The Stocks

“Th-Those!” You flail your hoof in the direction of the pillory. Of course it’s not ideal, but really is it that much of a downgrade from the torment she’s inflicting on you now?

“Ah, a commendable choice!” Luna grins, and suddenly a magical field appears around you. She plucks you up off the ground as if you were a piece of litter and carries you across to the stocks. Your neck, then your hooves, slot into the tight holes and it closes on you.

Immediately, you know this is certainly a downgrade from what you had before. For starters, you’re in such an awkward position that you can neither stand nor sit, which puts all the pressure on your neck.

To make matters worse, as soon as you open your eyes Luna backs herself up into you, again shrouding your vision in darkness and popping your nose into that wet, warm abyss.

“Now, knave, I do not wish to hear a sound from thee, not even a whisper. Thy sentence is one hour in the pillory, but protest in any way and one hour shall become three, then three shall become four, are we understood?”

How are you supposed to answer that? Not wanting to risk an extended stay, you simply drag your head up and down through Luna’s musky crack in a nodding motion. This is good enough for her.

“Splendid! Now, put thy nostrils to good use. Dispose of my wretched gales and spare my own senses…”

Somewhere in the rank darkness you can feel her pert little ponut shriveling and relaxing, pressing against the tip of your nose with a wet, tacky texture. You’re not sure it that moisture is sweat or something else, but it stinks almost as much as the fumes it’s containing.

Behind that there’s the ever present noise of a jacuzzi roiling in her guts. Luna presses her butt back into your head so hard it makes contact with the wood of the stocks, and with an elegant grunt she manages to let loose.

An explosion pops out of her anus and against your face, bringing with it a noxious draft that’s dense with the smell of warm, curdled cream cheese and hints of burnt garlic. This is your job, after all, so you start to suck the humid gas down in small, sizable sniffs. Even that is too much for you. You really thought you were an expert at this but Luna’s devilish concoction has undone all of your programming. It makes you feel sick to your stomach and there’s nothing you can do but keep breathing it.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, but the fart is still going. That loud ripping sound streams across your face, tickling your ears just as its perfume torments your nostrils.

Though you can’t see beyond the sweaty mask of blueberry booty, Luna’s massaging her swollen gut like it’s a pair of bagpipes, guiding all of that horrendous trapped wind down and out into your face.

And yet on and on it goes, that sharp crackling sound like torn fabric, and that surging, spurting flow of acrid dairy-seasoned air. As long as Luna keeps squeezing and caressing her belly, she purges it in continuous waves.

“Mmm… ahhh…” Luna relaxes as she piles on those intolerable fumes. Somehow you’re keeping up with it, just about; sucking it down one pained whiff at a time. It’s not long before the persistence of her flatulence numbs your nose with its rotten taste, and while that may seem like a mercy, you still have to smell and taste it when it enters your system.

Fifteen seconds in, her remarkable expulsion gradually turns wetter and wetter, losing that harsh snapping edge and instead sounding a lot more like a duck drowning in a vat of tar.

There has to be magic assisting this. You simply can’t believe anypony could keep a fart going for this long. Maybe this is just the power that an alicorn possesses.

It’s also getting much harder to stay silent. Your throat and lungs are caked in a thick layer of fermented dairy, spicy garlic and boiled onions and it’s making you repulsed to your core. You have to keep swallowing every few seconds just so you don’t throw up, and on top of that you’re so dizzy from oxygen denial that going braindead from breathing Princess farts is a genuine concern.

At last, that horrific sputtering stops. You feel a wave of relief wash over your entire body, but that joy is short-lived when Luna leans her body to the side, cocks a leg, and restarts the exhaust like it’s nothing. Not only does her butt start up again, it does so with a tremendously loud eruption of thunder that brings with it a smattering of hot ass sweat.

This is too much. You’re going to pass out, or worse. The only thing you can do is call out, plead her, but that would only earn you another hour of this hell.