It was a sweltering day at Sweet Apple Acres. It was less unbearable for you though; because while Big Mac and Braeburn did the heavy lifting, you, Anonymous Pony, were out with the stallions for two purposes: to carry their water, and more importantly, to be their outhouse.
Sweat glistened off of their coats as they bucked the trees of their apples, and you admired their forms. Big Mac was just that: big. He was built like a brick shithouse. Under his beautiful red coat was a tasteful sea of rippling muscles, built over years upon years of farmwork. You could practically bounce pebbles off of his rock solid plot. His cousin Braeburn was much more lean, but he wasn’t weak. He still had a wonderfully toned physique under his golden coat.
Big Mac slipped his yoke from the apple wagon. “I’ll be right back, Brae. Gotta go use the outhouse.” Your ears perked up as Big Mac walked over to you, leaning against a bucked tree.. “Siddown, Ah’ve gotta drop a load.” You sat down. Big Mac hefted himself up and pressed his hooves against the tree as he loomed over you. “Come on, boah, open up.”
You eagerly took the broad head of his thick, reddish grey cock between your lips. Big Mac let out a low, guttural moan of relief as his salty, musky piss flooded your mouth. A rapid series of loud gulps came from your throat as you chugged his urine. A last few drops leaked out of Big Mac as he finished “watering” you.
Big Mac turned around and brought his ripped ass to your face. Sweat practically dripped off of his nethers from the heat, something you’ll eventually take care of. Big Mac’s farts were deep like his voice; a long, bassy gust of wind blew in your face. It’s bouquet was earthy, but with a sour note that cut through you.
You watched in awe and held up your dull tin plate as Big Mac’s thick anal lips split and the dark head of his turd started to break out. Big Mac’s log was hard and knobbly, breaking off into large horse apples for you to chew on. Each hoof-sized chunk hit your plate with a satisfying thump. Bits of undigested carrots, strands of hay, tomato skins, and apple seeds were strewn throughout the structure of his shit.
Any flavor brought on by the recycled salad was small comfort as his bitter tastes filled your mouth as you munched on his girthy, chewy horse apples. Eventually you finished chewing Big Mac’s turds and he walked back to the wagon. Braeburn dragged his hoof across his brow, “Know what, Mac? I think I’ve gotta lay a brick too.”
“Lay a brick” turned out to be a generous overstatement. Braeburn held his lean butt in front of your face. You had to rush to catch Braeburn’s shit as it came out much more like chunky peanut butter. His much softer poop was also much brighter than Big Mac’s light brown, mottled almost as yellow as him.
Braeburn’s shit was also much stinkier than Big Mac’s, it’s ripe, rancid smell filling your nose even in the open air of the orchard. It’s taste was incredibly bitter, sour, and it was even a little spicy. Owing to Braeburn’s separate dinner, half-digested peas were scattered throughout his gritty, acidic mush that burst between your teeth as you chewed.
You shuddered as your second-hand lunch oozed its way down your throat before you profusely thanked both of your masters for making good use of their outhouse. They continued down the trail and after a few minutes, Big Mac beckoned you to his side for a “water break.”
Hearing the sound of Big Mac practically scraping his throat, you opened up your mouth. With a loud “ptoo”, Big Mac hocked a giant glob of his heat-thickened spit right into your awaiting maw. “That’s the closest thing yer gonna get to water, so ya better drink up.” You graciously swallowed Big Mac’s loogie, accepting his hydration as it coated your mouth and throat with its slimy texture.
“Well shoot, I better get in on this action. I’ve had a frog in my throat for the last half-hour.” Braeburn snorted and held his hat as he likewise spat a massive loogie into your mouth. “Shoot, you part near make a better spittoon than an outhouse!” You gratefully accept Braeburn’s gift as well as his and Big Mac’s loogies joined together in your stomach.
Hours of being used like a spittoon and guzzling the stallion’s piss passed as the sun began to set on Sweet Apple Acres. Big Mac pulled the wagon, almost overflowing with plump, juicy apples into the barn and set away his yoke. Braeburn pointed to their hooves, “Well, we can’t just go in the house like this.” Their hooves were absolutely caked in dirt and grime from the long day’s work. Blades of grass poked out from under their hooves even as they stood.
“Well, you know what they say: ‘Dirty hooves, use a doormat’.” The stallions looked to you and you knew immediately what they had in mind. You prostrated on the barn floor, begging for your master’s hooves. You felt the air violently pressed out of your lungs as Big Mac and Braeburn dug their hooves into your back, putting the entire weight of their heavy physiques on you as they walked upon your back.
Even after being thoroughly trampled by your masters, their hooves were still filthy. Big Mac took a bunch of apples out of the wagon and put them on the ground. Big Mac’s heavy hooves crushed the bright, shiny apples, spraying jets of their sweet juice across the floor. Braeburn joined in, crushing the apples underhoof.
When the stallions had finished turning the apples into applesauce, they held up their hooves to you. Big Mac commanded you, “Well, get lickin’ hoof scraper. This is the closest you’ll get to eating real food around here.” You profusely thanked your masters and began your service. Digging into the deepest crevices of their hooves, you happily snacked on the sugary apple mush that mixed with the bitter, earthen dirt and grass blades. Their hooves were well-worn, rough and callous on your tongue as you polished them.
After you finished giving them an oral pedicure, Big Mac sniffed his leg pit and recoiled, “Hoo boah, we’re gonna have to wash up before we go in.” Big Mac and Braeburn flashed you a smug grin, they knew you didn’t even need to be told what to do.
The stallions were soaked with sweat; you socked it from their coats and savored it’s saline flavor. As you stuck your nose into their leg pits and worked your way back the stallions surreptitiously started to turn their butts towards each other. When you finally reached their hind ends, you found yourself in a sweaty, musky ponut sandwich.
You practically drank the sweat that beaded on Big Mac’s heavy, glistening orbs before switching to Braeburn’s smaller testes. As you sucked the musk from Braeburn’s taint, Big Mac leaned back into you and ripped a massive, bassy fart on your cheek. You could barely process Big Mac’s ripe, earthy fumes before Braeburn followed suit, blasting his acrid, sour gas directly up your nose.
Big Mac and Braeburn started a tug of war of sorts with their farts you with in the middle. Your face was assaulted by alternating blasts of earthy and acrid fumes as their muscular asses pressed against your head. Your lungs filled with the fart cocktail as it burned your nose.
“Well,” Big Mac chided you, “Even if ya were allowed to eat food, you wouldn’t be comin’ into the house smellin’ like that, so you’ll be eating your ‘dinner’ out here tonight.” You put your plate on the barn floor and waited patiently for your masters to give you your meal.
Your masters squatted tail to tail over your plate. Braeburn’s ass let out a high pitched toot before he spilled another batch of his mush. His bright brown, almost yellow muck had run out of peas and fudgily flowed across your plate. He was almost done when another batch of Big Mac’s road apples swelled his thick ponut before tumbling into Braeburn’s mushy pile.
When they were both finished, it looked like they had dropped a pile of spaghetti and shitballs for your dinner. They laughed as they made you wipe their asses with your tongue before they left you to choke down your meal.The contrasting flavors and textures of their shit blew your mind as you heard them go inside the house to eat your breakfast. Big Mac’s road apples were full of hay and Braeburn’s mush was as rancid as ever. You finished your meal and made your “bed” in the hay, getting ready for tomorrow: another day of being the outhouse.
