Filth & Inflation

by AmethystMare

Rating: mature
Tags: Porn, Sex, Applejack, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Fetish
Length: 15453

A pony is used to help AJ clear waste on the farm...

Arctic, a pony-pet, is taken to Applejack's farm to assist with some waste disposal... Only things don't quite go to plan as he assists the farm-pony with her work and his reward becomes less so...

WARNING FOR HEAVY FETISH INCLUDING SCAT, URINE, BODILY WASTE/FLUIDS.

Tags: M/F, M/solo, anal, oral, messy play, scat/urine, bondage, femdom, dom/sub.

Published 2021-02-01 17:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2021-02-01 17:50:01 UTC

Filth & Inflation

Author's Note

Arctic, a pony-pet, is taken to Applejack's farm to assist with some waste disposal... Only things don't quite go to plan as he assists the farm-pony with her work and his reward becomes less so...

WARNING
WARNING
WARNING

Contains heavy messy play, urine and scat - enjoy! Comments are CLOSED.

WARNING
WARNING
WARNING

As always, I am open for commissions starting at 30 GBP per 1,000 words - please e-mail arianmabe[at]gmail.com for more information or see my profile!

Story © Amethyst Mare / Arian Mabe
Characters © respective owners

Filth & Inflation

Filth & Inflation

Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)
Commissioned by anonymous

“Now, from what ah saw, y’all are darn good at getting some messier jobs done, hm?”

Applejack rubbed her chin, the red apples of her cutie mark standing out in the glowing sunshine, the morning as bright and as cheery as anyone could have liked on that particular day. The barn was freshly painted, though she had not had to hire out Fluttershy’s pet to do that work for her, and gleamed with white highlights to the supporting beams, a spot of white paint lingering on her rump where she had not quite managed to reach to wash it off. That was no matter to her, however, as she stood there before one of the dirtier jobs to be done on the ranch, though all that could be seen before her was a green round of a hill.

Arctic, wisely, held his told, saying nothing, the pegasus’ head lowered quietly. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad at all or maybe it would be something that made his gut ache and twist in ways that he had never imagined, but pushing his luck certainly wasn’t going to put him in any kind of good position, he was sure of it. His feathers, for once, were perfectly clean and well-groomed, though it had been done all under his own hoof, sitting on the floor of Fluttershy’s cottage while she was out with her friends, the rug soft under his rump. Those quiet moments of being a pony-pet were all part of his servitude to her too, though he could have done without Angel the bunny squeaking and pointing and miming things that he should do to himself half the time. He couldn’t quite get on with that rabbit, it had to be said.

Nevertheless, he had not been all that surprised when Mistress Shy came home a little worse for wear and tipsy, talking about the fun she’d had and how her friends thought that they had so much use for him. It was a shame that most of her words were slurred together for that had made it more than a little difficult to work out just what use they did have in store for him. In the end, Arctic had not slept very soundly that night, curled up in the pet basket (pony-sized, of course) at the foot of her bed, wondering what was in store for him, tossing and turning the whole night long.

That said, Applejack was probably the one of her friends that he was most surprised to find himself with, though she had not bothered to put him on a leash, saying something about not wasting her energy dragging him about, that he could keep up if he put his hooves to it. Fluttershy’s collar was still in place around the stallion’s neck, however, his shaft soft and tucked away within his sheath, practically modest for once if not for the heavy nuts swinging under him that had first drawn his mistress to him.

Arctic gulped, glancing from left to right, shifting his weight nervously from one hoof to another. What was there? Was there something he was supposed to be looking at, something he was supposed to be doing? All he saw was grass, the fence for the actual grazing land of the cows and more further back. Where they were appeared to be land with no particular use for it, though that was odd with how rich and green the grass had ended up there.

There was a shed, however, even if it appeared to be on the older side with peeling paint and a crooked door. It would hold perhaps a couple of alicorns lengthways if ever needed but that was about all the scale that Arctic could glean from it, shaking his head, his dark blue mane flipping from one side of his neck to the other.

“Now, let’s get y’all all set up here.”

The farm pony was not one to dally when she had a job to do or, namely, she had a job for Arctic to do. She ushered him inside, prodding him on the backside with a rough hoof that was not as well “hooficured” as Fluttershy’s was – but, to be fair, his mistress had been spending rather a lot of spa days with Rarity of late. There was always going to be a difference between her and other ponies that worked in the fields and in manual labour for a living, but it was difficult for him not to compare them, breath short and catching in his throat.

“Here, shan’t be all that bad, don’t you fret, filly.”

Arctic shivered. Was that a jab at his stallion-hood? It was hard to tell when somepony was being serious or not, grunting in the back of his throat as his tail as crudely yanked out and lifted, pulling at the sensitive dock and line of his spine. He was too well-trained to object to it with more than a look though, waiting as she looked all too closely at his tail hole for his liking, every part of his body screaming at him to clamp his tail down and not expose himself to her. He knew, however, that there was no choice in that kind of matter for him, left there for her to inspect with a practical, clinical observation.

“Hm… It should work, should fit. She says you stretch – is that true or is ‘shy pulling my leg here?”

Arctic gulped. Fit what? That she was talking about the pucker of his anus was obvious but he didn’t know what else may have been considered in the stretchiness of that.

“Erm…” He rubbed the side of his head with a hoof. “My under…under-tail, it stretches… Yes…”

It wasn’t much of a response but it seemed to satisfy Applejack and Arctic could only hope that he’d gotten the right answer, groaning softly as her hoof ran over his rump and down his side, over his sensitive flanks.

“Ticklish, are y’all? That won’t matter here, don’t worry.”

She slipped into a deeper accent as she stepped around him, muttering about all the things she had to do that day, though she was glad to have help to do it. He’d done some manner of farm work before, though it had not all gone to plan on that side, and thought it could not be so bad if he got mucky and messy even helping out with the pigs and animals typically considered to be dirty. That must have been why she’d wanted him, someone who couldn’t complain at all about getting their hooves stuck in, even able to fly too, considering that he was a pegasus pony while she was an earth pony.

Smiling faintly, Arctic relaxed. He could be useful there, he was sure of it. A little manual labour wasn’t going to kill him.

Yet it was at that very point of relaxation that her hoof connected sharply with his rump in a demanding spank, sending him squealing and lunging forward into a wooden contraption. It had looked to him like something that could have, with ropes in the right places, been used for lifting perhaps sacks of wheat for the mill, but there was a gate at the end that prevented him from going any further, another wooden one banging closed on his heels. A puff of dust from the age of the wood, cracked and creaking, burst around his hocks but he could not fail to notice the two bolts sliding home, Applejack as efficient as ever as she locked him in. It was too restrictive, even then, to flap his wings and escape by lifting off, the wooden boards of the stocks keeping him in place, perhaps designed for a cow but still suitably restrictive. Not even twisting and lifting off at an awkward angle would see him freed, his mind automatically running through every failed means of escape and trembling in pleasure when he found none.

“In the stocks with you,” Applejack called, her voice raised as if she was speaking to a less intelligent creature on the farm, not a pony that she had held a conversation with not all that long ago. “Come on now, we haven’t got all day now, stand up good and tall now, you here?”

The order was simple and, as a result, not one that his body could fight back against, his training kicking in, pulling his withers back and up, straightening, standing firm in place with his legs braced. Humiliatingly, his tail also flicked up, exposing the trembling orbs of his nuts, how they hung more easily before his hind legs when the skin pulled tauter around them, spread and braced for the attention of one that he had no clue of what they were going to do to him.

She didn’t explain anything that she was doing to him in the dingy shed, dust motes swirling in the couple of shafts of sunshine streaming through gaps in the wooden plans making up the side of the building. Applejack had probably been told that she didn’t need to and that was something that Arctic was more than used to as she expertly used her mouth and hooves to tie first one and then the other of his front hooves to the stocks, yanking them out and wide against the wooden posts. It was an uncomfortable position to hold, his chest not really comfortable stretching and expanding to that extent, yet he was forced to endure the same with his back hooves too, the rope snugly sitting over his fetlocks as she ensured that he was good and in place.

“Well now… That’s a start.”

A start? The pegasus whimpered as she fashioned a rough rope bridle for him, a line of coarse twine lying across his tongue in place of a bit, though it was not as if Mistress Shy had not had him wear a proper bridle before. Those, of course, had been bought from Rarity and designed with luxury in fetish in mind – not a rough and ready bridle that was there to do the job of controlling him, of cementing Applejack’s domination over him.

She wasn’t done yet, however, lashing more and more rope around the joint of his knees and above his hocks, ensuring that he couldn’t move a darn inch, as much as he may have liked to. The restraint of the rough, farm-use rope was even more restrictive than the latex, rubber, leather – all that he could name – that Mistress Shy was more apt to use on him, breath catching in his throat as his lungs juddered to take in as much air as they could. He trembled in place as she bound his wings too tightly, feathers sticking out in all directions, though there was nothing he could say against it as he was trussed up and prepared for…whatever it was that she had in store for him.

“Hm… Best leave your muzzle free for now. I’ll have something for that end, you know, just to sweeten the deal.”

Arctic’s eyes widened but he clamped his mouth shut, lest she change her mind. That was something that, truly, was very apt to happen when ponies thought that they had different uses for him and he wasn’t about to go putting any thoughts in her head! Chewing the bit in his mouth, the rough length of rope that cut lightly into the corners of his lips, he champed it softly, turning his head back and forth, though she was quick to lash another makeshift rope collar around his neck. Those ropes layered themselves down to ensure that his neck was completely immobilised and his head tied off to the bars of the stocks, eyes as wide and as plaintive as he could make them.

He may as well have done nothing at all for all the effect it had on Applejack, the farm pony clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she surveyed her hoof-work.

“Not bad at all… Even if I do say so myself.”

She smirked, lips quirking up on one side, but hers was not the sort of muzzle that could hold it for any length of time, hips shifting from one side to the other as if there was an itch that she couldn’t scratch.

“Best get y’all set up then, but Fluttershy does say your tongue is real nice. Can’t dally too much on the job now though, can I?”

He was wise enough not to reply to that, although it was not as if he could get out many coherent words around the bit. The rope acted as a sort of gag but one that rendered him mumbling if not entirely mute, more a factor of his status as a work pony, a pet pony, and not to control him literally. Arctic champed at it, eyes wide, trying to follow Applejack’s movements as she trotted around behind him.

“Now, just one thing…”

The door knocked against the frame as she darted outside, though she could not have gone very far as she was back in but a moment, dragging along something heavy with her that bumped over the ground, every little divot and tussock of grass proving itself to be something of a difficulty to her.

“Erf… This better be worth it… We really need to get this job done…”

Her mutterings were not for him, of course, and he whimpered, hanging his head the best he could in the stocks and his tight, restrictive bondage. It sent an ache through his body, even then, as if he had been kept in it for hours already, wings tight and sore around the base, though that would swiftly be but a mere backdrop to what he was needed for there. It didn’t seem like any ordinary farm work that he was to be needed for anymore, not with Applejack muttering and standing over his hind end with determination in her tone.

He wanted to know what was happening and yet it was not the right of a pony-pet like him to be told such things, grunting and shifting, trying to alleviate the strain on his limbs in any way that he could. It was all to no avail, of course, as his body was merely there for her use, rope slipping up under his tail across the dock. That was more sensitive, thankfully, and he groaned deep in the back of his throat, trying to shake his head, his tail hole more and more exposed as Applejack ensured that there was no way that his tail could be clamped down anymore.

Rope twined around his tail like a bandage that could be used to keep the finer hairs away from one's hindquarters, yet it was a coarse one that ground irritatingly into his dock. He tried to flick his tail but it was no use as the longer hairs fell away, leaving his pucker exposed, the fleshy bud that had been the object of so much teasing, over and over again, squeezing and relaxing even as she surveyed him.

Something cool and slick drooled onto his tail hole and he was almost surprised at the sheer volume of lube that covered his pucker, though it was too well-received to be at all considered as something that he would reel from. It could only herald one thing, of course, but it was better to have than to go without, allowing his body to relax a little and, at the very least, prepare him mentally for the penetration, however it came.

Her hoof pressed up to his pucker, teasing and questing for entry that he tried to give, easing in a little – but only a corner. She had not done something like that before, not to a pony like him, and hesitated, shaking her head, mane clinging a little to her neck as it dampened with a line of sweat.

“Suppose I don’t have to loosen you up first but it seems like the right way to go about it. Sit tight… Hah… Not that you can go anywhere…”

There was a sense of inexperience to her domination as it slipped forth that came up against her natural air of command in a decidedly odd way but Arctic wasn’t in the moment to think of any of that. No, for something smooth and round and warm pressed up under his tail, forcing entry. Instinctively, part of him squeezed down while the rest of his body and training relaxed to let it in, his whole being caught up in such a way that there everything was a tug of war between his mind and his soul.

Yet there was no escape from the smooth push of whatever the object was, something thick and roughly round in shape grinding into his tail-star. The lubricant helped it easily along its way, for which he was very thankful for, even more coating the object to push it through and into him. His passage swallowed it up as if it was hungry for it and Arctic whimpered, though it had not hurt that much grinding over the scar that brought up so many painful memories. It would get easier in time, he knew, over the course of a session, but that certainly did not mean that the initial penetration was something that he could easily bear through. He had to think about it, the corners of his eyes watering while he wanted to be strong, breath catching in his throat, a tight judder of being that had no place seducing his soul.

Applejack chuckled softly.

“Apples, right? They’re good for so many things.”

Ah, that explained the shape and the smoothness, though Arctic could have said that he had had many worse things. He had not been permitted to speak, however, which was just as holding to him as any bondage or gag was, clamping his mouth shut until the line of his jaw ached, rump twitching as he was spread. The ropes binding him to the stocks, however, were so tight that there was no hope of even finding a bare modicum of relief through wiggling, his stretching hole accepting apple after apple as they bulged and filled up his anal passage.

The stallion’s breath caught and became more and more difficult to drag into his lungs as the mare filled him, though he long ago had lost count of just how many apples had penetrated his backdoor passage. It was hardly sacred anymore after how much his mistress had made use of it – and the other ponies that she, occasionally, hired him out to – but it still made him sink and simmer into subservient submission. There was no pleasure to be had in it for him, bar the little that his body responded, cock twitching and throbbing, but that was in the back of his mind. All he was there to do was a job and he locked that into himself as the pressure under his tail and in the back of his guts grew and grew.

Arctic groaned, resisting the urge to twist his head: the ropes would only dig into his neck, his head held neatly in place and the knots perfectly secured. If he’d been in a better state of mind and not so deeply into sub-space that it would take hours for him to swim and pony-paddle his way back out of it he would have admired her knot work. They were neat and in perfect lines, everything about her presentation efficient. There was no intricate to how he was bound and everything was practical but that was by the by when it came to what she wanted to achieve, working away under his tail while he was forced to keep it raised.

“That’s the first barrel then for you.”

There was humour in her voice that he had not expected to hear: was the mare enjoying it? With his eyes half-lidded and a groan rising from the back of his throat, he could not tell. His tail automatically tried to twitch up another notch higher as she laid a hoof on his backside, pressing what felt like the largest fruit yet against his tail-star.

“Hold fast…”

He had no choice in that matter but the huge apple ground and pushed as she huffed under her breath, putting her strength behind it. His tail hole burned but not a cry of complaint broke the barrier of his lips. No, he had trained better than that to take huge objects up under his tail, though the insistent grind and push on his prostate was something that his body had to accommodate too. He whimpered as his cock throbbed up to full hardness (had it softened at all, really?), drooling pre-cum, pooling on the ground beneath him. There were some slats left in the floor of the old shed but it was mostly bare earth – not that that mattered at all to him. She would have her fill and use of him either way as she finally managed to shove that huge apple up inside him, a triumphant cry bursting forth.

“Aha! How’d you like dem apples?”

Smirking, she seemed pleased with herself as she dusted off her knees, having twisted and contorted to get the best angle for it. Yet his rump could hold so much more and she worked through the second barrel as he whimpered and ground, his cock throbbing obviously. With every addition to his backside, the pool of pre-cum grew a little larger, the milky-white fluid splashing forth as if he was actually having an orgasm. The mare could not help but whistle in appreciation for all that he could produce, though the heat under her tail grew in turn. No wonder Fluttershy had taken him in to be her pony-pet when his sexual prowess was that good. Though she wouldn’t have liked him to pound her without a good warm-up first…

Arctic huffed and panted, breathing raggedly through his open mouth, flanks heaving and shuddering to a point where each breath wracked his entire body. The barrel was finished and Applejack groaned as if she had done more manual labour at that moment in time than, truly, she had, standing back to admire her work while his innards churned, his gut wrenching, striving to do everything possible to contain everything that he had been given. It was all he could do, overfilled and overstuffed, the many apples feeling oh so very different to a fat length of dildo, a pressure that built and increased with every apple and every second. It meant too that they would churn and push up against one another in new and interesting ways, no one second quite like the one that followed it.

He was there to do a job, he told himself, stiffening as he bore through it, cock aching, threatening to slap up against his own stomach as his abdominal muscles tensed. It would not be that bad, no… Oh no, it would not be that bad. It would be okay. His mistress had sent him there and she would protect him always. After all, it was not as if Applejack was the sort of pony that would drive him out on a limb and push him beyond all and any limits he thought he possessed merely to see what she could do to him.

Arctic trembled. But did he know that yet? She trotted around in front of him with a strange look on her muzzle, one that he could not say that he had ever seen before. Lips lightly brushing one another as if she did not want to completely close her mouth, her eyelashes fluttered faintly, her rump swaying from one side to another.

“Ah, what the hay?” She grinned, a flash of brightness illuminating her face even in the gloom. “There’s time for a little fun… Sure y’all don’t mind…”

She wasn’t really asking the permission of a pet-pony, however, comfortable with the notion of dominating even though it was a rougher and more practical sort of domination than Arctic had ever had before. If Applejack took a stallion as a lover or even another mare, she would take her pleasures in the lustrous dark of the ranch while the fireflies set the orchard aglow, though that was for sweetness of another time. A pet-pony was something and someone different altogether and that was just why she was at complete liberty to back up to his muzzle, dragging an old bench over to stand on.

Arctic was taller than her as a stallion and her muscle was not enough to help her get up to the same level as him without a little help, but it was not as if there was anyone there to see them. As he held the apples inside him, he could only exhale in relief as he was treated to the sweetness of her marehood and her folds, the pulsing, winking delight of them, showing off the throbbing bud of her clit. It was fatter and thicker as it pushed from its tiny hood, which, to be fair, looked quite as if it was too small to contain the nub of pleasure, and he lashed it eagerly with his tongue, forgetting to be gentle in the heat and the passion of the moment.

It was something to distract him from the rougher play, undoubtedly, though Arctic would not have denied just what a reaction his body had had to that too. He needed to be tied up and “forced” into it but there was something in him that made his blood sing to be treated and “abused” in such a way, making it no such abuse truly when his heart pounded so longingly for it. He needed to be controlled, pent-up and needy, yet that did not mean that the plush tartness of her marehood was not something that he was going to enjoy too, driving his tongue in deep and sussing out her sensitive spots. There was an art to oral pleasure and he had long ago resolved to be the very best of the best, swirling his tongue around her clit to a chorus of throaty nickers each time he drew back.

“Oh… Oh, yeah… Keep doing…that…”

It was just as well the pegasus was in bondage as her control over him wavered, pleasure washing through the mare. He could tell in just how her juices flowed a little more freely, perhaps showing her that she could be just as over-productive (if it could even be called that) when it came to arousal. Some mares thought they just couldn’t get wet enough without the help of additional lubrication before they met the pleasurable “wrath” of Arctic’s tongue but that was something, very much indeed, that the pony-pet was keen to show them the error of their ways.

Applejack’s moans rose and rose, juices flowing freely, sloppily, staining and marking his slick muzzle. There was no hesitation on his part as he served her, pushing on eagerly with an imagined hump and grind of his hips. In the reality of it all, he could only lean into his bondage and relish the restriction, feeling tight on the inside and the outside, everything coming together in a passionate and pulsing moment.

He could not hold back, however, as Applejack cried out her orgasm, dousing his muzzle in her fluids, hips rocking, grinding, everything frantic in the heat of the moment. Arctic may not have moaned or given any outcry as to what was happening to his aching, churning balls, but the shots of seed and resulting mess on the ground could not be denied as he spent his load. Need coursed through him even though he knew that he had not been allowed, verbally, to cum, head spinning with delirious joy, his world sucked in to that of her marehood and how he slurped up her essence with relish, honey coating his muzzle.

Applejack huffed and shoved herself back on him more urgently, demanding more while she did not have the breath to get the words out that she wanted. That was no matter though when he was more than well-trained enough to know what she wanted, locking his lips around her throbbing clit and suckling it as deeply up into his mouth as he possibly could. She squealed and half kicked out, jigging a hind hoof in the air, the bench rocking under her, though she could only lean back heavily on him for balance. His head was the one stationary object there, unable to twist it back and forth, and Arctic whimpered into her thick, plush folds to be used in such a way, tail striving to twitch back and forth from the dock.

His shaft did not soften even after climax and there was nothing else for him but to relish and enjoy the moment, the day shifting and moving around him as he brought the mare to climax after climax. His own built more slowly than hers, as much as pleasing her brought him equal pleasure, his stamina better than it used to be in the past, even while he was pent-up. The stallion grunted into her muzzle, soaked up to his eyes in her juices and loving every moment, though the pressure under his tail was not to be ignored either. His guts rumbled and churned, wanting to push out the invaders, and yet he still knew that he had to clench down around them and keep them in at all costs. They had to stay inside him if he was to be pleasing to her too.

Yet that was harder and harder as he tingled exotically on the edge of another climax, on the edge of losing control that, truly, he had never actually had over himself. It was coming whether he was ready for it or not and he cried out into her sex as she rocked and moaned herself through yet another orgasm, using his muzzle as if she never again would get such an opportunity. And, as his orgasm pulsed forth yet again, painting the ground and even the legs and underside of the bench too in his seed, there was nothing he could do about releasing his grip on the apples in his behind.

“Horse-apples” was a colloquial term used for droppings and the notion remained firmly fixed in Arctic’s head as his tail hole gave up its tightness for them, his body pushing them out, one by one. Not all of them, of course, as he deposited a pile of actual horse-apples behind him, though they were not steaming and hot, only warmed from the heat of his body in the best of ways. Applejack’s head whipped around at the sound but she only smirked, though he knew that such a look from any mare was probably one that spelt trouble for him in the end.

“Oh no…” She held her hoof to her face in mock dismay. “Whatever will we do with those? Oh, I think I know just where to put him…”

It was a pretence that the sway of her hips and the swish of her tail easily gave away as she hopped off the bench, a little more wobbly-legged than she may have liked to admit. But the apples had to be returned, at least for the moment, to their rightful place as the mare shoved every last one that had plopped out back into his perfectly clean tail hole one at a time. Her motions were rougher, not caring for his comfort as much as she had the first time around, and Arctic grunted in surprise, cock pulsing. She was cruder than even he’d given her credit for.

One more round of oral was all that was on the cards, however, for him, and orgasm was not to be gleaned that time as she left the apples inside him, straining his tail hole and shoved deeper. She said that they wouldn’t get in the way, even though he didn’t know what that meant, left bloated and swollen, the hard lumps of apples inside him strangely tantalising, despite how demeaning it all was. Still, there was a release of her own to be gleaned as she backed up to his muzzle and ordered him to press his lips up close, something that the meaning and need for swiftly became clear as she released a thin and increasing stream of urine into his mouth.

That was something that Arctic knew how to do, though his cheeks burned from the strange humiliation and longing for taking a load of piss down his throat. The reek of her juices pleasurably and sensually clung to him but even then the acrid stench of urine could not be denied as it clung to him, forcing him to rock his hips, panting lightly, head spinning. There was nowhere for him to move to as his attention flitted between his back end and her marehood, trying to scoop his tongue, desperately, back into her folds even while striving not to let a drop of urine miss. It was a delicious conundrum to find himself in the middle of, even if he would have chosen her sweet honey over her piss, though he would do everything to please, anything and everything in the whole world, panting against her marehood while a drop of stray urine marked the corner of his lips.

She, however, did not have as large of a bladder as others that he had been sent out and trained to please and he was left with his stomach pleasantly full and perhaps more than a little needing to use the bathroom himself. That, however, was a problem for his body to deal with a little later on, if it was even something that he was going to be allowed to do while he was busy there serving her. The apples rolled and ground against one another inside him, kept there as much as his body ached to push them out, though that was something that even his temporary mistress in Applejack would not allow.

And he had to obey.

“Ahhh…” Applejack sighed with relief and shook herself off, clean and pristine under her tail. “Thanks, sugar, I really needed that. Never a bathroom around when I need it out here on the farm, you know?”

He was there for her pleasure, of course, and could only nod his head demurely, casting his eyes down. He was there to please and to serve and the emptiness under his tail left his passage longing for something, even craving it, his prostate left lonely in the absence of the apples. It was not a feeling that very often coursed through him but he would deal with it, panting lightly, his hips rocking and twitching, though a minute modicum of motion was about all that he could get as the ropes stretched a tiny bit. Of course, that only made the knots tighter but he wasn’t going to worry about that.

“Now, I know this is gonna be a rough ol’ job for you but it’s one that needs doing out here. All of the animals here, the cows too, well, they have their needs and their bodies still need taking care of even if it’s a dirtier job.”

Arctic stilled, an icy-cold settling over him even as his cock throbbed all the more vehemently. What a traitor his body was…

“It needs doing at least once a year but, if you’re good at this, I’ll get y’all back in every six months to ensure that it doesn’t become too much of a bore of a job. That sound good to y’all too?”

She fudged her words a little as if she was not entirely sure whether it would work or not, though the location and the green grass around them empty of anything else outside the shed swiftly became clear. There was a hatch in the floor and she withdrew from it a length of pipe, thick enough that it would have been a problem for him to take under his tail if not for the apples stretching him out, although Applejack frowned.

“Oh, hay-sticks, I almost forgot… So, I got a little something here to sweeten the deal some, ‘kay? You’ll be the first test subject!”

Grinning, she darted from the shed but swiftly reappeared wheeling in a barrel of what could only be the famous Apple Family brand cider that was larger than even Arctic was. Despite his training, he could not resist a whinny of delight, eyes nearly popping out of his head, jaw dropping comically. Was it a joke? A cruel jest? But the look in Applejack’s eye told him that she was dead serious as she patted the barrel proudly.

“This is our finest batch yet, I’m sure of it, but it comes with a catch, stallion. You take this down that neck of yours and the waste tanks, well… As I said, all the waste from the animals here gets funnelled down into the tanks so that it’s nice and clean, out of the way. It needs emptying, however, and, knowing how much you can take, I couldn’t help but think you’re the perfect candidate. That’s gonna go up under your tail and get all of this waste out of here while you guzzle down cider! The apples... They’ll stay in there too, sugar cube. Not a bad deal, it is, hey?”

Arctic could not have said, either way, guts churning in a mixture of excitement and nerves, for he could not have said that he did not long for a change to get as much of that cider down his throat as was possible. His wings tried to twist out of their rope bondage, eager to burst free and show his delight, yet it was not even for him as Applejack attached a similar hose to the barrel, letting the length drop to the floor across the one from the waste tanks.

Oh, it would be worth it, he thought to himself. The only thing better than being pumped up full and eating out a mare was sweet, delicious Apple Family cider and he wasn’t about to miss such an opportunity for the sake of the comfort of his body. He wouldn’t even have to taste the mix of excrement and worse (he didn’t linger on the thought) when it was going up under his tail – that was a deal that no one in their right mind should have honestly have passed up!

Alas, there was something wrong and he would not come to realise just what that something was until everything was too late for him, bracing himself and striving to relax as Applejack wedged a hose up under his tail. His pony-doughnut had to release and release for her to get it in there, though she was not shy about being rough when it was in the name of getting a job done. She treated him just like an object or even a tool on the farm, something to be used without any thought as to what the item thought about the use that was being made of it. In a way, it was another kind of dominance and one that he was curious to learn more about.

With the pipe shoved firmly into place and his tail-star stretched wide, it was tied across his rump in a harness of sorts, the rope sliding neatly into the ridges of the pipe to tuck it right where it needed to be. Not that he would have accidentally let it slip out but AJ was a pony all about the practicalities. With that done, he opened his mouth obediently and eagerly before she’d even reached his face for the second hose and she laughed at his readiness, the bit of the rope bridle hanging loosely across his tongue.

“Okay, this will be a tight fit but I’m sure not too much…”

With the bit removed (which was a shame), the pipe could find its rightful home, Arctic fighting not to salivate as he imagined all the delicious cider that was soon to slip down his throat, fizzy and delightful. The hose proved to be tight indeed as it locked in behind his teeth, finding the back in them at the back of his mouth and tucking a ridge of pipe in there. It would have hooked itself neatly in place, especially considering it would have been a massive strain to open his mouth any wider than that, but she lashed another rope harness around his face over the bridle, layering the bondage so that the pipe could later be removed without the rough and ready rope bridle. Not that he minded, keeping his already immobile head perfectly still as he pushed his tongue eagerly into the hose where it laid into his mouth. It was not the most comfortable position for his tongue to be in, of course, but he simply wanted to taste every last drop of it while his guts gurgled and bloated out.

“There ya go… That does it!”

Standing back to survey her work and the trussed-up pony, AJ smiled. Everything was right and all she had to do was switch on the valves, allowing cider to pump from the barrel straight down his throat and the excrement and mixed waste from the underground tank to be flushed out into his backdoor entrance. She would have congratulated herself for the idea if she did not have other things to do, watching how the pony shuddered and grunted, twitching in his bondage, while the machinery that was both a blessing and a hindrance at times did its work, funnelling the treat and the disgust into him from either end.

“I’ll leave y’all to it then.”

Arctic’s eyes widened. It was the wrong one! She’d gotten the wrong pipe! The pipes had gotten mixed up when she had been hooked up the barrel of cider and she’d pushed the wrong one into his mouth! Excrement flowed into his mouth thick and fast, his tongue forced to take it all, taste it all, wriggling and pushing it back, eyes bulging in disgust. It was wrong, all wrong, not what he’d imagined at all, yet the cider was flowing too but up into his anal passage, bubbling and churning through his guts as it too sought the pit of his belly to flow into.

He squealed and juddered and tried to get her attention, though Applejack was already taking her leave of him, stepping back from the reek of excrement. It would fade soon enough with the waste going somewhere and her stomach and her nose were both pretty strong, though the tanks would need a good cleaning afterwards when she flushed them out. Rubbing her jaw, she mused over getting him to wash them out too later, though, from what she’d seen, he could well be too large and unwieldy by that stage to be much use for anything else on the farm, which was a pity.

“Nah, maybe something else…”

She’d keep an eye on him, of course, from time to time, but she had other jobs to do as she flicked her tail at the thought of a job getting done even while she was not there to oversee it – just how good was that? She liked that thought very much and hummed a tune to herself as she left Arctic to be filled, wondering too if he would be able to write a review on the public Ponyville board for her as to how the cider was afterwards. More reviews and high praise, of course, always went down splendidly.

But Arctic was not so sure that he was in any kind of a position to write any review on her cider, except on the bubbly, overly fizzy, nature of it all. His guts grumbled as it burbled up inside him, his stomach bloating from the bubbles and gas as much as the liquid itself, though it was nowhere enough to distract him from the reek of the waste flowing down his throat. As much as he tried, very desperately, to wriggle his tongue back beneath the hose in his mouth, it wasn’t shifting anywhere, the rope too tight around to allow him that tiny fraction of movement that could have made everything just that little bit easier for him. The bubbles swelled around the apples under his tail but they were nowhere near enough to stop the flow of cider up into his backside, pulsing and forcing its way deeper while it should have been something else entirely.

Arctic groaned, head spinning, drifting and pulsing with a throbbing ache. When had things ever been easy for him? Maybe that had been his fault for thinking that and expecting it, even though he knew too that it was all as things were meant to be, a cruel twist of fate to promise him something good and then snatch it away from his hooves a mere moment later. His guts bubbled and twisted as his body strove to contain the unexpected load, yet the mere sensation of being filled in such a way had his cock as hard and as throbbing as it had ever been.

Yet it was not enough for him to become distracted, twisting back and forth, distressed in his bondage, panting heavily, though he could not get enough air in through his nostrils, his mouth stuffed full. Left there on his own, he was able to consider in excruciating detail just what was filling his mouth, splattering into the back of his throat and overriding his gag reflex to push down into his gut. Not that a gag reflex was something physical on a pony, of course, but something mental that could, sometimes be pushed through in the name of lust and passion. There was nothing passionate about taking excrement and mixed waste down into one’s gut, however, as Arctic whimpered around the hose, tight and restricted and yet knowing that that was only to linger for a time.

For, as waste that he was sure had to be from the cows with the thick slop and pungent aroma of it flowed down his throat, his stomach bloated, slowly but surely. Even though his pale hide was well-designed to be stretchy (he had proven those capabilities time after time again), it had to go somewhere and his organs had to push out of the way to make room for his belly, his gut gurgling, intestines feeling quite as if they were writhing. That was the bubbles working their way through them and he twisted mentally in anguish, knowing that he had been so very close to getting a treat when the nuance of it had, so very cruelly, been ripped from him in but a moment.

It wasn’t fair…but that didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that his body was there to take every last drop of waste that the tank had to offer him, because it was going into his gut one way or another. There was no denying it and no holding back from it even as he tried to keep it in his mouth, refusing to swallow even with his mouth held open. As much as he resisted, his cheeks puffed out, bulging, the corners of his lips even threatening to drool sloppy, messy scat, though it was still just a shade too tight to allow even that. A drop or two out of his mouth may have made things just that tiny bit easier but, alas, it was not to be as he was forced to taste the thick purification of the sludge from the tank, working its way down his throat.

He could barely breathe, nostrils flaring and puckering sharply, though it was just about enough to keep him going – something for which he was bitterly thankful for. He could only think of the cider, how it should have been going down his throat, giving him gulp after gulp of the exotically fruity beverage, even though Applejack’s preferred cider-making process came without turning it alcoholic. Truth be told, a barrel larger than him, of course, may well have killed him, but it was hard to think about that when one was forced to devour the waste from the farm instead of scat.

The farm house of the ponies too and outhouses were evidently hooked up to the tank and sewage system, even if he had not considered that before, thicker logs of more solid scat forcing their way into his throat and down, deeper still. It was not a sensation that he should have been able to pick up on and, still, he swore he felt them splashing into the pit of cider and slick sludge bulging out his stomach, forcing his belly out more and more urgently against the ropes as every minute passed by. They were wrapped around his stomach too, though in a thinner layer, something that merely seemed to be looped over for the illusion of restriction rather than anything concrete and tangible. That was, however, swift to change as his belly strained out and out and out against the ropes, swelling between them, threatening to break through.

Arctic groaned, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, sweeping from side to side: none of it helped. Nothing was going to help the slop of half-solids pushing into his mouth, a terrifyingly consistent push and drive, the mechanics of the pumping system emptying the waste tank systematically. It would not increase in speed and neither would it decrease, ensuring that his torment would only reach a set limit when the time had come and was, once again, due. His gut churned and bubbled, the mix of waste and cider heavy on the lining of his stomach, but if there was something that his body had been specifically designed for it was taking so much waste that he hardly knew what to do with it, never bursting, never popping, but inflating out and out to hyper proportions.

It was telling, however, that his cock remained hard and wanton throughout as the filth filling him made his belly strain through the ropes, tearing, fibres drawing taut until they could take the pressure anymore. The rasp of them tearing caught his ears but the stallion barely had the energy to flick them back to focus a little more on the sound, panting heavily, eyes half-closed. He could only see the pipe and the dismal interior of the shed, anyway, the dim lighting not giving him anything to see how big his belly was getting in that moment.

No… No, in that case, it was better to feel. Just to feel. Only to feel. If he only thought about feeling, he didn’t have to think about anything. Arctic’s eyes fluttered closed. Yes, that was better.

It heightened taste and the feel of slop sliding down his throat. There were no fat coils with the mostly liquid sludge, though it still went down more easily with a gulp and a swallow. That his stomach was fighting back against the toxic mixture was by the by as he would not spill it all back up his throat and through his mouth, not when he was a good scat-stallion. That was not probably the best term for him anymore, considering just how mixed the waste was in there, but he did not know how to consider it in any other way, his station there on the farm having come to its rightful end.

Through it all, he could still taste Applejack’s juices at the back of his mouth, or it could have been wishful thinking, his imagination bettering him once again. The tartness of her arousal, however, kind of like apples in its richness, was something to lean into and he wistfully thought of how good the cider must have tasted, even if it was wasted being pumped up under his tail. His dock was raised high and exposed and even the sensation of the ridged length of hose against his pucker and that smooth, vulnerable flesh made him want to groan out loud, body responding despite his personal inclinations.

What would his mistress think of him if she could see him? His belly sagged, as heavy as if he had terribly let himself go, gravity taking his belly down and down and down without the restraint of the ropes. It just about brushed the floor but there was still a good way for it to go as the steady whirr and grind of the machinery funnelled more and more into him. Maybe it was better that it was cider under his tail for that thought was arousing in itself, a whimper swallowed up by the hose between his lips, bubbles frothing and churning in his guts. It mixed and swelled and his belly drew tauter and tauter, less squashy than usual, as gas from the cider made him feel uncomfortably full. It took a great deal indeed to make him feel as if he was past his limit when he was not even at any huge size, belly flattening out against the floor as it was forced to swell, the waste churning and grumbling within, pressing very slowly out against the outside wooden bars of the stocks.

Arctic whimpered yet it was yet another whimper that would go completely unheard. No one was there to know or care that the pipes had been switched but he doubted that AJ had meant to do it. No, she wasn’t that kind of pony but it was hard to not feel just a little bit vindictive as trash flowed down his throat, making it bulge, though that was merely the consistency of what was being pumped into him at that moment, a mere vessel for it and no more than that. The thicker, older stuff seemed to have lumped together over the course of time and he grunted around it, neck swelling out even though there was little room and space for that with his collar there. The ropes tightened but the constrictive sensation was soon alleviated with a gulp that made his head spin, sickened to the pit of his being at the thought of what he was, perhaps too willingly, allowing into his body.

Ah, but there was submission there, his stomach filling, swelling, pushing out to the sides of the stocks, filling every available space there. The stocks as they were proved to be some sort of cage, towering over his head, although his legs were yanked out in four directions to tie off his fetlocks to the appropriate posts. That left plenty of room, hypothetically, for his belly but not enough for it as it grew to hyper proportions, beyond the realm of any reality that he may have before considered. His cock thrust down to the floor, the tip pointing to the ground, as he tried to squirm and yet barely even succeeded in moving a single noticeable muscle.

How long would she leave him there? The barrel did not sound as if it was being emptied as his intestines cooled with the constant flow of cider, though it did make them twist as the bubbles got their way with his body. He hoped that would not have a negative effect but, to be fair, his body had been put through far worse than that, so it was not so bad. Dimly, he was aware of the pressure in his balls growing and building, though they had not yet found the back of the stocks, which were built for a longer creature (perhaps a bull?) than he was.

It was coming and it was still going to come regardless of the slop swilling around his teeth, how he tried to shudder in revulsion even as he tried to help himself just a little by swallowing it all down. His throat felt sore and the muscles that governed the reflex already tired but there was nothing else for it, cloying waste building up in the back of his throat otherwise. Even the acrid taste became muted over time, though it was stomach-wrenching when he encountered a particularly solid lump amongst the sloppy mess. It made him think – perhaps quite rightly too, though he knew very little about the waste systems beyond what Applejack had told him – that there was more recent mess mixed in with that.

And he was right too, thicker logs and genuine horse-apple droppings dropping and plopping into his mouth with a squelch and a slop. They were only going to go in one direction and he groaned mutely as his stomach bulged out, having filled all the space that seemed available to it, the stocks creaking and straining. How long would the wood hold out? His balls ached and he gulped down fat logs of scat (oh, those had to be recent) along with cowpats, the stench seeming to sink into the back of his mouth, even though that should not have, strictly, been something that was possible. When some senses were restricted, others became heightened, his imagination filling in the gaps in what was happening to him based on previous events. He remembered the thick taste of scat when it was pumped into his mouth directly from another pony’s backside, yet that was a tale from another time, even if his mind and memory did like to drudge it up, remind him how weak his place was in life, how low he had fallen.

Yet it was that low place that was where he belonged as his body gave up in the hopelessness of orgasm, spurting and coating what of his own stomach it could reach, though most ended up shot back onto the ground. His belly strained at the stocks as cider poured forth, the bubbles tickling his insides as they worked their way through to his belly. Even his hindgut, the back end of his digestive system, felt fat and thick, as if it was not able to continue doing the job that it was supposed to, his breath catching, throat tight, orgasm rolling on and on in spurt after spurt. There was no break to the shots of cum, though it still felt as if they were wasted when his mistress was not there to command them, delight contrasting with the strain as the stocks creaked and even rattled.

They could not hold up to him, however, as the wood, finally, splintered, giving way slowly, the strength of them told in just how long they lasted. He groaned as the pressure released, belly sloshing out, though the bars cracking was only the beginning as the securing posts themselves were snapped in two. There was simply no stopping his gut, even while his fetlocks were still lashed to the posts, standing more shakily on four hooves, head secured. The front and back of the stocks were still in place, even though he had considered them rickety, to begin with, though that was now something that he would have to bear in mind as the weight of his stomach forced him to rest on it. His belly swelled more freely, churning with gas and waste and liquid that was more pleasurable than the rest of it, though it was small comfort to be free in part while his head was still locked down.

That was perhaps the worst bit, his head tied in place so that he could not even pull away from the waste and where the hose emerged from, the stink clawing at his nostrils. It worked its way in deep, not even purely excrement, though he knew there was a slosh of piss in there, even if that particular brand of taste had been lost in the rest of the fluids. There was so much waste, so very much, and he dimly ran through all the creatures on the pony farm that he knew must have had it funnelled into the main tanks.

Cows…

Goats…

Chickens…

Pigs…

Ponies…

Well, that last one was obvious, yet the thick logs of scat that held their shape more than the rest of the broken-down sludge surely had to have come from a stallion, though there was little point in him trying to work out whose excrement he was being forced to devour. It wouldn’t change anything, as much as he would have still loved to swap the hoses, his cock aching and throbbing, wanting that release still. He’d cum a few times and yet his balls were hardly drained at all, still striving to replenish what had been “lost” from his nuts, as his body was apt to do. That was just one of many things that had made him such an over-productive stallion before, his cock pointing backwards as lying on his belly forced it out of the way, drooling and dribbling, marking his stomach with pre-cum and semen alike. The mixture was not, by far, the worst of the fluids that he would see that day and he was hardly bothered by it, his body able to extend flexibility in that area, as long as it was not held for too long. Yet who knew how long he was going to be out there for.

He was fortunate, he thought, that Applejack had not wanted to fill his balls with the waste too (he would have been a fool to consider it merely excrement, because it was so much more than that). Maybe that was more of a kink thing and her practicalities had made it so that only the biggest vessel of his stomach had been used and filled. He did not know the answer but it was an interesting thought to consider just how his balls could have been filled with cider, bubbling and burbling until the explosion rushed forth in a heady, golden wave. Maybe it would have even have looked like piss…

It was strange to have his mind drifting but that was just how it was when time had no meaning to him anymore, one moment blurring more or less seamlessly into the next. The beat of his heart told him that time was passing along with the slanting sunbeams cutting through the slats in the shed, his belly creeping closer and closer to them with every minute. With so much space for his stomach to expand into, however, there was time for it to balloon up to take up more vertical space, lifting him higher and higher instead of just squashing out to the sides.

The wood of the stocks, left in various splinters and intact poles across the floor, the front and back gates steady and solid, ground under him, his belly throbbing with pain where the discomfort pressed up into the underside. The apples back him less flexible, a more rigid force than the hose in the entrance to his tail star (it was deeper than he would have liked it to be though), churning and grinding lightly against one another in the tight pulse of his backdoor entrance. He would have shifted if he’d been free to do so and yet the bondage of his stomach was more holding than the stocks themselves, locking him in place while all four legs were far off the ground. His fronts dangled closer to his face as his back end rose higher and higher, nuts comically tiny in comparison to the bloat of his belly – strange for him to consider when he was so used to his balls being grossly inflated too. Maybe he was so far broken by his Mistress Shy that he wanted that too, thinking that something was missing even when it was merely a different brand of inflation.

His stomach heaved, a physical, gurgling entity that seemed to have a mind of its own in the moment. Bound as he was, Arctic most certainly did not feel one bit in control of it. It inflated, filling the shed very slowly, moment by moment creeping upon his mind as if he could will it to slow down, and yet even the thick slop building up in his mouth and bloating out his neck and belly did not pause in its pace at all. It was irrevocable and irreversible, something that would change him forever and would come whether he liked it or not, heaving and gasping.

Out and out and out… He could not tell just how long passed as his stomach pressed out against the sides of the shed, though it had by no means filled every gap and nook and cranny in there as yet. That would come, yes, but quickly, the moments blurring together as if it was speeding up before his eyes, hardly present in any sense of time. The bubbles churned and popped with gas, swilling in the mix of scat within him, leaving his mind wondering just how much of it belonged to the ponies in the farm house and the rest going to the animals on the farm itself. Whether it affected the taste or not was not something he could answer, broken down in the septic tank into a swill that surely would have looked fit to tip into the pig trough, even if it was partly the end product of that too.

The shed walls were not strong, however, only meant to cover a little of the mechanics that governed the septic tank and the emptying system from the elements. The slats creaked easily, splintering one by one, letting more and more light in, his body cast into the harsh glare of the sunshine. He filled the shed as his belly lurched and gurgled with all kinds of fluids and turning, rolling, apples that it was not supposed to be filled with, swelling more and more as if it was eager to fill everything, to expand even more quickly now that the stocks were no more of a hindrance to him. The hose tugged at the point where it was fixed but even that was slithering back and forth, hinting at a greater length beyond that could come along with him as he blew up and expanded, his cock wobbling hopelessly, drooling pre-cum.

Did he climax? The thought swayed at the back of his mind as his back pressed up to the top of the shed, rump pushed up, wood cracking and splintering, falling around him. He did not need to put all that much pressure on it for it to shatter and fall and, still, he was swelling, his cock slick and wet and wondering what was happening.

The sunshine painted his hide and yet he had never been more obviously on show – he could only have been put on display in a greater and more elaborate fashion if he had been placed in the centre of Ponyville. Some of the ropes tore free as they caught on the remnants of the shed and yet he did not feel any less restricted as the weight of his belly locked him in place, grinding the weight of him down into the earth that he should have been walking on not, well, rolling and wobbling about on.

Yet it was no longer a way or a life that he had a choice over and it was high time he gave up that sense of control entirely. His collar meant something, after all, thick farm-waste flowing down his throat, mixing with bubbly cider, though even that barrel had to come to an end at some point, he was sure of it. Things could not last forever even if it sometimes seemed that way, his gut expanding, bloating out to the sides as much as it shoved him vertically.

The hose dragged out as he had expected it to, the length allowing his head to rise a little, although his back end always remained higher, bobbing on his stomach as if it was a water mattress. It was hard to say how big he was but he was clearly taller and bigger than the trees, the apple trees, his tail trying to flick but latched in place with ropes still. Sometimes he forgot how securely he was bound when there were so many sensations to consider, so much crowding to the forefront of his mind for precedence.

But he was bigger, yes…so much bigger. Digging his teeth into the hose, he shook gently, trembling as he was, a whimper on his lips. Though it was not as if anyone would hear that, he may as well have kept quiet as a flicker of orange danced on the peripherals of his vision.

She wasn’t going to help him.

Coming back up the hill, Applejack spotted him from too far away, her jaw dropping, hooves flipping up into a breakneck gallop, flinging her body forward.

“What in the hay? Hold on – I’m coming!”

Not that there was anything that would help her when it came to Arctic’s massive over-inflation, the cider tank having run out and his monstrously overfilled body growing to the size of a small cottage. Soon, he would be larger than even her farm house and the barn, though it was his rump stuck up in the air and the massive, smooth, round bloat of his belly sticking out mostly, the pony that was attached to it tinier than ever. It would have been comical if she had not been so shocked by everything, skidding to a halt at his side, though him being out in the open air had, at the very least, allowed some of the putrid smells to dissipate. After all, she had smelled worse on the farm so it did not take all that much for her to feel like she was more in control of herself and her heaving, rolling stomach.

Yet all she could do was stare up at Arctic in horror, the pony barely recognisable, even though he was mostly still clean, thanks to the hoses being shoved into his holes. That thought came to her in a detached sense as if she was not truly present in the moment, not sure at all what she should be doing as the pony so high above rumbled and groaned, his belly sloshing audibly. If Arctic had made any kind of noise in that moment she would not have heard it anyway, he was that far away, his belly speaking for him, groaning for more, always more.

Arctic did not see her, so high above, his jaw tight around the hose to such a point that he barely even knew where he was or what he was doing. His stomach was so huge that he couldn’t think of anything else, the bloat of him calling to him more and more, grumbling and rumbling with the sloshing cider within. There was no extra space in his stomach for anything more and yet it still pumped up, larger and larger, to take the waste, funnelled down his throat as if he had merely become yet another tank of waste to be used as nothing more than that, what it was. And there wasn’t any sense in giving him more thought or paying him more attention than that.

He wobbled, squished on his stomach, his body juddering lightly from side to side, although it didn’t really affect his overall position all that much – not with so much mass on his belly to balance on. Arctic groaned weakly, aware of the blueness of the sky and the afternoon clouds, though he could not comprehend what he was doing there. Little bits of reality crossed his line of perception but that was about all he could hope for as his guts churned, the cider making it all a more toxic cocktail of essence than he could have ever have imagined.

It was beyond all reality, even previous inflations, his balls tiny, his belly the main event, heaving and panting though he did not even have the strength left in his abdominals for his flanks to tremble at all. Everything about him was taken up by the rippling, rounding-out expanse, a pony stuck to the monster that was his gut. His nostrils were too caught up in trying to make sure enough oxygen went to his lungs, funnelling all that his body needed straight into his bloodstream, to take in the stench, yet it seemed to emanate from him in his musk and his sweat. Even the underside of his cock and the insides of his hide legs, as tiny and as pathetic as they appeared in such a situation, were damp with sweat, reeking of the excrement that had bloated his belly, everything about him the very embodiment of a fetish. He still was not entirely sure why he’d done it but that was the beautiful thing about his manner of subservience, however sweetly it came.

Absolutely, he was oh so very aware of every last little bit of waste sloshing and slopping about in his stomach, how there was no room for anything more, only if his body inflated along with the influx of more. There was still waste flowing forth, the last, sordid dregs of the tank, yet it seemed to have slowed as the mechanisms worked harder and harder to dredge up everything that had to pour forth into his gut. It was his job there, after all, to take it all and if that was all that he had to do he would be a very good pet-pony for Applejack indeed, yes, yes, he very much would be. He knew it was his purpose, the only purpose he had left in life, and he was very much okay with that too. As long as he could be used and abused day in and day out and find every last sordid, illicit, guilty fantasy of his fulfilled, he would be full and sated in ways that he could never have been before meeting his sweetly dominant Mistress Shy.

Applejack gawped as his belly audibly gurgled, anxiously shifting her weight from hoof to hoof. He wasn’t larger than she’d seen him before but, well, it wasn’t as if a big barrel and the septic tank should have blown him up to that extent!

“Oh, for Celestia’s sake…” Groaning, Applejack pulled her hat down over her face, heat crawling to her ears and the back of her neck. “I hope Fluttershy doesn’t use her stare on me for this… How in the hay is he so big? What happened?”

“Applejack?”

In his usual, trademark fashion, Big Mac was a stallion of few words, though even he looked at Arctic distastefully. Applejack would not have wanted to consider what her brother was “into” when it came to kinks, but he was the one who had said that he would handle the septic tanks. Of course, that had not happened with him being busy with Sugar Belle (which was fair enough) but meant that everything fell to her hoof all over again. Big Mac would still think that it should have been his job.

The big, red stallion frowned and rubbed his jaw, though it was difficult for him to actually avert his eyes from the bulbous mass that was the pet-pony stallion.

“What’s gone on here?”

It was difficult for him to use more words than he strictly though he needed and yet they were desperately needed then as he scuffed a hoof across the ground, the stench of the septic tank partially dissipated. It came in waves, however, and had the capacity to catch a pony off-guard if they were not paying attention.

“Uh…” Applejack blinked up though was not sheepish at all about her decision. “Emptied the septic tank, I did, Big Mac. But I just don’ understand why he’s gone up this big!”

Big Mac rolled his eyes, pointing back behind the shed – or at least where the shed had once been.

“Second tank over there, AJ, bigger than the first. Didn’t you remember?”

That was the most words that he’d strung together in a long time and the stallion could only shake his head and walk off as she gaped, her stomach sinking even though she hadn’t really done anything wrong. Of course, she was not as cruel as the other ponies that had grossly over-inflated Arctic with all manner of excrement and bodily fluids before – that was when she had gotten the idea to hire him off Fluttershy for a very specific use – but she hadn’t meant to do that to him! Judging by his bobbing, spurting cock, still huge but comparatively small when laid up against his bloated belly, he was not all that against what was happening to him. Was that because she’d left the apples inside him? Applejack rubbed the back of her head, chuckling softly. Could she judge anything by that anymore?

“Alright, so that’s the second tank… I’ll at least get the cider sorted.”

While he wobbled above her, his huge stomach holding him neatly in place without her needing to worry about binding him at all, she trotted around to his head but…there was something wrong. The hose did not go to the right place and instead, very clearly, led back to the foundations of the shed while a barrel of cider was left dangling in mid-air, the hose for that very clearly leading to his tail-star, which was meant to be the waste pipe for the septic tank.

“Oh, pony-feathers.”

She laughed at her folly, for it was all so ridiculous that she simply could not help herself. She’d mixed them up! Just like that, a reward had become a punishment and, while she’d gotten some good use out of him for the ranch, the poor pony had not even gotten a drop of the promised cider into the right place. He couldn’t even get drunk off the non-alcoholic version working its way back up through his guts! That was a bind indeed and not even one that served to get him anything good out at the end of it.

“Arctic… No – work-pony. Yes, I’ll call you work-pony. Work-pony, I think you got just what you really wanted here, didn’t y’all?”

She could have been going out on a limb there but the stallion’s ears twitched faintly in acknowledgement, groaning in the back of his throat, head swimming with dizziness. The last vestibule of bondage, the ropes tying his head and neck and shoulders down the ground (well, his wings were still perfectly bound in ropes too) creaked and strained, finally giving way. Applejack did not even have to run in with a handy knife to cut him loose as the rope finally snapped, sending him bouncing back, moaning around the pipe in orgasm, tipping and swaying and bobbing all over the place.

No… The only thing that connected him to the ground right there and then was the pipe, the only one that mattered, funnelling gross mouthful after mouthful of filth straight down his throat. He wasn’t sure he tasted it anymore but the slick, sloppy texture of it all still worked its way around and over his tongue before being gulped down, his eyes half-lidded in broken pleasure. It was never an act that was supposed to please any pet-pony, even one like him, and yet there was still a debased part of him that wanted to be in exactly the position he was, locked in the bondage of his own body.

With his overly fat, bulging stomach rising and rising, he could only allow himself to rise, no longer in control of his body or anything at all. The one consolation, despite his neck thickening with all that he was made to gulp down, was that his collar from Mistress Shy remained soft and tight around his throat, reminding him of his place. And that was maybe just what he needed to get through it, to not think too heavily about the taste sinking into the back of his mouth, how every part of him felt filthy, even though, of course, the hose had been well-placed. His hide was a little dirtied but it was only the dust and mild muck of the farm, a few grass stains too colouring his coat – that was all his dues of being a work-pony. And a work-pony was just another facet of pet-pony, a new role assigned to him by Applejack, his temporary mistress, that he had to play well.

That was why he stayed there, showing no reaction to her calling to him, though her words became a little more teasing, telling him that maybe she wouldn’t help him, would leave him for the second tank to be emptied. That had to be the source of everything going on for so long, truly, but the septic tank being poured into him by far surpassed the bubbly cider, overtaking even the pleasure of that as he whimpered and moaned around the hose, the ropes holding it fast even then. His cries would be muted by the gurgling sludge, the machinery grinding and clanking as it forced more and more into him, for it did not care one bit that he was a real, live pony and not a transport tank, which may have otherwise have been used to transport away the filth. No, all that mattered was that it did its job and it would only shut off, just like the many various milking machines (for all sorts) that Mistress Shy liked to use on him. Machines lacked compassion and that was just what set tremors of terror into his heart, wiggling his hooves, ropes dangling uselessly from his fetlocks, knees and hocks.

It wouldn’t care if he reached his limit, if he felt fat and churning and strained enough to burst at the seams of his hide. It wouldn’t care if it pumped so much into him that it started working its way through his intestines, his body trying to expel it from his system any way possible. It wouldn’t care if he couldn’t take it anymore, mentally or emotionally.

Machines did not care. Arctic did, but only to the extent that his cares and wants were completely disregarded in the name of using every last tiny aspect of his body in the name of service. That was all he was there for as he worked weakly to swallow. It was a small blessing, at least, that the encroach of more slop, thicker and harder to force down his throat, as slick and wet as it was, pushed it down, making it so that he no longer even needed to use his swallow reflex. It was a strange thing to be thankful for and, in his delirious state, cock pulsing on the edge of an orgasm that he had not even realised was coming, he moaned around the hose, giggling faintly.

Orgasm erupted under Applejack’s watchful eye and she whistled lowly as he spent himself. She hadn’t really paid as much attention as she should have to his earlier climaxes, though that had not been her focus in the moment. No, she had been more concerned about his muzzle under her tail, buried in her marehood, at that moment, and if his muzzle had been free and clean right then and there, she would have used him in that way too. Maybe there was leave and liberty for something dirtier after everything that had taken place but she was not that sort of pony – well, not until she pushed herself to try something a little new. Who knew what she could possibly be into if she didn’t try it just the once, after all?

But that was not for Arctic to concern himself with, the ropes dangling, the cider barrel swinging helplessly from his tail hole, too well tied in place to even possibly pop free. Even then, his tail-star had been trained and tightened under Mistress Shy’s guiding hoof to hold any size shaft, as much as Arctic had very much not enjoyed that training. That was why he felt as if he could go through anything and everything, if only to please her. Pleasing her was the only thing that he ever considered in his life and he grunted around the pipe, tail twitching, a more watery stream entering his muzzle.

That almost tasted like piss but there was a sharper, stinking, even more cloying stench to it. It swilled around his teeth as if it was actively striving to get into every last part of his muzzle and Arctic groaned softly, no longer even possessing the energy to reel from the sensation. It slid down his throat as if it was held open constantly, leaving the pony struggling to gasp down air through his nostrils, budgeting his energy between breathing and ensuring that the watery mix did not go down the wrong pipe. He could not have said, quite honestly, whether he felt that it was better or worse than solids, though it gave the impression that it was all slower, not able to tell the difference between one bit of the sludge and the next to come, sinking into the very fibre of his being and making him think about every moment. For there was no escaping it even as it travelled down his throat to the pit of his stomach, filling the already bulging load in there as he swelled out and out, every drop inflating him, out and out and out.

He was bigger than Applejack’s cottage, but he did not know that. And, as the older, second tank emptied everything it had into him, down to the last, sordid, putrefying drops, he inflated out. The volume of it must have been more than even the ponies who had brought him there had been expecting but it was still a load that he had to take, close to the size of the barn and his shame on show for anyone that cared to see him. There were other workers on the farm, even though Big Mac had tried to get them off-site in time, gaping and gawping, yet Arctic’s humiliation was complete in his mistress appearing, a smile on her face.

She didn’t bother to lift off the ground, choosing instead to speak to Applejack, his mind whirling, filling in the gaps in their conversation that he could not hear from such a distance. His head tilted up, wind whistling by his ears, mane fluttering, yet there was nothing he could do but whimper for her, hoping that Mistress Shy saw what a good pony he was, that he had really tried so very hard for her as her pony-pet. There may be a punishment to come, considering the orgasms spurting across his stomach, but he could, at the very least, assure her that he had not had any pleasure from them. That had not mattered to her before but he could still hope that she would show mercy on him, that she would see just how hard he had tried for her and all the good work that he had done on the farm.

Although he did not end up larger than the barn – some part of him was dimly upset about that but he did not expend much time considering the “why” of that – the last drops trickled into his mouth, the thick sludge cloying and needing his tongue to work it back into his throat. He didn’t taste it as he swallowed hard, the exaggerated motion helping his tongue along to push it to the back of his mouth, throat bulging obviously as the final lump of mess travelled down to his stomach. The pegasus’ stomach grumbled loudly and he was dimly aware of the ponies watching him taking a step back, though they didn’t have anything to worry about. He was the only one that would have to deal with the consequences of the work he had done and, finally, the job was done.

The machine ground to a halt, Applejack’s ears flicking as she trotted back to where the shed had been and the mechanics for emptying the septic tank lay.

“Hey… He took it all, Fluttershy! My, his stomach really is something!”

Arctic trembled in pleasure, eyes closing softly, the immense strain of his stomach taking up his entire being. Praise… Yes, praise. That was a rare thing and something that he allowed the glow of to wash over him, tickling his hide like a thousand tiny feathers, easing away even the humiliation of the moment, being used as nothing more than a dumpster for the septic tank. He had done a job, a good job, and he had to enjoy that moment, even as his belly grumbled, strung out and strung taut, his hide stretched to what he felt like was his limit and yet still could take more.

He could always take more. His mistress made sure of that.

Yet what she was going to do with him while his body worked away and took care of every last drop of gross waste inside him, excrement mixing with piss and other broken-down matter, was another question entirely and one that Arctic would concern himself with. But later, yes. Later, that was a problem for later, whimpering softly as the late afternoon sunshine washed over his strained, dusty hide, wings tugging and striving to flutter, yet his bondage would not allow them to go anywhere. The hose stretched up with him, allowing his head to rest at about fifteen foot in height, although it felt much higher than that, belly squashing, constantly grumbling and rumbling as if he was about to blow.

“Maybe there’s still some more of that cider ‘round back…”

The pet-pony’s ears pricked and, against himself, he moaned.

Oh, he hoped so… But he didn’t need it to go down his throat to be used as a bubbly, rumbly pet-pony of pleasure. No, it was about the servitude and if she even wanted to funnel he worst of the batches of cider up under his tail, he would submit to it, drifting wonderfully in such a deep state of submission that he would have enthusiastically and vocally agreed to anything at all, even when it was not something that he would have chosen for himself.

For such was the way of a pet-pony, a slave-stallion who knew only one thing in life and could only get his pleasure and high from one avenue alone. It was his life and he was more than happy with it, even if he had, indeed, fallen into the path of it in the most unconventional of ways. And it was there that he would stay even as his stomach rumbled and grumbled, strained and bulging, a mere vessel for all that other ponies did not want and care for, his holes used and abused, his tongue taken advantage of for all it was worth.

One hose was removed from his lips and another placed there, his heart lifting. He didn’t even know whether it was Applejack or Fluttershy changing them over but he knew that good things were to happen as the fizz of alcoholic cider frothed into his mouth. Although it would mix with and surpass the waste in his stomach, it was all he wanted, all that he needed, his stomach gurgling, expanding, showing off all that he was capable of and more.

Yet he’d always find himself right where he wanted to be, with the eyes of his mistress on him.

And that was all that Arctic would ever need as her devoted pony-pet.