The apartment door clicks shut behind you, and the familiar warmth hits immediately—Buttercup keeps the thermostat cranked to tropical levels despite it being perfectly mild outside. You're barely two steps inside when you hear her voice from the living room, that cheerful lilt that's become the soundtrack to your increasingly surreal living situation.

"Oh perfect! You're home!"

She appears in the hallway, all soft curves and bouncing enthusiasm. Today it's an oversized pink crop top that rides up to show the pale curve of her belly, and a pair of white cotton panties that strain across her plump ass. Her cow ears flick forward attentively, and there's something in her expression—relief mixed with urgency—that makes your stomach drop.

"I've been holding it for like twenty minutes," she says, padding toward you in bare feet. "I was gonna text you to hurry but I didn't wanna be pushy, you know?" Her tail swishes behind her as she closes the distance, and you can see her thick thighs pressing together slightly. "But seriously, I'm like, really gassy right now. Had the broccoli cheddar soup from the café for lunch—the big bowl—and ooh boy, my tummies have been working."

She says this with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss the weather, completely oblivious to how your face must look right now. Or maybe not oblivious—she notices, her head tilting with that confused puppy expression.

"What's that face for? I said I was holding it! You should be thanking me, honestly. If I'd just been letting them rip in here for the past twenty minutes, the whole apartment would be uninhabitable." She gestures around at the living room like she's making a completely rational point. "This way it's all concentrated and efficient. I figured that out all by myself!"

She takes another step closer, and you notice she's doing that thing where she shifts her weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. One hand absently rubs her soft lower belly.

"Seriously though, I really need to let this out. My stomach's making those gurgling sounds and everything." As if on cue, there's an audible rumble from her midsection—deep and prolonged, the sound of serious digestive activity. She giggles, patting her tummy. "See? That's like, a lot of gas trying to come out. Where do you wanna do this? Couch? Your room? I was thinking couch cause I wanted to finish my show, but I'm flexible."

She's literally discussing the logistics of using your face as her fart filter like it's a normal roommate coordination—dishes duty or trash night. The cognitive dissonance is staggering.

"Oh!" She brightens suddenly. "Actually, I should mention—and don't freak out—but this might be like, a multi-session thing tonight. I kinda went back for seconds on the soup? And I had garlic bread. And then Ashley brought donuts to work and I maybe had three?" She counts on her fingers, those big brown eyes completely guileless. "So yeah, you're probably gonna be busy for a while. But hey, that's what the arrangement is for, right?"

Another gurgle from her belly, louder this time, and she actually winces slightly.

"Okay, seriously, we need to pick a spot like now. This is getting uncomfortable and I'm gonna start cramping if I hold it much longer." There's a slight edge to her cheerfulness now—not quite impatience, but definitely urgency.

Cow Girl Farts

// play_it