‘Twas the night of Hearthswarming in the Apple family home,
Where two ponies were slumped with a gurgle and a groan.
The mares had been partying, festivities merry, as they’d stuffed their faces with eggnog and sherry.
Now there were two: just Applejack and Twilight, and they both took the couch where they’d surely spend the night.
For their bellies were full with seasonal grub; roasted veggies and gravy causing quite a hubbub!
In the cool of the darkness, set aglow by the fire, Twilight let up a belch that climbed an octave higher.
She blushed, swished her tail, “Please excuse me!” Said Twi,
And Applejack responded with a glint in her eye.
Seconds later, there it came, the roar of a beast!
AJ’s own burp smelling just like her feast.
The two ponies giggled, showering gas here and there,
AJ leaned over and blew back Twilight’s hair.
Twi pinned her down, licked her maw, opened wide,
And out, like a dragon, rushed a baritone tide.
Their stomach air swirled in a thick seasonal fog,
Both ponies laid back, engorged like a hog.
Twin storms were brewing, and it was AJ who started,
She leaned to the side, closed her eyes hard and farted.
The sofa rumbled for ten seconds... more?!
Twilight’s jaw fell all the way to the floor!
Applejack finished, “Try that on fer size!”
Twilight shifted her plot and narrowed her eyes,
If there had been a mouse stirring ‘pon that chilly night,
Then at that moment it would wake with a fright,
From Twilight’s fat ass both sweaty and round,
Came a noise like watery firecrackers that rippled her mounds.
Applejack leaned in to see if it was smelly,
And her eyes shot wide open with a startled “Whoa nelly!”
The hot winds were ripe with a stifling taste,
‘Twas onions, sulfur, and under that laced,
A nose-wrenching zing! Not unlike a sewer,
Alcohol, it seemed, always went right through her!
Wafting her hat, her freckled cheeks glowing,
Applejack rolled on her belly and the gas started blowing,
Like a latent volcano of hot greasy guff,
It rained down a perfume of fermented foodstuff,
Twilight’s eyes closed, her nostrils widened,
The thick fruity reek of her friend’s farts was ripened!
Shy of eight seconds, it purred and it sputtered,
And then promptly ended, “Phew, boy!” AJ muttered.
Not one moment later, from the other end of the couch,
Came a sharp heated blast, then a lazy unicorn slouch.
Applejack retorted, with a pop and a hum,
With a full plume of stink from her full freckled bum.
The war rattled on, the pace keeping merry,
Twilight dusted the sofa in the ghost of her sherry,
They pushed their flanks together, what a fragrant display!
Trapped bubbles gurgled--tails fluttered and swayed,
One parp at a time, their bellies grew less,
Though that post-dinner pudge was replaced with a mess,
Of cloying reek and dizzying fetor,
At least the friends were now feeling better.
The night carried on, the ponies lay down and rested,
But even as she slept Applejack could not be bested,
Though the friends lay soundly asleep,
Their sweaty backsides continued with a peep,
And a poot, and a toot, and a hiss and a growl,
The Hearthswarming contest would not end for now.
“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.
