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

Robin nodded again, morosely staring away. This wasn't how he wanted to start the morning, but he figured if they were going to be building him back up, they had to tear him down first. It made sense, but it didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

"It also gets into your driving skills. How many times have you wrecked people on purpose? That's not something you can do anymore. That's fine in the little leagues when each part of the car doesn't cost thousands of dollars or in stock cars where they're sturdy enough that they can take it, but that doesn't belong in a formula league at all," the lion continued. "Where'd you finish in the points last season?"

"Sixth, that's pretty good, right?"

"It'd be pretty good if there weren't only nineteen cars in Group 6 last year. You have to leave that all behind now, Robin," Blake said. "The past is the past, let it stay there. We've got to refocus your anger, refocus it into confidence, and unlock that championship driver that I know is inside of you. I'm here to help, but it's all on you to make yourself that better person."

Robin beamed, his confidence slowly returning. His hunch seemed right, as Blake offered his hand and the pony stood up. It definitely looked as if it'd be the start of something productive.

"The first thing I want you to do, is to tear up that old picture of yourself, and envision it representing everything that's wronged you over the past five years, or even longer if you want to. Tear it up as violently as you want to and leave it on the desk, because we're leaving it all behind now."

* * *

Robin fastened the fiberglass face shield around his muzzle, his mane still spilling out of the bottom, before lowering the visor. He allowed his vision to adjust to the tinted lexan as he sat in the SR-15, his fur standing on edge and chills running down his spine. After all, he was preparing to test-drive a race car worth more money than his entire life so far, which would cost just as much if he screwed things up. Which was probably why there were only flimsy orange cones delineating a course on the runway, he supposed. Blake finished fastening the head and neck restraint behind him, before the lion leaned over and handed him the steering wheel. Robin's expression gaped underneath his helmet, accepting the steering wheel as if he were accepting the touch of life itself, before attaching it to its mount and flicking the starting switch.

All twelve cylinders roared to life behind him, before the song of the motor regulated to a stabilized pitch and Blake, now wearing a two-way radio headset, gave him the thumbs-up out of the corner of his eye. Robin tentatively stepped on the throttle, and felt the car lurch forward with an incredible burst of acceleration, catching him completely off-guard, nearly sending him into the side of the garage as he frantically overcorrected. He didn't know how, but the car managed to be even twitchier, even more precisely controlled, than the Group 6 car he had been driving just a few days ago. No wonder they were giving him so much room to play with. With a few more corrections, he was pointed back away from the garage, and eased the gas towards the chicane course.

With a crinkle of static, Blake's voice came into his ears. "Now I know you were primarily an oval-course specialist in Group 6," the lion's voice bellowed, still as booming as ever even with the radio distortion, "Which is why the first thing we're doing is testing you on this street course. We're immediately removing you from your comfort zone, which is going to be sort of a theme of these next few weeks of training."

Robin let the car coast to a stop. "Is that why you gave me the entire runway to myself, because you're afraid I'll screw things up?" He suddenly realized how whiny this must have sounded. Maybe he was reading too much into things, but that still sounded an awful lot like they didn't trust them with the equipment, but if that was the case, then they wouldn't have put him into a new car right away, he supposed.

"Get moving, Robin," Blake said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Remember, we've only got a handshake agreement so far. If you don't want to do this, we don't have to do this, and you can go back to being an obscure, washed-up rich kid racer with no prospects."

There was an uncomfortably long pause.

"Your call."

Without a further word, Robin floored the gas, the rear tires of the racer screeching with a cloud of burned rubber, as the car sped like a dart towards the chicanes.

"That's what I thought," Blake replied, satisfied. "Take a nice, easy lap of the course to get yourself familiar, and listen up while I explain how this is going to work."

"I'm listening," the pony said back. The trees of the former airbase, covered with the muted brown leaves of late autumn, sped past the corners of his eyes as Robin's vision narrowed, focusing as he was on hitting the course properly. He worked his way through the initial esses, taking the car through nice and easy, not wanting to flatten any unfortunate cones on the warm-up lap.

"We're going to start each practice the same way," Blake began. "I'm going to give you the initial instructions like I'm doing right now, and I'm going to say 'it's all on you'. When I say that, I'm going to switch my channel over to the hypnosis track, and you're just going to drive laps until you hear "take it home", and then you'll bring it back in. Don't worry about your lap times, I'll worry about your lap times. Just get familiar with the car, and try not to think of anything else. Clear your mind."

"Roger that," Robin said, taking a deep breath inside the helmet and trying to zero in further on the track around him. Before long the garage building faded from his vision, the trees and the fences too, before all that he noticed were the orange cones marking the corners, and the rubber laid down on the tarmac from practice sessions past. Following the rubber, as he expected, seemed to be the ideal racing line, and as he completed his lap, there were no unexpected turns not following the groove. Nice, and easy. Even though it wasn't an oval track, this was it, this was his element. This was the one place he could go to where he never had to worry, even more so on these proving grounds. No competitors, no real pressure, just one voice in his head, and himself. "Start it whenever you're ready."

"Okay, Robin. I know you can do this. If this takes, you'll have a brilliant future ahead of you. Remember, it's all on you."

There was an audible crackle in his radio as Blake changed it to the hypnosis track, and indeed, he heard nothing at first, nothing over the intoxicating song of that turbocharged engine, the occasional screech of his tires through the corners, and his steady, rhythmic breaths. His tunnel vision narrowed even further, even the cones blurring together as his motions became automatic, to the point that it nearly seemed like an out-of-body experience, looking down from above at the little black car circling the runway.

His mind began to wander, yet not in the same worrisome, distracting way it usually did. He visualized himself standing on the victory podium, oversized winner's wreath around his neck, champagne spraying in the air, confetti fluttering down, yet his face seemed hidden, as if obscured by his mane, but the rest of the body was unmistakably equine, unmistakably his. Each of the faces in the victory circle celebration around him were equally blurred, Blake's handsome, chiseled face the only one he could definitively recognize.

Recognizing Blake brought a wave of comfort, of familiarity to the pony, along with feelings of stability, of belonging. The lion was going to be solely responsible for his ascendance to the top of the motorsports world, and why shouldn't he get to celebrate as well, he thought? The scene shifted slightly, to other tracks he had raced at, to podiums he had only seen from a distance. The locations changed, to ovals, road courses, street courses, but everything else remained the same. He could almost taste the champagne flying through the air, drenching him, matting his mane over his face, as he took in the celebration, feeling the most pure, unfettered bliss he had felt in what had to be decades.

"Take it home, Robin."

The pony blinked, suddenly remembering where he was, as the rumbling of the SR-15 smashed into his senses, and realized he was soaked with sweat, feeling almost like he was swimming in his firesuit. Not uncommon for as heavy as the material was, but wasn't this just going to be a short test? Without thinking about it too hard, he maneuvered the car out of the chicanes and back towards the garage, where a rather enthusiastic-looking Blake waited.

"You did great! That was everything we could've expected out of a first practice session and then some, Robin. Your lap times went down like crazy once you got a hang of the car, you only hit three traffic cones, and I feel like this is just the tip of the iceberg. You should be proud, kid." Blake walked up to the car as Robin parked it inside the doorway, unfastening the pony's head restraint as Robin loosened the seat belts.

"How many laps did I do?" Robin said, lifting up his face shield before pulling his helmet off the rest of the way, and wriggling himself out of the car.

"Twenty."

Twenty? He'd heard of being in the zone before, he knew how it was to watch the laps click off in the middle of a longer race, but it had felt like he had been in the car for all of five minutes, not nearly a full tank of gas's worth. "No way."

"Yes way. And look at this." Blake held up a whiteboard with the lap times scribbled on it. "You took off nearly a second each lap while you were listening. The only reason I brought you in is because you were about to run out of gas."

Robin's jaw dropped again, and he swore to himself, as he shoved his sweat-dampened headfur out of his face. "I don't know what the hell I'm listening to, but I can't argue with that."

"Do you remember any of your laps?"

"No, I just remember, uh," Robin began, picking his brain. All he could remember were the podium celebrations, and now that he thought about it, not much else, except...

"That's what I thought," Blake said, the lion chuckling heartily once again. "We weren't going to do much for this first session, so you're done for today. Don't worry about the car, it'll get taken care of. There's a locker room back in the back here, get yourself cleaned up and come talk to me again before you go."

Robin nodded, the slight confusion fading again as he heard Blake's voice, and a feeling not unlike the excitement he'd felt earlier slowly filling him. As he hefted up his duffle bag and walked back towards the showers, he looked back, seeing Blake bent down over the car, working on something in the cockpit, and felt his gaze drawn to admiring the lion's thick, muscular form within the firesuit, before he realized he was staring and turned away.

* * *

"Why is there a mane trimmer in my car?"

Blake, again wearing the black and purple Team Sounder firesuit, bore a wide smirk on his muzzle as he strode into the main room of the garage. "It's the theme of our talk today, before I let you take the car out. We're talking about sponsors again."

"Oh, fun," Robin said, rolling his eyes and scooping the trimmer out of the seat of his car. He wore the same white suit he had worn the other practices, albeit one that was starting to look a little groddy from how much he seemed to sweat every practice. Robin swore he'd be able to cut cardio from his regular fitness plan just from how much water weight he seemed to lose each test session.

Blake sighed, as if he was still sensing some of the old familiar resistance. "Look, like it or not, Fleisher, this sport needs money to run. If you so much as dropped that trimmer from chest height onto your car's front wing, that'd probably be at least a thousand dollars' worth of repairs to that carbon fiber." His voice changed from rebuking to almost pleading. "You've just got to bear with me on things like this."

"Alright, I'm listening," Robin replied, pulling a folding chair aside the car and sitting himself down, pausing as he followed the lion with his sight, his eyes following up the lion's meaty form to Blake's impossibly immaculate mane, glimmering with the shine of conditioners he probably couldn't afford, uncharacteristically suave and professional for a lion who spent more of his time in a garage than in an office. He thought of his own, tangled mane, brittle with the heat damage from years of racing and cheap shampoos, and realized before Blake even started what the talk was probably going to be about.

"I'm going to start with a little bit about your potential new sponsor," Blake began, disappearing into the conference room momentarily, returning with a glossy black beer bottle, two translucent red dice prominently featured on the label. "Wurfel. It's the German word for dice, as you could probably guess." He handed the bottle to Robin, who examined it with curiosity. The glass was completely black, it wasn't just a full wrapper as he had thought, which impressed him. He'd have to try one of them after practice was over.

"They're entering this market and they want to make a big splash. Their primary demographic is what you'd expect, young males doing extreme sports, that like hot girls, that like to gamble, that sort of thing."

"So basically, what I'm going to be doing."

"Exactly. If we can change just a few more things, you'll be absolutely perfect for them."

"But the mane trimmer?" Robin's expression looked oddly concerned; he hadn't really ever been one to have a properly clean-cut look, and it seemed rather counter-intuitive for this beer company to want the same out of him, when as far as he knew, there were plenty of scraggly, unkempt daredevils and extreme sports types out there.

"I know it's not your thing, but it's the image they want," Blake said. "That's about as simple as I can put it at this point. If we sign you to this deal, they're going to want you to be doing appearances right away, pretty much, so I figured you'd want to try out the look early, when you still have a chance to grow it back if they let you."

Robin grumbled to himself, but nodded anyway. The more he thought about it, looking up on Blake's impeccable grooming, the more he figured it was for the best, so long as he could get himself to accept it.

It was much easier in his mind once he was back behind the wheel of his race car. His finesse with the SR-15 got finer with each test session, to the point that the herky-jerky driving of when he had first brought it out of the garage rightly seemed like ages ago, and in his memories, the Group 6 car almost seemed like driving a minivan in comparison. There was nothing like it, and he nearly chuckled when he thought of how hesitant with road courses he had once been. As he took the warm-up laps around the runway, Blake's reassuring, familiar voice talked him through his routine. The course had become so intuitive to him that he was able to take in the scenery around him, as the fog rolled out of the nearly leaf-bare forest surrounding the old airstrip. He hadn't hit any cones for what must've been two weeks now, and he was itching for a newer challenge.

"Alright Robin, the last few practices you've plateaued a bit with your lap times, but you're within ten seconds of our slowest driver on the main team. If you can get within five seconds of him, I'll buy you dinner," the lion said, his voice crackling with the usual static as Robin listened for him above the engine. "It's all on you."

With those words, the atmosphere of the test track faded away again, and Robin felt himself in the same, hazy place he had grown accustomed to coming with each hypnotherapy session. The corners of his vision faded as if he was watching a television screen, watching his car, now properly adorned with the striking red and black Wurfel livery, racing towards the camera, smashing through a wall of competitor beer cans, before spinning out to a stop. He watched himself, picking out the distinctive blonde mane beneath the helmet, as his lithe form stepped, almost seductively, out of the car, walking towards him, with a nearly gyrating gait, and slowly unfastened the face shield, slowly lifting up the helmet. The vision blurred and faded before he could glimpse himself, and now he found himself at a championship banquet, dignitaries and legends of the motorsports world around him, as he glimpsed himself seated next to Blake, seemingly even more handsome and composed in a brilliant white tuxedo, as the lion turned towards him and whispered in that confident baritone "You look great," before the scene shifted again to the more familiar victory circle, to the wreaths and champagne.

Robin took a deep breath, as the trance again took over his conscience. He saw himself, or at least he thought it was himself, floating in the ether, obscured by a warm, glowing light, with blurry visions of his past surrounding him. His angry father ripping up the sponsorship contract, the snarling faces of his old karting rivals, even the hapless face of Chambers telling him he was fired, before one by one they grew hazy and faded into wisps of smoke. As he stared at himself, now alone, his complexion softened, his mane untangled and straightened, and his body, bathed in the light as it was, seemed to begin to change even further, before Blake's voice suddenly took him down from the trance.

Robin let out a little whine as the trance ended and he found himself, as usual, back in the car, bathed in sweat, and wishing that he didn't have to wait another twenty-four hours now for the next hypnosis session. With a wistful sigh, he drove the car away from the course and back into the garage.

He found himself staring at Blake even more during the debriefing, to the point that he wasn't sure what else the lion had told him, but he supposed he could always call him back with questions later. His lap times hadn't quite gotten up within five seconds yet, but he was three seconds away, and Blake figured another couple sessions would put him there. The dinner offer stood.

As he walked into the locker room afterwards, he stared at the mane trimmer momentarily, before envisioning Blake walking in behind him, and stripping off his firesuit. He figured he had a pretty good idea of what Blake looked like underneath, since he had spent most of the talk afterwards trying to undress the muscular lion with his eyes. He looked back at the mirror and envisioned the sleeker, glimmering form of himself he had seen in the vision. He unzipped the top half of his firesuit and laid it aside, revealing the same shaggy palomino fur on his otherwise lean chest, making him look significantly less athletic than he actually was. He rummaged through his bag for a brush, and tried running it through his mane, wincing as he encountered knot after knot. This would have to be taken care of.

* * *

Robin studied the bottle of Wurfel, watching the black glass glint in the mood lighting of the conference room while he waited for Blake to arrive. On the lion's recommendation, he had gone ahead and splurged, spending nearly a full day at a groomer's to completely smooth out his formerly disheveled coat. It had been worth it. Robin ran his fingers through his newly conditioned, newly straightened mane, and realized he couldn't remember for the life of him the last time he had been able to do so without hitting tangles. No longer did shaggy fur hang from the corners of his muzzle or spill out of his firesuit either; the rest of his fur had all been trimmed down to a uniform length, which, alongside the most expensive shampoo he'd ever bought, made for a much more photogenic body, he thought. He never realized how lean and muscular he actually was, he mused, just because he'd been too careless to properly care for his own coat. He was definitely going to be flaunting it in the future, though, he thought.

He honestly could not wait for Blake to arrive. Today wasn't a driving day, today was just going to be a mock interview to better-prepare him for his potential role as the Wurfel spokesman, he presumed, and indeed, the television in the conference room seemed to be on a loop of Wurfel commercials as he spun around in the purple office chair. He wondered when he was going to get sized for a new firesuit; something about the sharpness of Blake's Sounders suit and the spare Wurfel ones he had seen laying about made him inherently envious, but it'd be his time soon enough.

Blake soon entered, carrying a laptop under his arm. He was wearing a team polo over khaki slacks, a look that flattered him quite well, Robin thought, watching the sleeves of the polo outline the bulge of the lion's biceps.

"Oh, Robin, I forgot to mention," Blake began, as he plugged in the laptop to the conference room's terminal, "Elisha Sounder will sort-of be joining us by teleconference today."

"Sort-of joining us?"

Blake indicated the camera hanging from the ceiling at the head of the table. "You can't see him, but he can see us, and hear us."

Robin mumbled something about having Big Brother for a boss, as he continued contently gawking at the lion, who finished setting up the computer equipment and turned back to the pony.

"Something I've talked about a lot with you has been first impressions, and today we're going to deal with that again," Blake said, standing at the head of the room. "We've been working really hard at selectively calming you down, and I'd like to think we've made some serious progress. This is the first time you'll have talked directly with Mr. Sounder, so we're going to put you on the spot and try something."

"Test, test," an unfamiliar, slightly accented voice rang out. "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear sir," Blake replied, to seemingly no one in particular.

"Excellent. Robin, this is Elisha Sounder," the voice said. "Blake and I have analyzed some of your weaknesses in public relations, and we're working to get the last bits of them worked out. I have to commend Mr. Reinhold's ability to clean up your act, as your new, significantly more professional look attests, and I have to admit, for someone who has only been driving Hyperleague cars for as long as you have, your lap times on our test course are incredible. You two have become an exceptional tandem, and you're just about at the level to be formally signed onto the team."

Robin's face lit up with an uncontrolled smile, the pony grinning toothily like he was holding a royal flush, as Blake gave him a silent thumbs up.

"But first, I want you to tackle this scenario," Sounder continued, as Robin's smile suddenly faded.

Blake opened a file on the laptop and bent down to read from it, as the room momentarily went quiet. "After challenging for the win all day and leading the most laps, your day is suddenly ended when you run over a chunk of debris from a lapped car which destroys your right-front tire as you begin the last lap. A reporter approaches you the instant you step from your car." The lion looked back to Robin. "You're going to behave as if Mr. Sounder is the reporter here."

Robin paused, collected his thoughts, thought about the spiel he'd been practicing in the garage locker room mirror, and took a deep breath.

"We ran over something, that was it. It's not the end of the world, it's nothing that I'm going to get all worked up about," Robin began. As he went through the rest of his spiel, he could see Blake silently clapping as he finished thanking the crew members and thanking his sponsors. He'd have time to put a little more emotion into it, but even roleplaying the scenario would've been hard for him to do back when he had just started the hypnotherapy.

"Not bad," Sounder said, sounding at least a little impressed. "Once you can do that in an actual circumstance like that, I'll be impressed, but it's certainly better than the old you."

"The old me?"

"Yes, we haven't forgotten," Sounder replied.

Blake bent back over the laptop, made a few clicks, and soon the looping Wurfel commercials were replaced by a paused video. Robin took one look and cringed in recognition.

"Oh no, not this one."

The screen was paused on a frame of Robin's face, frozen mid-scream in a twisted snarl, with a reporter halfway through the motion of shoving a microphone into his face. Blake hit play, and before the reporter could even make his opening question, Robin had violently shoved him out of the picture. Blake hit pause.

"That was the race where I accidentally wrecked both myself and my teammate out of the lead with two laps to go. I'm, uh, still not proud of that one."

"You're still lucky the guy didn't press charges," Blake said offhandedly, as Robin spun himself away from the screen, tensing up.

"I know it was just a simple scenario, but when we were scouting you, you would have had a fit at even the possibility of losing a race like that. It's undeniably a marked improvement," Sounder's voice piped back in. "With as much progress as you have made in the past number of weeks, I believe we are definitely ready to take the next steps. The Wurfel representatives will be notified, and as Mr. Reinhold has said, you should be very proud of yourself."

Robin's cringing muzzle lifted into a grin, and he collapsed back into his seat with a sigh of relief. Blake came over to help him up, and without even thinking, he launched himself into the lion's arms, feeling the warmth, the power, the benevolence in the lion's embrace. Things were only going up from here.

* * *

The next few weeks were a frantic rush; the track sessions, even the hypnotic visions all blurred together as they hurried to finish the final track tests before winter set in. The final session came rapidly, and before Robin knew it, he was easing the SR-15 back into the garage for the last time of that year, snowflakes falling around him, the woods surrounding the test track frosted white with the previous night's snow. Behind him, another crew member in a golf cart was scooping up the traffic cones, traffic cones he hadn't hit in months now. As he parked the race car in its usual spot, the metal of the garage door clanged as it lowered down behind him, and Blake, whose mane looked extra-fluffy from the colder weather, was grinning wildly as he approached, holding the whiteboard, a number of the lap times circled repeatedly with the green marker.

"You've done it," he said, his voice booming with pride. "I knew five seconds removed was too low of a goal to set for you. You've MATCHED our slowest driver with these lap times this last trial. You couldn't have timed it better," he said, hurriedly undoing Robin's restraints.

Once he was free and his helmet off, Robin practically leapt from the car into Blake's arms, embracing the larger lion and nearly kissing him, that and the ecstatic smile on the pony's muzzle speaking more than any words the equine could have said. As Robin unzipped the top half of his old white firesuit again, he paused to take it all in, and to let Blake catch up with him, practically bounding with energy as he was.

"I hope you're free the next few days," Blake said, as Robin freshened up in the locker room, toweling down his still tangle-free mane and somewhat vainly admiring his lean form in the mirror. "Sounder finally wants to make things official, so he's flying us out there tonight and paying for our hotel. You shouldn't need to bring much, you'll be getting all sorts of team swag over the next day or two," the lion said, still grinning.

"I never thought I'd get to this point," Robin said, brushing his fur. "And I truthfully, honestly can't think of anyone else to thank," he said, looking humbly past himself, almost lovingly to the lion.

For the first time since he'd gotten to know him, he could see Blake beginning to blush.

* * *

The airport hotel was probably one of the nicest rooms he'd ever stayed at, Robin thought, as he paused, studying the warm colors of the suite, before walking over to the windows and gazing down towards the wintery airport below. He was dressed rather casually, finally clad in a Team Sounder polo of his own over jeans, with Blake wearing the same as the lion rummaged through his suitcase. They matched rather perfectly well, and as he sprawled back across the bed nearer the window, he just wondered where he'd have ended up if Chambers hadn't introduced him to Blake way back when. Oh well, he thought, it wasn't where he was now, and that was a good thing. He couldn't wait to keep working with Blake in the future.

"Robin, come over here," the lion called.

Robin hopped off the bed and walked over to where the lion had laid an attaché case on the room's table.

"I just want to tell you a few things before we finalize things," Blake began, "Since once we go through with this, there's no turning back."

"I know that," Robin replied, looking a little confused. "I mean, you said it yourself, leave the past in the past. That's the same visualization thing we've been doing for a while."

"You said you were effectively estranged from your family, right?"

The question seemed rather out of the blue, until Robin noticed that Blake seemed to be reading down a list, and just went with it. He pretty much was, anyway. "Yeah, I've got plenty of other brothers they care about more. I already told you about the fight that happened when my dad cut me off, you knew that."

Probably just legalities, the pony figured, so they could save time tomorrow.

"Honestly, they're probably the only thing holding me back at this point. I haven't talked to them at all since I've started doing this, and all they'd do if I... when I hit it big, would be to mooch off of me. Honestly?" Robin took a long, contemplative pause, before the pony sighed. "I'd probably be best off leaving them with the rest of my past."

Blake nodded. "That was really the only other things that Sounder wanted to make sure we covered," the lion said, expression warming. "We should be celebrating, after all. Sounder even sent us two bottles of wine for this!" With that, the lion pulled two tiny wine bottles from the attaché case, both of which seemed a deep, rosy color, and whose labels bore a sparkling, bejeweled elephant's head.

"Bottled them himself, fresh from the Sounder vineyards." With a grunt, the lion unscrewed each of the bottle's screw tops. "He knew we were going to be travelling, hence the screw tops, don't mind it."

Robin seated himself opposite Blake and accepted the bottle he was handed.

"To your future, to our future," Blake began, a warm twinkle in his eye. "It's all on you."

The same blissful rush Robin was used to seemed to approach his conscience, then taper off slowly as he downed the bottle of wine. There was really only a glass's worth of wine in the bottle, but the flavor was smooth, fruity, with a little bit of a zing at the end. He could feel the warm, tingling sensation penetrate down through his body, all the way to his hooves, as if it was tingling out of every strand of fur on him. He laid the empty bottle on the table, feeling the rush of emotion race through his body, and embraced the lion, who finally reciprocated the gesture, laying his own empty wine bottle back aside it.

The visions all rushed back to him. The winner's circle, the championship banquet, the seductive commercial, it was all going to be him, and it was all thanks to this lion, this rugged, handsome lion that was finally hugging him back. He could see his face in all those visions where he couldn't see them before, and in each one of them, Blake was by his side, standing firm, standing tall, both of them proud of everything they'd done to get to this point.

As Blake hugged him tight, the lion suddenly pulled him into a kiss. It was a warm, deep kiss, as he felt his tongue intertwine with the lion's rougher tongue, pressing his lean, chest into the lion's stronger, harder chest, as his head bent up to meet the lion's. The visions faded from his head, and a new, crystal clarity replaced it, as his arms moved from the embrace, down the lion's chest, clutching momentarily at the powerful pectorals beneath the polo, before reaching his waistline and lifting up the lion's shirt.

Blake raised his hands, and the shirt came above him, finally giving Robin a proper glimpse of what he'd wanted to see for months. Blake let out a masculine growl in approval, as Robin's white-furred hands felt their way across the lion's broad chest. There was a sort of classic, rugged masculinity to the lion's build. Though he only had the barest hints of a six-pack, it was solid muscle, not fat, that protruded below his ample pecs. While not well-defined, the lion was undeniably muscular. Robin ran his hands through the coarse golden fur covering it, letting his hands go behind, back to the lion's waistband, before burying his muzzle longingly against the lion's stomach.

The lion reached down and pulled the pony's shirt up over his head as Robin felt the stirrings in his crotch grow slowly and steadily firmer, while he could feel Blake's own offering starting to tent the lion's jeans, starting to poke against his torso as well. With the polo over his head, Robin stretched out, letting Blake take a long, loving lick up the lean, slender muscle of his torso. He had kept the same grooming habits he had started, leaving just a thin layer of that fine palomino fur covering his well-defined abs and chest. He whipped his head back to get his flowing mane out of his face, feeling the thick bulge in his pants cleanly poke from his sheath, dying to be released from its denim confines, before slowly unfastening Blake's belt, eager to see what was waiting for him beneath.

Robin's cock was squeezing uncomfortably against the waistline of his jeans before Blake, seeing the enormous bulge pushing against him, matched Robin's gesture, both of their jeans dropping to the floor. Robin's cock, at twelve inches, still a good size for a pony, popped past the waistband of his blue briefs, happy to finally be released, and greeting him with a drizzle of precum at the unflared tip.

"Let's see what you've got, big boy," Robin said teasingly, now that he was revealed to the world, as he stepped the rest of the way out of his briefs and looked lustily back at Blake, who was shamelessly gawking at what the pony had just unwrapped. Blake's own boxer-briefs were tented almost comically, the plain black fabric stretched to nearly a perfect pyramid against the feline's member, as the tip of that tent began to dampen with pre.

Blake smiled, that same cocky, confident smirk Robin had loved from the beginning, and stepped out of his jeans, before swiftly pulling down his shorts, the tip of his pink, feline cock moving with it, before slapping back against the hard muscle of his stomach. Robin took a moment to nod in approval, drooling over the lion's cock, a good six or seven inches and barbed, and still plenty impressive on its own, throbbing with eagerness as it was, the lion's balls hanging low and plump beneath it.

Robin felt another wave of tingliness rush over him but wrote it off, figuring it was just the wine, and playfully tackled the lion back onto the bed, bouncing off of the heavier lion until they were lying side by side. Robin shivered with pleasure, moaning softly as the lion took a long, lusty lick of his paw, before placing it on the pony's shaft, rubbing the pre generously around the tip, before running the slick paws up and down the black and pink-mottled length. Robin moaned, the equine squirming at the sensation, feeling his balls lift up at the stimulation, as the scent of their respective musk began to fill his nostrils. Licking his own hand, he brought it over to meet Blake's cock, stroking the feline's length, feeling the little ripples of the barbs in his grip, as he teased the tip with his thumb, provoking a low, rumbling purr from the lion.

He gasped again as another wave rushed over him, almost feeling like he was already getting close. He closed his eyes momentarily and bucked into the lion's grip, before hearing Blake's calm, reassuring voice again telling him to relax. He felt the lion's other hand make its way to his chest, scratching against his pecs, feeling a teasing hand reach down to squeeze at the nipples playfully as the lion continued stroking him, almost to the point that he couldn't focus on pawing the lion back. Robin moaned, stiffening again under the strokes, feeling his member throbbing in the feline's grip, the rough pads of the lion's paw gently teasing at the smooth, mottled flesh of his length, his cock already aching from the stimulation, from the culmination of everything they'd spent the last months building towards.

Blake continued purring with each slow, reciprocated stroke, each purr rumbling not unlike that old familiar V12 engine, right before taking it out on the track... Robin shuddered, feeling himself inch closer and closer, feeling the musky sweat begin to soak his fur, tensing with each delicious downward stroke of the lion's grip, envisioning himself flooring the throttle, popping off the bottles of champagne, as his balls ached and pulsed, feeling them pull even tighter as Blake teased him closer and closer to the finish.

The feeling was intoxicating. Each breath brought gasping whinnies of pleasure, while he could feel Blake tensing more with each stroke, feeling the pre dripping prodigiously down the feline's shaft, before he felt his grip loosen, nearly at his climax. The pony clenched his teeth, his eyes squinted shut, as he felt his balls yank all the way upwards, letting out a gasping groan as a hot spurt of cum shot from his tip, bucking his hips into the lion's paws with each blast of seed, the mad rush of the orgasm disguising that same uncanny, tingling feeling racing through his body, as his cock began to slowly shrink smaller, and smaller, with each of the lion's continuing strokes.

At the same time, his pecs seemed to swell under the lion's other paw, firming up from the surface of the pony's chest, filling in and growing outwards even as the pony gasped for breath, the lion leaning over to lovingly lick at the pony's chest as Robin's body continued to shift.

His hips became much more pronounced, his face bones slowly narrowing, his muzzle becoming much sleeker, as the remaining bits of scraggliness disappeared from his fur. His mane grew out even longer, the blonde fur pushing outwards until it was nearly halfway down his back. The swelling on his chest finished up as his nipples grew to match, leaving the pony with a reasonable set of plump, rounded breasts, not overly big, just the right size for someone who would still have to drive cars for a living.

Robin barely noticed that his cock had shrunken well past what it should have, barely noticed that Blake's grip was now directed inward, before she squirmed, gasping suddenly in a much higher pitched voice than she was used to hearing, as the lion's slick paw now fingered her new pussy, aching for release already. Before the pony could barely comprehend what had just happened, that lustful, intoxicating bliss rocketed through her head again as she let off a strained, surprised whinny, her pussy letting off a spurt of new, clear liquid, intermingled with the milky white cum of the old her, right as Blake found her new clitoris. Robin felt herself collapse all around, out of breath, panting furiously as she took in the musk of the room, took in her new musk, and her hands wandered to her chest, to her new femaleness, to the new her.

"You like it?" Blake's voice broke the pause, as he rolled the suddenly-exhausted pony over towards him, his still-hard cock still standing firm, glinting with pre, while he licked the combined flavors of cum from his paw.

Robin nodded excitedly as she felt over her new form, now seeing herself everywhere she was meant to be, modeling the beer, showcasing the new cars, a sponsor's wet dream, all with the racing talent to match the looks. "I like it. I like it a lot," she said, taking another deep breath, then letting it out with a satisfied, whinnying sigh. Her eyes slowly crept downward, to Blake's unfinished, still throbbing member, and as her glance lowered, the lion's did as well. "I like that a lot, too," she said, lustily licking her lips, before pushing Blake over and crawling atop the lion. She slowly lowered her still-dripping pussy onto Blake's face, the lion's eyes growing wide as he drooled in anticipation, before she bent down and took the lion's glistening cock into her muzzle.

The lion moaned and clenched as her lip wrapped around the barbed shaft, before she felt Blake's powerful hands grip her hips. She gasped suddenly, nearly gagging on the lion's cock, as she felt the lion's tongue trace around her clit, feeling the rough, but slick flesh poke at the tender tissue, before it prodded at her wet, virgin lips. It wasn't going to take long for either of them, she thought, slurping the pre off the lion's tip, delighting in the musky, masculine taste. The lion tensed again, that growling purr coming back. His grip on her hips tightened until it became almost painful, a pleasurable pain she tolerated as long as he was still doing what he was doing.

She felt Blake buck into her mouth, swallowing his cock to the hilt, and felt his slickened member grind into the back of her throat, before the lion's purr turned into a sudden moan bordering on a feline yowl. Robin pulled her muzzle slightly away in time for the thick load of lion cum to blast into her mouth, the first spurt going straight down her throat, as she eagerly swallowed the seed, milking the lion's cock dry as ropes of cum began to dribble out of the corners of her mouth. Yet Blake only paused momentarily, even as Robin licked his softening cock clean, she could still feel his tongue slurping deep into her pussy, swallowing her juices just as he had swallowed his. His tongue swung back to her clit, and she suddenly gasped yet again, the second orgasm catching her completely off guard, squirting another stream of cum, all female this time, into Blake's waiting muzzle, her limp form slowly settling upon him.

Breathing heavily, she waited for the lion to finish licking her clean, then spun around on the bed again, coming into a cradled embrace. Blake's normally tidy auburn mane was matted with sweat and her cum, her own mane now tangled and matted with his. The lion pulled them into a tight kiss, and for that fleeting instant that their tongues mingled, Robin could taste them all. Her past, her present, her future. As they separated from the kiss, sharing weary, but loving grins with each other, Robin lowered her arm, stroking down Blake's abs until she was cradling his balls, giving the fuzzy golden sack a teasing squeeze.

"Just promise me one thing, Blake."

The lion looked at her, smiling warmly. "What's that?"

"That you'll never tell me to 'take it home'."

* * *

It was a cold morning, the shadows of the street lamps stretching lazily across the parking ramp as the rising son breached the horizon. The bare metal of a landing airliner shone like a mirror in the sunrise as Blake and Robin walked out of the hotel, the double doors parting as they rolled their suitcases towards the taxi stand. Robin's mane was tidy again, simply pulled back away from her face until she learned how to better style it. Steam billowed from her muzzle as she waited for her coffee to cool, blowing at it softly before she took a long sip from the paper cup. The jacket she had packed was rather tight in the chest now, but she'd have time to shop for a new one later, once the contract signing was over, or at least once she got fitted for her firesuit and found out what her new sizes were.

Blake adjusted his scarf, the crimson red of the fabric looking brilliant alongside his mane in the morning light, and stretched, raising his arms up in the air with a prolonged yawn. As he lowered them, he pulled Robin into an embrace, the pony yelping in surprise, before she grinned, blushing.

"You know, I should probably get my name changed," she said, sipping again.

"What, Robin? There's nothing wrong with Robin, it works both ways," Blake said, shivering momentarily in the brisk air.

"No, my last name," said Robin. "If this is going to be clean break, I can't be Robin Fleischer, because really, that's not who I am anymore. But I thought about it for a while last night, afterwards. Wurfel's a German company after all, so I thought maybe 'Verander' could work."

"Robin Verander," Blake said, mulling it over. "I like it. We'll see what Sounder thinks."

Robin grinned, the pony snuggling up against the lion as the taxi finally pulled up.