Enter Princess Luna

You look up at the sound of the iron door scraping its hinges. At first you’re expecting to see Celestia, back to scorn you some more, but instead it’s her younger sister.

Luna has quite a different aura to Celestia. Her gait is almost more reserved, more modest. And unlike Celestia she doesn’t appear to be filled with rage, though… judging by the bloat in her jiggling belly she’s certainly full of something.

“Well, well! My sister was not deceiving me. Would’st thou look at that? A brand new fart ****! I ne’er thought I’d see the day!”

Luna kicks the door shut and saunters up to you, glowering down as if she were deigning a pitiful bug and instilling just as much fear as her sister did.

“Well? Have thee no manners? Do’st thou know not the way to address royalty?”

She raises her hoof and, using what little strength you’ve got left, you lean in and stamp your lips against the cold shoetip. Luna titters like a rambunctious filly and presents her other hoof for a kiss.

“There! Now, thy apprehension came at the perfect time…”

She turns to the side and swings that plump belly into the side of your head, pressing your ear deep into it. All you hear is wet, bubbling agony. It’s like a pot full of soup churning away. You consider what this means for your nostrils, and your heart turns to frost.

“Nnh. Hear that? It plagues me so. The moment I find the oafish cook that slipped c-cream into my chickpea a l’ail it shall be their head!” She slams her hoof to the ground. Now you’re positively quaking.

Satisfied that you’ve heard enough of her gastronomic discomfort, Luna belays any further stalling and shoves your muzzle right between her luscious moons.

Luna’s rear may not be as expansive as her elder sister’s, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own heft. It’s like two springy little spongecakes drowned in nocturnal darkness and decorated with a pair of crescent moons. The trench between her pillows—the one your snout is currently tucked into—is as damp and dirty as you’d feared. A thick, soul-sapping scent of sweat drifts into your nostrils, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming next…

Plllrrrrp!!

Luna’s wind flutters over your face with a nasty note of sloppiness. It ends four seconds later and the Princess sighs, squishing you in and out of her tush with a slow, gyrating motion. That lingering stench from earlier was indeed Luna’s flatulence, and as you feared the real deal smells orders of magnitude worse. A cocktail of expired milk and garlic swirls deep into your nose, wetter than steam and thicker than soup. You groan and desperately shake your head no but Luna doesn’t even seem to acknowledge it. She just drives her weight back into your head until your resistance slows.

“Ahh… to tell thee the truth I was down here not three hours ago. ‘Tis the best place to be when thy winds are so dreadful.”

You feel her slick sphincter open against you and billow out another hellish fog of lactose-intolerant gas. This time it’s silent, and all the more deadly for it. It’s so bad that you almost puke but swallow it back down before it can get all the way out. The horrible thing is you’d actually inhale a hundred of Celestia’s farts if it spared you another one of these. You make your pain known with another agonized, butt-muffled whimper.

Of course, Luna doesn’t care. In fact, she’s smiling. Between bouts of stink she merely rubs that thermonuclear plot into your face, stirring your nose between her haunches with a raunchy squelch.

“Mm. Pray, let’s have some fun!” She scours the room. This is when, through the heady haze of Luna’s nightly fumes, you remember that paraphernalia from before; the gas mask and the stocks. Using either on you right now would be a **** sentence.

“Perhaps I shall be generous, let the prisoner choose his fate…” Luna lifts her ass from your face and you gasp as if you’d been submerged in water for five whole minutes. You roll on the floor, huffing and huffing though the air outside her sweaty nethers is barely less noxious.

“Well?” She lightly kicks you with her hoof. “The mask, or the pillory? Take thy pick~”