You can just call me Wench. As you can tell by my page, I'm a goth and chubby bisexual woman who loves farts. I use any pronouns, I'm 23, and I love being called a fart whore.
I am a switch depending on the gender. If it is a wlw situation, I'm dominate leaning. If its with any other gender I'm sub leaning.
I recently got into writing out my kink after doing erp over text with flings for years. Turns out it was the best decision I made because I got back into writing, both kinks and somewhat normal smut stuff.
My kinks are highly specific, so bear with me as I write them all out.
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Top 5 Kinks - farts (male or female), omorashi, diapers (watching/reading about others going in them), light humilation, praise.
I like it sometimes - Coprophilia (accidents while clothed), light BDSM, threesomes, sex toys (I wanna have a collection), erotic text roleplay, ass worship.
There are things I hate in porn, but adore in writing. I can handle scat better in writing, but I hate seeing a person shit naked.
HARD NOS - Anything underage, inflation, crying, spit swallowing, non-con, vore, necrophilia, feet, blood, swallowing piss or shit, anal gaping, vomit, lactation, pregnancy, cum play.
(writes something) god this sucks so bad. this is awful. i'm the worst writer ever. this is nothing. (rereads it a while after writing it) oh dude this is fire. i'm the god of writing. (writes something again) god this sucks so bad. th
The Neighbor Downstairs | Chapter Preview | TW Below
Link to chapter, read tags for warnings.
Sub Male farter x Dom Female sniffer
TW: Non-con recording, stalking kinda? and just perving behavior.
My whole life was dull. There would be times when capturing pictures of the most exquisite buildings and parks in Trenton, NJ where I experienced a spark of something, bliss perhaps. I’m 32 years old, no kids, no husband, and have friends that weren’t really friends. I constantly felt like there was a part of me that was missing, an itch that needed to be scratched. Likewise, I tried to scratch that itch with flings and dates, but it felt like a loop when I was the exact same afterward. Friends would convey how transformative sex was. Even when I was in high school it was this big thing everyone loved doing. I would tell my friends it felt like nothing. I could have just used toys instead of scouting a desperate man or woman in a club, and on dating apps.
“Mads, you just pick someone who is attractive to you and go for it!” Amy, my friend, scolded me over the phone.
I wiped the sweat from under my bangs with a huff. “Don’t you think I do that?” I replied, trying to catch my breath after working out, “I don’t just grab someone and toss them in my bed y’know?”
Amy stifled a chuckle over the line. “With your type, it sure seems that way.” She teased. I rolled my eyes at her comment.
Amy always judged my taste, but only my taste in men. We preferred the same type of woman, because women were, well, women. I admire guys who have a feminine face, and are tall. As long as they didn’t look dirty, or have a body builder looking body. I found them easy on the eyes. Of course, a great personality was nice, but you can only get to know someone in the hour before you fuck them.
“Hey, I was drunk that one time I chose the dude you’re thinking about.” I justified, knowing exactly who she was picturing. Amy chortled, making me crack a smile as I opened some windows to cool my body off. My cropped tank top stuck to the sweat on my body; which caused an unpleasant awareness of how sticky it felt.
“Some say alcohol is a truth serum.” She joked, sounding farther away from the phone.
I scoffed at that comment. The same phrase she always used when I made a questionable drunken decision. “Well, those people haven’t met me. An odd case of I like everyone when I have more than two shots of vodka in me.” I teased as I plopped down on my couch, feeling the breeze fill my undersized living room.
The conversation was cut short when Amy had to fold her laundry. I was honestly thankful I didn’t have to go through 20 more minutes of defending my inebriated ways. The air outside was humid; smelling of wet grass and something sweet. I laid on the couch and basked in the cool feeling of air; the sensation of my skin feeling sticky against my clothes. In some ways, I was glad that I didn’t find pleasure in the company of others. It meant I found it in simple things, similar to when I took a picture of a mansion that ended up in a home design magazine. The lines of that building were parallel without any editing, and the sun was working in my favor to capture the texture of the outside walls. To this day, I think that was my most impressive work.
Pleasure is like an unkempt garden for me. The world seemed to know what they needed, the tools, where to go, who to go to. Meanwhile, nothing done to me worked. I used vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, and the most I got was an orgasm akin to someone humming through a towel over my skin. Sex, well, it was boring. I loathe the feeling of a man on top of me; the grunting and cumming after two minutes did not make me feel pretty. Even if the guy or woman was affectionate after, it was forced. I always wished at the end of the night that I didn’t make it to bed with the person, but I do it because I think it will be the one that feels good. It never is.
Through the whistling of the wind, I caught a low rumble beneath my floor boards. It was plausible that the man that lived below me was relocating furniture at night, last minute rearranging, I considered. He was a man, the majority of men had the strength to move furniture around on a whim, right? That’s all he was doing. I froze, thinking about the other tenants that occupied the building. There was the older woman who lived next to me, the couple above who had loud sex on Friday nights. The others weren’t worth remembering. The same could be said for the man downstairs; I ran into him in the hall after going down the stairs before. It was no more than a nod or wave. He’s been here for a month; I don’t even know his name.
He always wore plain colored henleys and slim fit jeans. His sneakers had to be well-worn for over three years, and a gray canvas jacket. I always thought he looked like the perfect background person. The type that you would not notice in a movie unless you were specifically trying to watch background actors, but even then. Others wouldn’t notice this man. He was slightly leaner, had sandy blonde hair styled into a short brushed back cut. It looked like it was his natural hair color, it had to be, with how much he didn’t seem to want to stick out.
Before I could mull over this man’s looks and personality, I heard another rumble from under the floor. This time, it was wet sounding. This was not the scrapping of moving furniture. The noise was followed by a sigh, the type of huff that you release after getting done with a workout. I stood from the couch measuredly, kneeling and pressing my ear to the floor. I waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. It happened again, this time deeper and thunderous. I knew what he was doing when he grunted. He was farting. At first, I wanted to be repulsed. Do what I usually do when I hear the couple having sex, and put on headphones to block it out. But my body refused to move from this position. For a second, I swear I could feel the vibration in my calves.
Casual slobbiness. Someone that rips the sloppiest, nastiest, wettest, bubbliest, grossest farts imaginable as if it was nothing. No change in facial expression, they didn't force it out at all, just let it slip out on it's own. They don't bring any attention to it at all afterwards.
And if you ask them about it they'll say it was "just a fart, no big deal" while the air around them is nearly unbreathable from the stench.
And they do this constantly, no matter the setting they're in and with little regard for anyone around.
non-kink related but I’ve currently been struggling with horrible depression and mental illness related things. I planned to write a whole bunch of stories this month and release them, but I’m afraid that currently it’s kicking my ass.
I have no motivation to do anything, and it’s taking a lot of energy to type this. I will be releasing stories once I’m out of this funk and reposting, writing things. But it’s really hard to do anything rn
Thank you to my kinky friends, mutuals, and readers for being there and supporting my work. You are my reason for living. If it wasn’t for writing and the companionship, I wouldn’t be here.
If you have a fucked up sicknasty fanfic you've been thinking about sharing but are unsure, this post is your sign to run to AO3 and Just Do It:
1. Someone somewhere wants to read it. Even if it's only one person, that person matters
2. Your creativity matters and so does your ability to share it
3. Serial harassers in fandom spaces are beginning to express discomfort that sites like AO3 completely strip their ability to do anything about fic they don't like, sometimes going as far as leaving entire fandoms due to the influx of "problematic fiction without a chance for consequences to the author". Posting your fanworks to AO3 actively contributes to making harassers feel unsafe and powerless in fandom
4. Militant anti-fanfic content creators also cannot do anything about fic posted to AO3
5. You can post anonymously to AO3, with the ability to de-anonymize at any time
6. You can moderate comments before making them visible on your fic, restrict comments to logged-in users only, or turn off comments altogether, meaning you can post anonymously and completely turn off comments if you choose
Wanna have my head resting in someone's lap then suddenly have them gently push my face into there crotch as they let out a long loud fart and not let go of the back of my head till the smells gone, gently stroking my hair as i sniff...
got this new thing for domestic type farting. You coming home from a long day of work and unloading your sore stomach on my face, gassing me out as I sniff and eat your farts.
