Bar's Closed
“Sorry girls, bar’s closed.”
Spitfire had dealt with dangerous situations before. Stalls, rotor winds, dizzytron malfunctions, tornadoes, rogue stormclouds, and recalcitrant recruits were her bread and butter. None of them could produce in her the cold dread that gripped her gut at the moment. Closed. It was too early for that! How could they be closed?
“Look, you saw us go in before,” the irritated growl in Spitfire’s voice was just enough to cover the rising panic in the back of her mind. “You know we aren’t trying to skip cover. We just need to hop back in and use the restrooms, okay?”
The bouncer shook his head. “No can do. Boss just closed shop. You know how testy he can be.”
Spitfire’s ears drooped. He was right. The boss was an asshole. There was no way they were getting in.
Spitfire wasn’t one to make a big deal of her own bodily functions. While she had never been embarrassed over them, she’d never felt reason to do more than quietly excuse herself to empty her bladder or release her bowels. On top of that, she always made sure she dropped her loads when she had time to do so.
That was, of course, assuming she was on regular show schedule. Their latest tour had been far more irregular, giving her several days off between proper airshows. As star athletes were prone to do between shows, the Wonderbolts had partied hard. Alas, the full course of meals from the last few days on tour and the liquid load of this night’s drinking were finally catching up to her.
“Fine,” she grumbled, finally turning back to her companion. “C’mon Fleet Foot. Let’s go.”
“They’re not going to let us in?” Fleet Foot’s terse whisper was noticeably strained. It appeared Spitfire wasn’t the only one holding back a potent payload.
“Nope.” Spitfire winced at the word herself.
Her wingmare seemed to shrink, her ears and wings visibly drooping and her hind legs crossing as she processed their situation. A barely audible whimper escaped her lips as a violent shiver shook her hindquarters. The desperation of her companion only heightened the pressure in Spitfire’s nethers. Spitfire quickly slammed her ass cheeks together as a massive urge hammered her asshole and shook her strained bladder. She checked behind her to ensure she had remained dry and clean and that her tail was still doing its job of covering her mare bits. Spitfire was sure she could last a bit longer, but the clock was clearly ticking.
“What are we going to do?” Fleet Foot rasped. However tight the timing was for Spitfire, it was even worse for Fleet Foot.
“Hail a taxi, head back to the hotel,” Spitfire said, “Unless you feel like stepping into the back alley over there...”
“Too many ponies.” Fleet Foot managed to speak before her eyes squeezed shut. The mare squeezed her legs together harder, clenching her teeth as she did so. For a few tense moments, it appeared as though she might void herself there on the curb. Finally, the episode passed and Fleet Foot breathed a tired sigh of relief. “If we’re going to leave, let’s go. There’s a cab now!”
The two trotted over to the taxi, only to find it already occupied. A white-coated, purple-stripe maned mare and her stallion companion had already taken up the limited seating in the cab. Fleet Foot whimpered again and was about to turn away when the cab driver suddenly whistled.
“Hey, I can take you ladies, too!”
There was no way they were going to fit in that thing. There was only enough space in the cab for two ponies. As if to answer their unspoken question, the cab driver continued.
“You’ll have to double up back there, but you’ll definitely fit. Hell, I’ll even give you a discount!”
Spitfire looked at the cabbie, then back at Fleet Foot. Poor thing. She was clearly uneasy at the prospect of having to be jammed into a confined space while fit to burst. But after a moment of hesitation, she quietly nodded. There was no choice.
“Come one up, girls!” the mare said a little too cheerily, clearly already inebriated. Her companion was likewise intoxicated, managing only a sloppy wave and an awkward grin before pulling the mare onto his lap. She giggled and wiggled her her rump, clearly enjoying her new position.
Spitfire gingerly stepped aboard the cab, trying hard not to think about the mounting pressure in her bowels and bladder. As soon as she could, she flicked her tail aside and pressed her asshole against the seat in an attempt to stave off future accidents. Fleet foot followed, stepping onto the cab and slowly lowering her haunches down onto Spitfire’s lap.
Suddenly, Fleet Foot squeaked and shifted her weight, instantly smashing her nethers against Spitfire’s leg. Her breaths came fast and shallow and her body shook as she struggled to hold back the lake within her. Spitfire cringed and her cheeks flared red as she felt the heat from Fleet Foot’s mare parts. Her imagination started to wander and it didn’t take long before she began to imagine Fleet Foot’s pussy winking open and beginning to dribble hot piss on her leg...
No, no, no! This was a terrible time for her mare bits to kick into high gear! But alcohol and circumstances got Spitfire going and nothing was going to stop that. The pressure in her loins surged again and Spitfire pressed herself harder against the seat, hoping against hope that the cushion would mask the smell of arousal and prevent the massive turd that was pressing against her asshole from slipping out.
It was too late. The smell of excited mare wafted up to Spitfire’s nostrils. She bit her tongue and hoped that the couple next to them were too drunk to say anything. It was then that Spitfire realized where the smell was coming from. Sneaking a peek out of the corner of her eye, she observed the curvy mare sliding herself back and forth over her partner while doing her best to keep quiet. Spitfire nearly facepalmed. She didn’t know which was worse, being stuck in the cab with a couple obviously having sex next to her or being inches away from messing herself in the cab.
“Where to, girls?”
“Vermillion square plaza,” Spitfire managed to say. Despite her efforts to keep an even tone, she was sure she sounded like she was mid-coitus.
The driver seemed to take no notice. “Gotcha. Be there in a jiffy!”
The ride was agonizing. Every bump and cobble felt like a kick to the nethers as they trundled along. Finally the stop came for the exhibitionist couple.
“C’mon, Velvet, dear,” the stallion slurred. His partner merely giggled some more and gave him one last pump before sliding herself off his lap. It took them a moment to separate and Spitfire definitely caught a glimpse of engorged stallion cock as the two disembarked. The stallion drunkenly began to count off taxi fare.
Was this some kind of sick joke? The stallion restarted his count, having messed up the first time in his drunken stupor. Now Spitfire was getting worried. Everything was conspiring to keep her from getting to a bathroom or even a secluded place to offload her cargo, not to mention whatever Fleet Foot was carrying. Each attempted recount sent jolts through her body, pushing her closer and closer to soiling herself.
It was on the third recount that Fleet Foot adjusted herself, lifting a single cheek off Spitfire’s leg as she silently mouthed ‘sorry.’ A sudden rush of warmth marked the silent passage of gas from Fleet Foot’s anus. The fart was a long one, continuing until the stallion finally gave up and and plunked down way too many bits into the driver’s bit bag.
Suddenly, Fleet Foot jerked her legs together, once again pressing her mare bits against Spitfire’s leg. The warmth of gas stopped, replaced by a warmth farther forward, followed by a light dribbling sensation. Spitfire very nearly creamed herself. The cushion was surely totalled by now and she could only hope that she would never see this cabbie again, lest she need to beg for forgiveness for what had occurred tonight.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Fleet Foot mumbled to Spitfire. “Clenching made me spurt, but I figured you’d want that more than me spraying a deuce on you.”
“Beer shits already?”
“Been badgering me all day,” Fleet Foot said sheepishly. “Figures it would wait until now to act up, huh?”
Spitfire would have laughed, but she knew it would cause an immediate accident. Her belly felt more bloated than it had ever felt before. Thankfully, the driver was quick on his hooves, getting them to Vermillion Square in record time. Or so she thought.
“Sorry, ladies,” the cabbie said a little too nonchalantly. “This is as close as I get. Construction all the way through to the hotel.”
Horse. Shit. They had caught a cab all the way out to downtown from the hotel and this was as close as this guy got? Spitfire had every right to give him a piece of her mind! Unfortunately, there were no available pieces, as they were occupied containing the massive waste problem that was currently afflicting her lower half. By the looks of it, Fleet Foot wasn’t going to last much longer either. The mare was practically shaking in desperation. Her already piss-stained pussy ground against Spitfire’s leg, leaving a slick trail and working Spitfire’s lips into a winking frenzy. This had to end now.
“Fine. Take the bits,” Spitfire spat. She hastily grabbed a hoof full of bits and dropped it into the driver’s bag. “C’mon Fleet Foot.”
Her wingmare whimpered as she crawled out of the cab, no longer bothering to hide the fact that her hind legs were tightly crossed, her tail instinctively raised to keep it out of the way of the coming flood. The cabbie took off, finally leaving the two wonderbolt mares to hoof it the rest of the way back.
“Just two more blocks, Fleet. We’re almost--”
The sudden yelp from Fleet Foot immediately got Spitfire’s attention. Fleet Foot’s tail was at full mast, her rear end directly facing Spitfire, giving her a full view of her partner’s mare bits. The initial spurt of piss, Spitfire had missed, but the puddle from it on the sidewalk was immediately evident. A second spasm shot a stream of pressurized pony piss that splattered right at Spitfire’s front hooves. Fleet Foot clamped down as hard as she could to stem the flow, but by the third spurt, she had all but given up. She opened her hind legs and let go.
The waterfall of pegasus pee splattered the sidewalk loudly, its warmth rising off it as steam in the cool night air. Fleet Foot was unable to hold back the orgasmic sigh of relief as her besieged bladder was finally relieved of its onerous duty. The stream continued seemingly without end. A hiss of gas escaped from Fleet Foot’s asshole. Sensing her impending loss of bowel control, Fleet Foot squatted slightly to prevent her incoming shit from staining her still spewing pussy lips.
With an odorous squelch, the liquid scat that she had been holding in sprayed forth, painting the sidewalk a dull, sickly mustard color. As the deluge of diarrhea continued, Spitfire found her own tail rising and an ever increasing pressure in her nethers. Her heart raced and her cheeks flushed as the act excited her beyond measure. Before she could stop herself, her pussy blossomed and her liquid maregasm rushed out.
Every part of Spitfire’s body tingled and her knees grew weak, threatening to trip her up and send her face first into Fleet Foot’s pool of excrement. Strings of thick, gooey mare cum sprayed out of Spitfire’s pussy and she moaned as the most intense orgasm she had had in ages gripped her body. As Spitfire recovered, however, the pressure in her bladder returned with a vengeance, striking her like a sledgehammer. Her vulva winked furiously as she shuffled next to Fleet Foot, adopting the same posture as her partner.
A jet of urine shot out the moment Spitfire’s legs parted, adding to the massive puddle that Fleet Foot had created. The sodden splashing of mare torrents blended with Fleet Foot’s succulent shit in a reveille of release. Time seemed to disappear. There was only Spitfire, Fleet Foot, and their long-deserved relief.
The rumble in Spitfire’s gut resumed. A bubbling burst of gas from her asshole preceded the parting of her anus, making way for a hard, chunky nugget of shit. Spitfire’s breath caught in her throat as the massive bolus’ knobby surface tickled her nethers. Finally, the mass cleared her ass cheeks and dropped to the ground with an unceremonious thud.
Spitfire panted as she got over the exertion of passing her turd nugget. There was no way that could be it. Her guts rumbled again, letting her know that this indeed was far from over. The urgent rush from before addled her again, but this time she could finally give in.
Her asshole flared, allowing the brown head of another turd to crown. The turd rapidly grew in length, forcing Spitfire to mirror Fleet Foot’s squat lest she get shit in her mare parts. It slithered smoothly out of her asshole, dipping into her stream and muting the splattering coming from the raging mare torrent. The tip of the turd finally touched the ground and began coiling into a neat pile. The turd tapered off and ended at last, accompanied by the the conclusion of Spitfire’s monsoon of piss. With her raging torrent reduced to a few drops clinging to her lips and her bowels substantially lightened, Spitfire sighed and stood.
“You okay, Fleet Foot?” she said.
It took a moment before Fleet Foot responded. Her piss waterfall had finally tapered off into an intermittent stream with little dribbles making their way down her legs. A mighty shiver rippled across her body, preceding a long moan of unadulterated relief. Finally, she turned to her wingmare.
“I am… now,” she panted. “Dear Celestia I think I came!”
“Looked like you needed it,” Spitfire chuckled.
“So you had to go, too?” Fleet Foot said, peeking at Spitfire’s pile.
“What does it look like?” Spitfire grunted. A loud blast of gas and rushing feeling within her bowels signaled another incoming turd. “Shit. Got more where that came from. Hang on.”
Spitfire barely managed to squat again before a semi-solid brown mush broke free of her asshole. Muddy shit piled up over her previous load with a sickening squelch, punctuated by hisses of hot mare piss as the pressure squeezed the last bits of urine from her tired bladder. Finally, the shit avalanche stopped, its end marked by a long, sputtering fart. A push upon her anus yielded nothing, signalling that Spitfire’s bowels were empty. The wonderbolt breathed a sigh of relief.
Fleet Foot whistled in awe. “That’s some serious damage…”
Spitfire slowly turned around. The sidewalk was a mess. The combined urine of both mares had soaked a huge stretch of it, leaving a web of rivulets that were now working their way toward the storm drains. Fleet Foot’s puddle of liquid shit had only expanded while Spitfire was busy offloading her bowels and was now moving to engulf her already massive pile. Their hot loads had certainly left their mark.
“I’m going to need a long shower to feel clean after that!” Spitfire glanced at Fleet Foot and managed a sheepish grin. “Now c’mon, let’s get out of here before we get booked for public defecation!”