Day thirty.
Or... is it day forty?
It’s becoming hard to tell.
The only possible way I could gauge time is by observing the way the sun falls over Celestia’s cheeks and count each time it relinquishes its place to the moon.
Still, it doesn’t matter.
My duty is not to keep the time, my duty is to dispose of royal waste.
At first, of course, there was hesitation. I won’t deny that. I pity the apprehensive affirmation I afforded Celestia as she asked me; eased me into a response with delicate kisses all over my body.
Looking back, it’s hard to believe I ever found this job unpleasant in any way.
I bless every day I can serve the Princess. Our sessions together are the highlight of my life.
I’ve become so utterly, intimately familiar with her I’ve memorized the diurnal patterns of her bowel movements.
She has a certain rhythm to when she shits and when she doesn’t.
Often, she will need to use me later in the day; this is due to two primary reasons.
One, she’s often busy all day. Meetings, delegations, trips, friendship problems... she’s a busy pony. The only downtime she has is towards the end of the day.
Secondly, her diet. Celestia does not eat well at all. I encourage her to improve her nutritional intake but she’s always pulled back to her old ways.
Cake comprises most of her diet, but that’s not all.
The chefs here provide such an enormous and seemingly infinite supply of food that it’s hard for her to turn it down.
For this reason, she’s always exposed to more exotic food items, and they don’t always agree with her.
It seems a lot of the time her food backs up - sometimes even for a few days at a time - and eventually finds its way through her system and into mine.
I suppose I should go through the typical proceedings that occupy my evenings.
It’s always the same.
As the sun is starting to fall, Celestia will enter her room.
She initially built a sort of containment for me; some chains bound to my hands to keep me in place.
I don’t need that now, though. She knows this. It would be impossible to make me leave.
She’s clearly very tired as she comes in, but sparked by that nagging desperation in her bowels.
As soon as she closes the door behind her the first thing she always does is let go of a long, loud fart; the kind of huge windy thing that announces her presence and occupies the room before she even speaks.
These are the first pent-up release. Always long and flowing; it’s as if she could keep these ones going for minutes but chooses not to.
It’s become a habit of mine to count the length of these farts in seconds in my head.
They’re usually around the eight to ten second mark, but can reach as high as eleven or twelve on a particularly gassy night.
She’ll greet me, warm and friendly, and make some comment about the wind she just evacuated.
She’s just whetting my appetite slowly.
She’ll waste no time in bringing herself down over me, laying flat across my body so her rump is just above my face and my legs are crushed under her torso.
She’s heavy. When she lays onto me it’s the kind of weight that snaps me awake if I wasn’t already; so heavy the bed sinks with us both and my legs and arms are truly pinned firmly in place.
It’s usually only seconds before she lets some more gas escape. She’s a gassy mare and when she’s had to hold it in all day especially so.
Her farts always have this really particular sound to them. I wish I could describe it better in words, but words don’t do it justice.
A warm quack of a trombone muffled by a cotton sock.
This fart will be about half as long as the one she expelled upon entering the room, but being this close to her means I get to feel it.
A rush of hot, dense air. It’s like a White rapid stream that brushes over my face. So hot it almost burns.
The smell.
Okay, when I said I loved every part of the sessions unconditionally? Well, that’s not entirely true.
The smell this mare produces is...
Disgusting. I can’t think of any way to pretty it up; it is utterly repulsive.
I can’t even express in words how awful it is. Picture month-old steamed cabbage planted in a week-old diaper and left in a sauna for an hour.
No, it’s worse than that.
Even after all this time I cannot handle it. I’ve tried forcing my body to just accept it but it makes my stomach churn.
That’s not to say I don’t still huff every single particle of her shit-air like it’s my only supply of oxygen, but it’s difficult. Maybe one of these days my body will finally give up its protests and just let me enjoy its rancidness.
Her farts are big, bellowing, windy, but also bassy and rumbling.
She’ll cough and splutter when the smell inevitably reaches her and bury her muzzle into the nearest available pillow.
She laughs and apologizes, but she has nothing to apologize for.
Still, I see why she holds them all in. Letting one of those babies slip in the middle of a crowded hall of important politicians and royalty would not end well.
As she continues to deluge me with her flatulence, I always notice the smell grows increasingly more pungent.
I know, it seems hard to imagine such an atrocious smell could get worse, but it does; it sours, and this is my sign that her waste is nearing its exit; snaking through her guts as each resounding fart collects a waft of stench from it; a preview of coming attractions.
She always gives me ample notice when she can feel her shit approaching. Her stomach makes this particular kind of wet gargling sound.
After giving me my fill of farts it’s swiftly on to the main dish.
It’s around now that her bladder wakes up and decides it needs to evacuate before her bowels.
My mouth is always ready, of course, for that unpredictable flow of hot, yellow piss that sometimes sprays a little too far and leaves a damp spot on the mattress and sometimes sprays at just the right velocity and finds my mouth.
I close off my throat and let it fill my mouth up; a trickling sound that quickly descends in pitch as my cheeks swell with the hot, bitter juice.
I gulp it down. It may make my throat a little sore, but it’s a beautiful precursor for what’s about to come next.
After her urine has reduced to a sporadic trickle she lets out one final hiss of a fart; the silent fanfare to precede my main course.
Her shit appears so fast I barely have time to register it before it’s coiled over my face in a big heap.
I suck it all into my mouth and let my tongue feel that sticky, hot texture that burns my loins.
God, it is incredible.
Ambrosia is too tame a word.
That gristly fresh hot mud that sticks to my mouth; the little chunks of nuts that once topped a cake; corn that once clung to a cob.
It’s like a medley of her precious meals all condensed down for me.
That rich, nutty, earthy flavor that’s like delicious muddy porridge.
I like to just mash it around with my tongue so the flavor meets every single tastebud.
I don’t have long, though. The princess has a lot saved up and it’s not going to wait around for me.
When I catch up I’m able to effectively chomp down on her shits as they’re still connected to her asshole; a fat, heaving sausage of pony princess pulp that either breaks off or is pinched off.
She feeds it into me with a strained coo and I eat it down without hesitation.
I love the feeling as some of it clings to the back of my throat.
The satisfying feeling of a particularly heavy load crammed in my gullet and slowly sinking down to my stomach.
I want to be filled to the brim with Celestia’s rectal effluence.
My mouth is stained brown and my teeth even more so. Sometimes as I chew my teeth feel the juicy, sweet burst of a kernel of corn.
She’ll sometimes play a little game as ask me to guess what she’s eaten.
It would be hard if she didn’t eat almost the same thing every day.
What was once vanilla icing, flour, eggs, milk, butter, strawberry, chocolate... becomes unified in her piquant feces.
I’m so desperate to devour her shit I find myself leaning up to beg at her asshole for more, but sadly there reaches a point where she’s given me all she has.
Well, at first that seems to be the case.
Even if she’s already released half her body weight in poop, she has more. She always does.
The rest that she has comes in logs just as thick and plentiful. I don’t know how so much solid waste can fit inside one pony. It’s like a smelly, messy magic trick.
After giving me probably another two or three pounds, she’s still not done. Oh, no.
Even more, delivered with confident grunts and girlish giggles.
The amount she gives me now is double what she gave me before.
She’s a fucking endless void. It’s really quite impressive.
By the time she’s finished I’m so full I physically can’t fit any more of her wonderful waste inside, plagued by frequent burps tinged with the taste of her asshole.
As a final encore the gas that has been trapped deep up inside her all leaks out, wet and spluttering through the mess of shit caking her plothole.
This fart is the real monster. It dwarves the one she releases as she enters the room my an impressive amount.
She just rests her head down into a pillow and lets this one flow.
It’s long. Really fucking long. I try to time it but I’m always struck by how amazing it is.
It’s so long, in fact, the tone of it - the very timbre - starts to change, like her asshole is forming into some new shape and subtly altering the noise it’s making. It sounds like it’s tearing apart.
Another thing she often likes to do is get me to clean her asshole for her while this fart is going on.
Apparently it tickles.
It certainly tickles the back of my throat as it tenaciously rumbles on.
As my tongue cleans her, of course this also alters how it sounds.
When I press my tongue over the little shriveled hole the sound is coming from
It cuts off for a second, but feeling a competitive flair Celestia pushes it even harder; just to show that she can; that she’s not afraid to force it out as hard as possible because she knows it’s still going to be impressively long.
As I clean I play with the sound. This always makes her laugh.
I let it rumble around, hollow, inside my mouth, and then tighten and loosen the muscles in my throat and hear how that brings the pitch up and down ever so slightly.
Finally, roughly when I have her asshole clean and nicely spit-shined, the fart tapers off.
She’s empty, and genuinely feels lighter than she does when she first lays down over me.
With this, our session is over.
She gives me one last quick accidental fart as she pulls herself up off the bed, and tells me what a good job I’ve done.
Of course even if having the chance to savor her waste is benefit enough, another benefit of this job is that I get to sleep alongside Celestia.
She likes having someone to sleep next to.
Every few minutes she will let the mattress rumble (and I really mean rumble) with a fart and pulls the covers over us so we can both enjoy it - or rather laugh about how bad it smells - together.
With that, yet another perfect day comes to a close.
Every day here is a blessing.
I would go into more detail, but I think I hear her just outside the door now.
