Sunday Morning Stink - Rarity/Solo

There was something magical about Sunday mornings, she’d always thought. Especially so when she’d only just rolled out of bed, brushed her mane, poured a cup of sugary coffee and slipped into her satin negligee.

 

“Ahh.”

She popped her soft tush onto the stool, pressing the air out of the cushion with its pillowy weight, and sipped her coffee gracefully. This always got things moving, which was precisely what she was hoping for today.

 

As she sat there, quietly sipping and occasionally shifting herself about to remain comfy on her morning throne, a pressure started to churn inside her. Smacking her lips, Rarity brushed her little tummy and thought back to last night’s dinner; the asparagus and zucchini fried in that delightful sauce. Peppery and spicy, but also sweet. Her mouth watered thinking of the garlicky sautéed onions and potatoes, and of course the half a bottle of wine she’d been saving for months.

 

Then, of course, there was the five or six oat cookies she’d scarfed in the middle of the night. She just couldn’t help herself, and those were likely the cause of her stomach’s irritation this morning.

 

Rarity’s eyes squinted slightly. She leaned herself to the side, lifting half her bottom away from the plush seating and let loose a windy puff of ladylike flatulence. The loose silk of her dress rippled in the breeze. She rested her weight back down with a sigh, then, knowing full well that Sweetie Belle was never awake this early in the morning and couldn’t possibly know what was going on, wafted the bottom of her silky gown.

Eyes closed, she flared her nostrils and waited for the smell to reach her. It only took a second and her senses were inundated by a gust of fermented cauliflower steeped with onions and a sour hint of wine.

Delicious.

 

It was a strange habit she’d developed: sitting here by the window letting all that funky air decompress from her guts and sampling the rich perfume. She wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing if it weren’t her own familiar brand. With a diet as perfect as hers the aftermath was always just as divine.

 

Rarity used a hoof to waft the rest of the meandering cloud towards her face, huffing the rich veggies and rotten garlicky wine.

 

She lifted her cheek to let another one go, this time deeply purring against the fabric surface of her seating. She bent down with a whiff and that overpowering odor was there to sting her nostrils.

 

“Perfect.” She flapped her breezy dress about to make sure she’d sampled every last puff, then jumped down from the seat and immediately buried her muzzle into the warm spot that seconds ago had been graced by her gases.

 

Alcoholic vegetables filled her nostrils, as well as the smell of the fabric itself.

 

After sucking up every last bit of scent that had been stewed into the cushion, Rarity straightened up, cast one final look out the window at the beautiful morning scene, and waltzed out of the room to get on with her day.

As she swayed out of that airy drawing room though, a silent, boiling hot steam seeped through her wonderful plush cheeks, kissing the air goodbye with one last bout of stink.