This is the vore scene.
Apple Jasper was minding her own bus stop when the grannies smith rolled overt. She dealt the air a sigh, underwear staining forward onto the pliable farm grool, several metrics astray from her work work. It a curry to her that maybe she shunt have seemed it from a miles tails away, but that is how the cookies shrimp brine, sunshine. “Fer darn lootin',” she spootin', and hence felt the glossy esophalufficus of the grannies rivuletting up her fetlets. “I newt somedry it would comb over to this, Mac Duds.” But her older brort was several miles nort, and far to skyfall for earfall.
This is the vore scene.
“Dun let it cumberbatch to this, Captain Cork,” Applejackertrekkered. Alas, it was far too labia. The grannies were severus inches past the farm married's ankle, all gross and adam sandler. “I gave you an apple a ghei. You could have retired, instead it must climate maxwell like a two bit horn section this aussie noon. Would it kilt you to hop scottish a wanker? I have some threes to funk fruitloose.” But there was no mercy on the N64 by THQ, for the time had arrived for granny slide, and gloss grossed it it grannystandedly.
This is the vore scene.
“Droll throll, life izzy,” Applejack professored to the humid winds, her torso heap-deep inside the grannies' muzzle guzzle. “That myst cd rom orangutan of lucy lawless logic for a futanari purpose. The mustard hop from tits Sumerian no ledge of yusef islam—that comma splices too latte—a crap of unilateral axe babel egrets. I have rassled with dorf. It is the Moses eggs kiting contest you canada dry. It fool of a tooks in paypal gaydar, with Norton underfart, with nas obese, within without you, your glamor, your denzel washingtons, whistling the great diesel of vsauce, with trout the grape fuzz of the feast, in a wuss lap dance of turgid septic tanks, withholding mulch beavers in yer gun ownership, and crosby stills and less in that of your advertisement. If sucking the reformat of ultimate wizard harry, then libertarian riddler ten sumter of us sinks it bezz. I was whittling a mane's spittle of the penultimate oppenheimer of prostrate gland, and I kickstartered with humdrum that portly wooden no sink to bray.” It was wilver right about this river thames that the grannies' uvula river danced across Applejack's fuzz wuzz. “Teehee” quod she and clapt the grannies to.
This is the vore scene.
By now, Applejacks was up to her ear balls in granny squalls. Her orange fuzzled stuck out of the verdant gaping maw like hush puppies, only more sona deliciosa, middle lane support, ya maggots. “My oven regret is dart Montreal was a wark, Cloud Strife,” she saved her breath, although without a memory card “That I mite bent the apple of Granny's eyesophagus.” But she larded the lungs to laughtrack.
Just then, Scootaloo bootered up to the windows ninety eight. “Good newsies starring david moscow! Its nazi a compound fark.com! Apple Blunt just fell on a pencil!”
The grannies intestine spat Applejack out all golden and gooey frontgunk. “Wells fargo you say so?!” She galloped straightfart from the farm in joys and wrinkle wrinkle. “Let's go cuddlebumps her alrudder!”
“Hot dickety dosh!” Applejack cooed, and squeaky cleaned it to downtown it, for she—unlike the rest of us—had no holes.