A red headed women farting twenty times in her bra
A red headed women farting twenty times in her brand new 2016 Volvo S60 after a hard workout.
Fiona, a flame-haired woman who could make a traffic cone blush, was positively radiating. Not from her endorphin-fueled post-workout glow, but from the sheer joy of driving her brand new 2016 Volvo S60. It was sleek, stylish, and smelled faintly of leather and new car dreams.
Fiona had been dreaming of this moment for months, scrimping and saving every penny she could to afford the car of her dreams. Today, she finally had it. As she drove home from the gym, the world seemed a little brighter, the birds a little more melodic, and the exhaust fumes a little more… fragrant.
Fiona, however, was blissfully unaware. Her mind was occupied with dreams of weekend road trips, scenic drives, and maybe even a little cruise down Rodeo Drive.
Suddenly, a rumbling started in her stomach, a rumbling that could only be described as a “rumble with a side of fury.” It was the sound of a volcano brewing, the echo of a hungry beast, the chorus of a thousand angry butterflies.
Fiona tried to ignore it. “Just a little gas,” she thought, “it’ll pass.”
But it didn’t pass. It grew, it swelled, and it finally erupted with a force that would make a seasoned seismologist jump.
A single, long, low rumble reverberated through the pristine interior of the Volvo, followed by a series of smaller burps, like a mischievous toddler trying to outdo their older brother. The leather seats, freshly cleaned and smelling of cherry blossom, suddenly smelled like the aftermath of a chili cook-off.
Fiona’s face turned the same shade as her hair. She choked back a gasp, her eyes wide with horror. “Just one,” she thought, “just one more, and then I’ll pull over.”
But that one more turned into two, then three, then a relentless chain reaction that continued for what seemed like an eternity. With every toot, Fiona’s face grew redder, her eyes wider, and her body hotter.
The Volvo, once a symbol of sophistication and class, became a war zone of flatulence. The pristine leather seats became a battlefield, a testament to the raw, unbridled power of Fiona’s digestive system.
As she pulled into her driveway, Fiona felt like she had just fought and won a war. She had faced the ultimate enemy: the infamous “post-workout bloat.” She had triumphed, but not without leaving a trail of olfactory destruction in her wake.
She hoped her neighbours hadn’t noticed. They probably had. It was a small neighbourhood. But then again, Fiona figured, they probably wouldn’t want to admit they had smelled it either. They’d pretend it was a faulty sewer pipe, a rogue skunk, or maybe even a particularly pungent batch of chili cooking on someone’s stove.
Fiona, though, knew the truth. The Volvo had been baptized in a torrent of gas, and it was a baptism that neither she, nor the car, would ever forget. She got out, closed the door, and walked inside, leaving the Volvo to its smelly, silent shame.
The next morning, Fiona decided to be proactive. She purchased air freshener, a whole lot of air freshener. She even considered buying a dog to blame it on. But as she drove the Volvo to work, a single thought crossed her mind:
“Maybe a good, old-fashioned fart isn’t so bad after all.” She let out a small, quiet toot, just for the road. The Volvo, ever the good sport, didn’t seem to mind.
