Fartswarming Tales

“Anonymous! So glad you could make it!”

Rarity waved you inside, where the scent of cinnamon was already there to tempt your nostrils.

Baking Christmas cookies with Rarity and her Mom. It almost seemed a little too wholesome for you, but you’d tried some of Cookie Crumbles baked goods before, and, well, there was no ambiguity as to how she got her cutie mark. Free cookies and a chance to get into the festive spirit? You certainly weren’t going to turn that down.

You followed Rarity into the kitchen where her mother was manning the stove. She turned back and beamed, “Howdy! Happy Hearthswarmin’ dearie!”

You couldn’t respond though. Your eyes were caught between Cookie’s fat ass cheeks. Sweet Celestia, the mare was built like a tank! A very round, very wobbly tank. Somehow you’d never noticed just how bottom-heavy Rarity’s mom was before. Or maybe she’d packed on a few extra pounds since you last saw her?

Either way, you tried to ignore the elephant (sized rump) in the room and extended a gloved hand, “Happy Hearthswarming!” she took it in her hoof and shook rather aggressively.

“Don’t go pullin’ on my hoof too hard now, I went heavy on the Brussels sprouts at lunch.”

“Mo-ther!” Rarity whined like an embarrassed teenager, “Anonymous only just arrived, can you go five minutes without saying something disgusting?”

“Pssh! Geez, I’m only funnin’!” Cookie winked at you before turning back to her mixing bowl.

Already you had thoughts of her breaking wind in your head. Not only that, you couldn’t shake them, no matter how hard you tried. All you could think of was humongous farts spilling out of that humongous plot. She was different to her daughter to say the least. You’d never guess the two were related.

“Now, be a dear and fetch the butter from the fridge, won’tcha? I need, oh, about a pound!”

Butter. Fridge. You could do that. You soon noticed that the path to the refrigerator was a tight one: with Cookie’s ass on one side and the kitchen wall on the other.

The last thing she needs is more butter, you thought to yourself as you squeezed past that mammoth booty of hers. The width, curvature and general chunk of the thing held your gaze and made it hard to focus on anything else. Cookie was putting even Princess Celestia to shame. Wanting to remain polite in front of Rarity, you kept your hands up in the air to remove even the slightest risk of brushing her ass crack with your fingers as you shimmied on by.

But you barely found time to reach for the fridge door before Cookie suddenly threw her weight back at you.

You were splattered against the wall like a fly. Her plumppink pillows pressedinto you, splaying, with all but your head and your hands buried underneath.

“Mother!”

“Hnm?”

The ditzy MILFmare was too busy whisking eggs to take notice of the situation. And you were far too busy struggling in the ocean of wet pudge.

Not only was Cookie’s ass thicker than oatmeal, it wassweaty! You’d never guess it was the middle of freezing December judging by how much her rear sloshed and squeaked over your body with a persistent humid heat. Your Christmas sweater was drenched.

“Mother, you’re crushing Anonymous!”

Cookie Crumbles glanced over her shoulder, and as it happened that was a very bad idea. You see, when Cookie Crumbles gets anxious, she gets farty, and the one place you do not want to be when she shoots off a pressurized anxiety-poot is entrenched in her ass.

She erupted from the front with a shocked yawp, then immediately from behind with a noxious-

BBLLLRRRRT!

The bubbling wind poured over your body like a disease. All you could do was hold your breath and close your eyes as the breeze fluttered up your shirt and over your face. You took a cautious sniff, and retched. Your sinuses rung at the stench of steamed cauliflower, spoiled milk, and a wretched eggy presence. Trying to push her away from you did nothing.

“Aw, cheese and crackers! Honey, I’m so sorry, I just-”

BBRAAAAAAAAT!

You could feel your hair ripple as the gassy storm bellowed over your entire helpless self.

“Jeepers!”

Again you foolishly attempted to squeeze free of the meaty prison, but only wound up slipping deeper into her warm cavernous fart box. Now your head was right up against her reeking hole, still steaming with the scent of that last deafening tuba blast.

Lukewarm moisture trickled down your face, dripping into your nostrils. You uttered a cry of defeat, only for her padding to muffle your protests. Rarity was yelling something but you couldn’t hear what it was—all that you could hear now was the swirl and gurgle of Cookie’s cauldronsoftly digesting her festive lunch.

Just a moment later her anus crinkled open like the aperture of a camera and released a heavy bomb of steamed veggies and proteins broken down to sulfur. There was even a little aftertaste of nutmeg and curdled eggnog, so at least as you perished in Cookie’s rotund purgatory there was a reminder that you were doing so on the most magical day of the year.

So it turned out that you got served an entirely different batch of Christmas cookies on that day, baked and splurted out fresh into your agonized face. You’d never expected to be stuffed inside the oven, and had certainly never expected for this torment to carry on for the better part of the afternoon.

Rarity, bless her, tried to convince her mother to let you out, but all Cookie could respond with was “Oh, he’s fine!” or “It doesn’t smell that bad, little miss complainey pants!”

No, your fate was sealed, just like the air supply between Cookie’s portly cheeks.