An Admiration of Pinkie's Plot

Pinkie Pie has the greatest plot in all of Equestria.

 

It's something I noticed on my very first day in Ponyville. All the ponies here, of course, are very well endowed in the trunk department. For example, Twilight's bubbly booty draws the eyes of many when she trots down the street. Applejack's firm, bigger-than-your-head flanks are the sexual fantasy of many a repressed young stallion. Rarity's supple alabaster pillows make one imagine resting their head upon her rump and relishing in their comfort.

 

But immediately there was something different about Pinkie's plot. The way her nethers are always just out of view--concealed by those wonderful, luscious cushions of pink fat. The way they press together into a perfect seam, one that would need to be pried open to even gaze at the treasures nestled deep within.

 

With every step, Pinkie summons an earthquake of ripples to dance along her chubby mounds like the surface of a restless sea. When she jumps up and down, her rump bobs along with her. Its bounding, nodding motions invite you to glare at it, at the steamy, ripe crack warm enough that on colder days you could see visible vapors climbing around it.

 

There's no mystery as to what bestowed her with such a generous tush. The mare eats nothing but candy, cupcakes, muffins, cakes and pies. Fat, sugar, fat, sugar, building layers upon layers onto those wonderful bubblegum muffins of hers.

 

I couldn't help but stare, and Pinkie didn't seem to mind. She never does. If she catches you glancing at her plot for too long, rather than scold you like Rarity or look at you like you just spat in her morning coffee like Twilight, she'll give it an enticing wiggle, making her cheeks clap and wobble like plates of jello on a massage chair. She wants you to look. She knows she's packing heat back there.

 

From that moment on I launched my crusade. I would take every opportunity available to gawk at Pinkie Pie's supple sit-upon.

I hung around Sugarcube Corner more and more, making every available excuse to spend more time admiring her perfect plot.

At the end of a shift she'll shuffle over to an empty booth and sit down. When she sits, good lord, my penis almost implodes.

 

You have to understand that the booth seats in Sugarcube Corner are made for two ponies, maybe even three. When Pinkie takes her seat, however; presses her booty into the padded seating, and her pillows pool out over the leather, she takes up the ENTIRE booth, with a little roll of ass-fat even spilling over the edge.

She'll stay there and catch her breath, until eventually it's time for her next shift. When she stands, her ass has to peel away from the leather like sticky tape. She leaves behind several stains--dripping wet, soggy, smelling fragrant and just like her ass.

 

That's another thing about Pinkie's rear, the smell. It's something you won't pick up on if you're not directly behind her, tailing her, but when it hits you it's like ambrosia in aromatic form. Pinkie sweats like a pig on hot days, and yet her sweat has this sweetness to it behind its salty, rancid tang.

It reminds you of a damp towel left to soak in a bucket of warm strawberry milk. Fruity, but still raunchy.

 

After watching her besmirch the seating with her sweaty ass-print, I cannot help but lunge over and take a whiff. Pinkie will spot me doing this, but just giggle. To her it's funny how infatuated I am with her rump roast.

 

The scent of her ass-dribble will roasts my nose, and I will crouch there sniffing greedily. It's very spicy, but oh so good.

 

Following Pinkie's plot all day means I bear witness to every aspect of it. That, of course, includes her farts. Pinkie is actually rather polite and holds it in when out in the store front.

 

That moment she gets back into the kitchen, though? Sounds like a snorkelling elephant has been let loose in the building! Pinkie farts are heavy, wet, persistently bubbly. There's no way they could sound any differently trying to navigate their escape from a derriere THAT big.

They make her cheeks jiggle and shake almost as much as when she's jumping up and down. Sometimes they go on for more than ten seconds and this gets Pinkie giggling like a filly. SOMETIMES they're so long that by the time they sputter down to a few terminal pops, Pinkie is visibly exhausted, panting and wiping her sweaty brow. "Another one for the record books!" She'll chime, and believe me--she really does keep track of these things.

 

On more than one occasion I have been in the same room as Pinkie during one of her farting sprees. She'll grunt, squint an eye, let out a roaring, gurgling monster, and then sigh and go about her day, letting the thick stench occupy every corner of the room. Pinkie fart is a smell that hits you immediately, and very hard. It smells sour and funky, but again, ever so slightly sweet. It's almost a pleasant smell, but still too rotten to be infused into a candle and sold.

 

Sometimes the bubbles of gas find themselves trapped within the enormousness of her plushy ass cheeks, meaning at a random moment one will surface out of nowhere, popping through the partition of her rump and making her jolt.

 

Pinkie's flatulence, though, is nothing compared to her bowel movements.

 

Pinkie shits out thigh-wide pythons on a daily basis. She can pack a toilet bowl full of dense, creamy mudropes like it's nothing. Despite all her straining, grunting and sweating as she leers over the toilet bowl, pucker gaping open, out of that fleshy darkness emerging a fast-moving torpedo of gleaming brown mess, she actually enjoys "potty time" as she calls it.

I can't help but notice whenever Pinkie needs to go take a dump, her belly is significantly flatter after the deed is done than when she went in, so there's it's no surprise that she derives such enjoyment from it.

 

Sometimes that urgency will ring in her bowels at an inopportune time, meaning there's no chance of hurrying upstairs to the toilets. Several times I have stood there watching Pinkie dash outside, flag her tail, and water the flowerbed with a gushing torrent of sickly diarrhea. When she gets the trots, that mare can shit out about five gallons in one sitting. Sometimes she'll have some fun with it and really push that sludge out of her party cannon as hard as possible, hosing down trees and blanketing the back yard in a thick layer of steaming, ripe manure.

The smell of her shits is something to behold--a lot more pungent than her farts but somewhat still tinged with sweet.

 

The fact that she could power-wash the garden like that without me batting an eye meant I earned a reward: permission to grope her butt at any time I wanted, even when she was busy working.

 

And so that's exactly what I did. While she whipped up batches of cakes, humming to herself and swaying her ass, I would stand behind her and lose my fists in those neverending beanbags of pure dough. The texture of Pinkie Pie's flanks is something I can't even describe. It's like silky, squishy, pliable heaven in your hands. Her cheeks are warm, palm-filling, can swallow you down to your elbows if you push hard enough. She's got more than enough ass to go around, and doesn't mind if you play with it to your heart's content.

 

She even lets me spread her cheeks, gripping the soggy split in the middle and parting those fat bubbles like the pink sea.

From inside wafts a cocktail of overpowering aromas; sweat, aged farts, traces of previous bowel movements. Pinkie's marehood gives off a constant honey-sweet musk that blends so nicely with the more aggressive smell of her slick butthole.

 

That butthole I was welcome to toy around with, too. Pinkie's ponut is squishy, clingy, and easy to stir around and mash under your fingers. Keeping her cheeks spread with your elbows, you can dig two thumbs into that clenching, squirming ring and stretch. Her asshole is pure elastic. Sometimes if you spread it open too far a silent fart will billow out from the dark recesses.

Pinkie's pucker lets off a harsh and penetrating musk that infects all thoughts in your mind with one overwhelming desire: you NEED to get your lips around that greasy donut and suck the hell out of it. Of course she welcomes that, just as long as you don't mind the occasional sour cloud of flatus spewing into your mouth. I'll work my palms into her twin orbs while inching closer, until Pinkie's ponut is right there under my nose. I lap at it, just to taste. My tongue explodes with oily sweat. Soon I can't resist and just start sucking the puckered ring like a pacifier. The deeper you pry your tongue into that slimy buttflesh, the stronger the taste. Force your way through the clenching outer muscle, and what greets you inside is a feast of softer, darker meat. The fluids collected here in Pinkie Pie's anus ought to be bottled and sold, or added to cupcakes for an extra zing. They are delicious.

 

All in all, Pinkie's plot is perfection. I haven't even touched on the way that any pair of panties she stubbornly decides to squeeze into turn into a g-string by the end of the day, the way that she twerks and her ass gives you a round of applause, or even the way she has such good muscle control back there she can cycle a firmer log of shit in and out indefinitely, stimulating herself.

Let alone the way it feels when she sits on your face and envelopes your entire head within her pudge and sweat. That is a story for another day...