Unlike Barry's rude indifference to the fact that Jordan didn't want to be under his butt any more than Barry wanted to be under Quentin's, the horse cared very much that Barry was desperately trying to escape his very smelly fate, and was quite willing to deliver it to him. The dog had played some stinky pranks on him when he was young, and ever since the horse had started to outsize the dog, Quentin seized his every chance to return the favor, sometimes playfully but usually vengefully.

He was a horse of considerable fatness, his excess flab jiggling with every step he took, and he was considered a healthy specimen by the standards of his dimension; throwing his large weight around was definitely one of the benefits of his lasting health.

As enormous as Barry was, Quentin was another thing entirely, as his large rear end was twice the size of the dog, and nothing could make this fact more clear than the horse's hefty hindquarters plopping down on the distracted dog's face. A split second later, only Barry's bottom half could be seen as his face and torso were totally buried under Quentin's brown-haired bum.

The dog frantically scrambled backwards in the stable's dirt floor, doing everything in his power to escape the titanic rear he found himself under, but it was all to no avail. The horse had the power here, and this was very bad news for Barry, considering Quentin's tendency for legendary bouts of 'morning thunder'.

Before unleashing a storm of horse farts upon Barry, the horse seemed to visibly relax and sigh contentedly, ignoring the dog's scrambling. The dog could scramble all be wanted, but he wasn't getting away unless the horse let him.

A deep rumble came from within his belly, and as he prepared to begin the barrage, he finally chose to address the dog: "Why, Barry, you don't want a taste of your own medicine? How very... surprising."

The horse close his eyes, and as his first fart began, one could swear that Quentin was smiling.

It was already too warm in the enclosure, and the heat from the airy fart had quickly caused Barry to break a sweat. The dog quickly stopped struggling, but he involuntarily wrinkled his nose; horse farts stink, but this wasn't anything like he had expected, and he was perfectly fine with spending half an hour smelling these pathetic farts.

There turned out to be a single problem with this idea: the fart continued, and it seemed like it would never stop. The blast seemed to go on and on and on, and Barry showed no signs that he was running out of gas; he just relaxed, leaned back and let loose over the unfortunate dog. It took a minute and a half to stop, and for one second, a silence hung in the air along with a mild stench.

Many visitors to Northill Farms had experienced a horse's fart more personally than they would have liked, and it is needless to say that none of them ever, ever came back, or even went near a horse, ever again. Few ever experienced anything as pleasant as Quentin's most recent fart.

To put it bluntly, Quentin's farts STANK, and if being near him when he farted in an open field was bad, you can imagine what it should be like under his bum in closed quarters. The fact that Quentin hadn't passed anything more rancid than this should have been a warning sign, but Barry wasn't worried... yet.

The horse held off for a few seconds, obviously thinking about what to do next. He quickly reached the conclusion that, to best fuck with Barry, he would start off small and build up from there; after all, the dog had already been caught off- guard. As he began his second fart, his face held a wicked grin; one could almost feel sorry for the dog.

This fart was a little worse than the first one; a little stinker, a little airier, but a lot longer. If Barry had had the room to do so under the horse's bum, he surely would have yawned, he was so unimpressed with the ten minute long blast -- if it could truly be called a blast. If farting was deadly, this wouldn't even have made a scratch.

Barry made an unwise decision to taunt Quentin. He tried to say "is that all you got?", and though his voice was badly muffled by a mouth full of bum, the horse obviously got the gist. Quentin sat up, putting
his weight heavily on top of the dog and smooshing him even more than before, and he had stopped smiling. It was obvious that this comment was the end of Mr. Nice Horse, but Barry remained oblivious, his view having been blocked by a rather intrusive posterior.

For you see, Barry was facing quite the problem here: while Quentin wasn't the gassiest horse on the farm, he was a flatulist, and he possessed superb control over his blasts. His bumhole was a weapon to be reckoned with, and the last place anyone wants to be in is in the way of a flatulist horse's tailhole.

"Toilet humor is so crude, but so very... effective. Wouldn't you say?"

As the horse paused in his speech, he released a loud, roaring fart that blew Barry's hair back. Experiencing the horse's fart was like being in a wind tunnel that smelled overwhelmingly of grass and poo, with a stink that seemed to stick to anyone around and hung in the air like a dense cloud.

Barry started scrambling, trying to dig himself out, or pull himself out, or anything. Quentin had considerably upped the ante, and if at all possible, it was time to leave.

"What, my brother -- you don't like a taste of your own medicine? I'm sorry, but it's just so much fun to have you here. I might never let you go."

And with that, the horse let loose another blast to rival a wind tunnel, this time adding a bit of humidity to the experience to give Barry some variety. The second fart was somewhat longer than the first, making the dog a little woozy and a lot more desperate, but escaping from beneath the horse's rear was a futile effort and all of the desperation in the world wasn't going to help the normally capable dog get what he wanted.

For the first time since he was a puppy, somebody's farts were making the dog retch and cough; the pummeling, voluminous farts were just too much for the dog to handle. He'd been through this before, of course, but he preferred to stay far away from certain horsey posteriors.

"Crime doesn't pay, my brother, but it is oh so sweet. I hope you can understand. I promise: this will be my last fart for today."

The dog whimpered, still doing his best to escape the sizeable rear that had him pinned to the ground. Nothing was going to work, but nothing could stop him, either -- except what came next.

Quentin's final fart was a whopper, and it truly belonged in some kind of farting hall of fame.

First, there was an ear-splittingly loud noise, a wet, immense 'frrrrrrt'-ing of such decibelage that if it weren't for the horse's ample rear muffling it and the somewhat soundproof stable, it would have been heard all throughout the farm (and as it was, it still left the rest of the horses snickering.).

The second most noticeable thing about it was the force; it was less like a rain tunnel and more like a hurricane that smelled like grass and poo'. If the dog hadn't been stuck under a horse's rump, he would still have been completely pinned down. Quentin's rump rippled with waves of his bum fat, pulling his cheeks apart and covering Barry in the immensity of the fart.

The horse's blast had left a massive fart cloud in the room that totally enveloped Barry and his personable equine counterpart, the heavy air sticking the stink to them like they had fallen in to a cesspool of pure horse manure.

Barry lay there stunned; he was one of the smelliest dogs on the farm, and arguably one of the smelliest animals. He considered himself to be quite tough and resistant to most of the the farm's gassy animals. This fart, though, was a whole different story, and all of the scrambling and coughing and retching came to a halt as he tried to grasp the monumental fart -- and the fact that he hoped never to see another like it in his entire life.

"What the bloody hell was I talking about? Crime definitely pays off! Crime is the best! Thanks, l'il doggy, I owe you one!"

It took about ten minutes for the dog to work up the energy for his muffled yelling and scrambling; to Barry's surprise, the horse just lifted his thick rump off of him, shook it a little and left, abandoning Jordan and his canine companion to the room that may just smell like grass and poo forever more.

Eventually, the dog left, forgetting all about the boy firmly wedged between his big, furry butt cheeks -- after all, out of sight, out of mind.