Morning Thunder - Anon x Applejack


                                            >You awaken to the cluck of chickens and soothing sound of cattle.

                                            >The sun bleeds through the thin floral curtains and onto your face, and as you roll over all the memories of last night come flooding back.

                                            >Partying at Pinkie Pie’s well into the early morning, stumbling home with Applejack slightly giddy from the punch, taking up her kind offer to stay the night on her couch, finding that Winona had already claimed it and, in your exhausted state, both deciding to simply sleep together.

                                            >She’s already awake when you begin to stretch your limbs out under the covers, moaning and grumbling to herself while also squirming slightly.

                                            >”Oh, Howdy, sugarcube... Sleep well?”

                                            “Yeah, like a baby!”

                                            >Just as you’re about to ask about her what’s wrong, she rolls onto her back and your question is answered.

                                            >Her massively bloated belly is clearly visible under the sheets, and just as she’s settling and creaking into position it sounds off with a deep, vengeful growl.

                                            >”Pinkie Pie sure knows how to throw a hoedown, but... darn... I ate so much I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

                                            >Another disruptive noise from her stomach all but confirms her fears.

                                            “Well, you did eat at least two slices of every single cake. What did you think was gonna happen?”

                                            >You reach your hand up to softly boop her on the snout. She’s always a bit surprised when you do that.

                                            >Smiling up at you, she rests back into her pillow.

                                            >”Granny did always say I had both the work ethic and the appetite of a drafthorse...”

                                            >All of a sudden, her warm and peaceful expression snaps into one of alarm.

                                            >”Uh oh...”

                                            “Uh oh?”

                                            >”Anon... if you were gonna go take a shower now’s a good time...”

                                            >She writhes and fidgets.

                                            “Why?”

                                            >”Two words, sugar cube...”

                                            >She’s wincing now, her freckled cheeks stiffening at the sides of her mouth as she spreads her hind legs into a comfortable position.

                                            >”Mornin’ thunder...”

                                            >She has just enough time to bite her lip and pull a focused, forceful expression before a storm breaks loose below the covers.

                                            >Loud, clapping rump thunder roars out of the overfed pony, shaking the bed to its foundations and causing a humid heat to spread across the mattress.

                                            >All you can do is watch and listen in surprised shock as her seismic morning release reaches a record length.

                                            >Eleven seconds by the time it peters out, if your internal stopwatch is to be trusted.

                                            >”Hoo boy! I warned ya!”

                                            >She laughs, a little embarrassed that you had to hear that.

                                            >”You best be on yer way, Anon. Somethin’ tells me that was only the start. I don't wanna put you off y'r breakfast...”

                                            >You’re still aghast at the monstrous sound you just witnessed this pony produce, but you have no intentions of going anywhere.

                                            “And leave you here all stuffed up?”

                                            >”I appreciate the loyalty, partner, but it ain’t the stomachache I’m worried about. Ain’t the sound, neither...”

                                            >You realize that the sheets around both of you have effectively trapped the smell.

                                            >You can actually feel the hot vapors swimming around down there, no doubt smelling wretched.

                                            >But even if Jackie smelled like froggy bottom bog you would not leave your post.

                                            >So, instead, rather bold in your endeavors, your hand dives below the sheets and searches around until it’s right on top of Applejack’s stomach.

                                            >It’s hard as a rock, and as soon as you start to give it a circular rub it snarls in response.

                                            >”Anon! Really, you don’t have to! Trust me, this ain’t gonna be pretty.”

                                            “From where I’m sitting, it already is.”

                                            >She meets your comforting gaze with a bashful smirk.

                                            >”Well, alrighty then, but you asked for it...”

                                            >Applejack grunts. Her entire stomach tenses and a raucous gas leak erupts into the bed.

                                            >She spreads her legs wider to allow enough space for it to bellow out at full force.

                                            >Rubbing her belly, you can feel the pressure reduce just slightly.

                                            >The thick, muddy, incredibly humid bubbles burst between her cheeks, pouring out of her in a long and putrid parade.

                                            >And that’s when the smell finally whips up through the gap in the sheets and hits you both.

                                            >Your reaction is palpable.

                                            >You breathe in the smell of fermented vanilla candies, putrid onions and rotten apples with a wince.

                                            >”Fresh as a daisy, right?”

                                            >You have no idea what mix of booze Pinkie put into her punch last night, but whatever it was it has spiked Applejack's morning wind with a particularly sharp alcoholic underscent.

                                            >When this fart murmurs and dwindles to a definitive end, you sense that it was more a case of Applejack sparing you than it ending naturally.

                                            >”Still feelin’ so sure about stickin’ around?”

                                            >She laughs a big hearty laugh, and a few short bubbling farts slip out in sync.

                                            “Of course! It’s fine...”

                                            >”What’s wrong, Anon? Can’t handle the smell of the fresh country air?” She purrs teasingly, taking the sheet in her hoof and playfully wafting it up and down to send more of her sour stink your way.

                                            >In retaliation you squeeze down on her belly and force out a loud trumpet blast from her rear.

                                            >”Heh heh. Pardon!”

                                            >She laughs in a deep and husky tone and you return to fondly caressing her pouchy stomach.

                                            >”Ooh... a little lower... to the right...”

                                            >Reaching her sensitive spot, it’s as if you’ve just hit a detonator.

                                            >"Bingo..."

                                            >AJ puffs her cheeks and shoots her leg up in preparation.

                                            >A raunchy rip of titanic proportions stews the bed with more fresh farmpony fumes.

                                            >The hay-stuffed mattress begins to shake like a massage chair from the sheer vibrations, and when you push down harder on your focused spot she moans and the volume increases.

                                            >Instead of one long fart, you instead get dozens of short, very powerful bursts.

                                            >In this moment her face is filled with absolute bliss, her eyelids aquiver and drool slowly dribbling onto her pillow.

                                            >A whole night’s worth of flatus continues to escape, soon filling her entire bedroom with the noxious presence of her very fragrant brew.

                                            >Even if it has your nose running and your eyes stinging a little, you wouldn’t move for all the bits in Equestria.

                                            >Finally her little cavalcade of breakfast braps come to another brief intermission.

                                            >Her belly is still rather engorged, though, but a little more deflated thanks to your ministrations.

                                            >”Now THAT is how we do it down here on the farm!” She sighs, exhausted.

                                            >”Shoot, I reckon that’s even worse than what the cows can pump out. Sure smells like it.”

                                            >Flaring her nostrils, she cringes at the appalling smell of her own guts.

                                            >”That’s real bad. Phew! I’m gonna go crack the window, don’t you go nowhere. Those fingers of yours are a dream!”

                                            >With considerable effort, she lifts herself up from the bed, heaving up onto her hooves and letting out a quick toot in the process.

                                            >One that hits you right in the face.

                                            >”‘Scuse me.”

                                            >As she slowly waddles over to the window, excess gas spits out of her on every single step.

                                            >She’s still so full of it that she’s leaking like a faulty pipe.

                                            >Groaning and sighing, she finally reaches the window and pushes it wide open to ventilate the room.

                                            >On her journey back she releases one long continuous fart that fluctuates in pitch with the movements of her flanks gently overlapping.

                                            >It sounds like a talking duck and has the both of you cracking up.

                                            >Before getting back into bed, she freezes on the spot and lets her outpour continue for a further ten seconds.

                                            >As soon as she returns you wrap one arm around her neck and get the other back into position on her tum.

                                            >The way things are going, this morning thunder is going to continue well into the night.