Smell of the boss from hell
I need to knock this interview out of the park. It’s a personal assistant position for one of the heads of one of the most successful corporations in the country. It pays extremely well and I’m in need of the money. I’m paying child support to five different women. I’m barely staying afloat; I need this job.
After some direction from the front desk, I take an elevator up to one of the highest floors. Apparently, my hopefully new boss, Mr. Smith has a whole floor to himself.
As I step out I notice a man, who’s on his phone, who hasn’t noticed me yet. My eyes widen, holy shit, it’s Johnathan Wright. I bullied that f*gg*t all through highschool.
Sweet, a little intimidation will remind him of my straight superiority, and I’ll be running things. My financial woes are as good as gone. I can't help but smirk.
“I guess I’ll be seeing your gay-ass everyday from now on since the position is mine. Isn’t that right f*g.” I shoot him a superior smirk.
The f*g looks up at me with a bored expression, angering me. I walk right up to his face. “I said isn’t that right f*g!” I hiss through clenched teeth.
The f*g has the nerve to roll his eyes. “I don’t work here. I'm dropping off my husband's phone.” After saying this, a door opens behind him.
Out walks a burly, tall, intimidating looking man. He’s wearing a tailored suit that costs more than what most people make in a year.
John walks up to the man, and hands him his phone before giving him a kiss. I cringe.
“I’ll see you at home.” He says before leaving, not giving me a second glance.
I look back at the other man, he’s staring back with narrowed eyes.
“Yeah, you're not right for the position. Get out.” With that he spins around to head back into his office. My jaw drops as I take in the man’s huge bubble butt. His slacks look like they’re painted on his thick cakes. Each of his cheeks are as big as my head.
I shake my head and run up to him in desperation. “Please sir, I need this job.” I call.
He turns to me, “I know; we thoroughly research possible employees.” He states as I stop in front of him.
He looks down on me as if I’m an insect, scaring me. How is this f*gg*t intimidating me? I don’t like it, but I need this job.
“Please, I need this job.” I beg, looking down at his feet, submissively.
“Very well, it’s yours. Be here tomorrow, 8 sharp.”
He scoffs as he heads back into his office. “I’ll enjoy killing that smile.” He comments, threateningly, before shutting his door in my face. Mr. Smith is written on the door.
I pay him no mind. What’s the worst this f*gg*t can do?
I accidentally slept in and came in at 8:30. As soon as I sit at my desk, Mr. Smith storms out of his office and right up to me.
“You’re late!” He growls.
“I’m sorry sir my ph-” Mr. Smith cuts me off.
“Save your excuses! Here’s what I think of them.” Mr. Smith turns around, and bends over, sticking his big ass in my face. This act stretches out the material over the seat of his pants, accentuating its size.
Me gapping at this is a huge mistake.
PPPPPPPRRRRRRRRBBBBBBBBTTTTTTT
I recoil in disgust as he rips a trumpeting fart into my face and open mouth. It reeks of rotten eggs and spice, and has me gagging.
“What the- did you just fart on me?” I cry.
“Here's your answer to that.” With his bubbly rump still in my face, I hear him grunt.
FFFFFFFFFFFFFLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBBBB
Mr. Smith rips a bigger, greasy-sounding fart in my face that smells worse. It’s so strong that it makes the seat of his slacks flutter.
Mr. Smith sighs in relief before straightening himself. “If you don't wish to be farted on then refrain from displeasing me in the future.” Mr. Smith then hikes up his right leg.
Mr. Smith fires off two loud but short farts, back-to-back in my face.
“You can’t do this to me. I quit.”
Mr. Smith looks down at me, over his shoulder, with a nefarious smirk. “You quit and I’ll make sure no one will hire you. The best you’ll be able to find is flipping burgers. I’m sure the courts and your kids won’t be too pleased with that.” I go pale at his words. Matthew Smith is a powerful man and can ensure this will happen.
“Please stop this.” I plead.
“I’m certain someone you bullied in highschool pleaded for you to stop but you didn’t. Expect the same amount of mercy from me.”
I notice Mr. Smith’s glutes flex and then relax.
A rancid-smelling sbd hits me in the face like a brick. It reeks of raw sewage and onions. It has me coughing and my eyes watering.
Mr. Smith reaches back and wafts his fumes towards my face and then goes back into his office.
I have no choice but to get to work while my whole desk area is enveloped in his putrid fart cloud. Sadly, his thick butt stink lingers for hours.
Several hours later, Mr. Smith exits his office and walks up to me. He looks down at me with a cold expression.
“Mr. Jones, order us lunch with the company credit card.” He commands.
I give a nod and hold out my hand for the card.
I panic as Mr. Smith turns around. What I see is horrific. The credit card is wedged in between his slacks-covered, bulbous globes. Just a small corner of the card is sticking out.
“Well what are you waiting for? Take my card!” Mr. Smith barks.
I hesitantly reach for it with my hand.
“No, no, no” Mr. Smith admonishes, “Use your teeth! And do it quickly! I haven’t got all day!”
I feel both crushed and cornered. I’ve got no choice.
I lean forward, bringing my face near his toxic backside.
As my face nears his bubble butt, the stench of his stale farts and his ass musk assaults my nose.
To get to his credit card, I have to press my face into his pillwoy mounds; I grimace feeling them molding around my face. I slightly turn my head and bite down on the tip of the credit card. As soon as I do this…
FFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGDDDDDDDDD
Mr. Smith fires off a growling ripper. Even with the credit card and his pants in the way, I feel the stream of hot air hitting my teeth. The eggy, acidic vapors flow through my teeth and coats my tongue and the back of my throat. I yank the card out, let it fall into my hand, and start retching on the taste and smell of his nauseating gas.
“Order Mexican, Mr. Jones. I want my farts to be spicier than this for the rest of the day.” Mr. Smith takes a step back, consuming the side of my face with his meaty ass.
PPPPPPRRRRRRR-FFFFFFFFHHHHHHH-OOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT
I groan as he blasts my face with a string of trumpeting farts. With that, he heads back into his office.
It takes me five minutes to stop almost-vomiting. Once I’m able to manage, I call up a nearby Mexican restaurant. Our order of several burritos will be here in an hour. I wish it was longer.
An hour later, I get a call from the main desk that our lunch is being brought up by Mr. Smith, which confuses me. Maybe it’s Mr. Smith’s father?
I contact Mr. Smith through the intercom. “Um Mr. Smith, I think your father is bringing up our food.”
“What?” He replies, sounding bewildered.
As Mr. Smith’s office door opens, so does the elevator. And out walks John Wright. Oh, f*gs can get married. He’s Mr. Smith too.
Mr. Smith gives me a side glance that screams ‘I’m an idiot’.
“Hey, I got myself Chinese food and thought we could have lunch together.” John says as he walks up to Mr. Smith.
With a smile, Mr. Smith nods his head towards his office, wordlessly ordering John inside.
As John passes, Mr. Smith pulls a burrito out of one of the bags. It must be mine.
When John disappears into his office, Mr. Smith shoots me a nasty grin.
He unwraps the burrito from its tinfoil and sets it on the end corner of my desk. Mr. Smith then spins around, hovering the seat of his pants inches above my burrito. Ppppsssssssshhhh
Mr. Smith drops a nearly inaudible butt bomb on my burrito. I cover my nose with my hand as the smell reaches me. It lives up to the saying: silent but deadly.
Without a word and looking satisfied, Mr. Smith walks into his office to enjoy lunch with his husband.
My stomach rumbles in hunger. Because I woke up late, I didn’t have breakfast. I haven’t eaten all day. With despair I pick up the tainted burrito and bite into it. I nearly spit it out, the taste is rancid, but I need food. It's a struggle to eat it all, but I do.
45 minutes later, they exit his office, and Mr. Smith escorts John to the elevator. Once John steps into the elevator, Mr. Smith says, “You two have a nice ride back down.”
John looks confused. Before he can say anything, Mr. Smith wheels around, pointing his ass at his husband.
FFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMDDDDDDPPPPPPP
Mr. Smith rips a bubbly fart into the elevator.
John grimaces as he fans the air in front of his nose, but he’s still smiling.
Mr. Smith laughs, “ Haha, 10 years together and I can still trick ya into a hotbox. I love it.” He teases just before the elevator doors close.
Mr. Smith turns around and scowls when he catches me looking at him.
“Stop gawking and get back to work!” He growls. I quickly focus back on my computer. As he marches back into his office, he rips a poot with every step.
Ppbbtt, ffrrpp, mmvvbb, rrlldd
Once he closes his office door, the entire floor is completely polluted with his ass gas. Like before, his butt stink lingers for hours.
Some time later, Mr. Smith asks through the intercom. “Mr. Jones, have you finished filling out my calendar for the rest of the month?”
Oh shit, I forgot about that.
“N-not yet sir. I’ll start on that right away.” I nervously reply.
Mr. Smith doesn’t respond over the intercom. Instead, he storms out of his office and up to me, a moment later.
As I feared, Mr. Smith spins around, aiming his fume-blasting canon at my face.
What I’m not expecting is Mr. Smith reaching behind, grabbing the back of my head, and then pulling my face into his bubbly ass. His fat cakes smother me and muffle my yelp.
“Here, maybe only being able to smell this for the next few days will remind you to always keep my calendar up to date… UGH”
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG-DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF-BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
Mr. Smith unleashes 2 minutes of thunderous ass-gas, point-blank in my face. It’s so powerful that it has his cheeks and my face quaking. The stench of sulfur and digested meat destroys me. It has me coughing and gagging and my eyes watering.
Once his fart comes to an end, instead of letting me go, Mr. Smith keeps my face pressed against his ass and starts wiping it from left to right and up and down, all over my face.
“Ah, let’s work that bad boy into your pores.” Mr. Smith explains as he keeps grinding his ass against my face for about a minute.
When he finally lets my head go, I fall back into my chair, gagging and trying not to puke.
Mr. Smith looks down at me, over his shoulder, with contempt. “My calendar better be filled and correct in the next 30 minutes or you’ll be getting another noseful of my burrito-powered butt rockets, Mr. Jones.” He threatens me before retreating back into his office, letting me suffer alone.
Once I gain my bearings, I drop everything and focus on his calendar.
Damn, he was right. It’s been two hours and everytime I breathe in, all I can smell is his fart.
My first week here has been a hellish one. My every mistake earns me getting farted on by Mr. Smith.
Got him the wrong coffee… PPPPPRRRRRWWWWWWBBBBB
Forgetting to wear a tie… FFFFFFVVVVVVOOOOOMMMMMM
Typing my notes in the wrong font… RRRRRRLLLLLLLAAAAADDDDD
I’m getting farted on innumerous times a day.
It’s been only 7 days and all my work clothes reek of his ass fumes. Even a trip to the cleaners didn’t get rid of the stink. I’m constantly getting judgemental looks from everyone I walk past.
I’m impatiently waiting for the elevator to reach my floor. It’s already 5 after 8 at the moment. I’m hoping Mr. Smith won’t notice.
I go pale when the elevator doors open. Mr. Smith is standing in front of my desk. His hands are braced against the top of my desk and he’s sticking his ass out.
Mr. Smith looks back at me with a frown. “I will not abide tardiness, Mr. Jones. Come here and get on your knees.” He orders.
I whimper as I make my way towards him. I get on my knees when I’m a foot away. His ample mounds, stretching out the seat of his trousers, fills my sight of view.
Mr. Smith arches his back, extending his ass out more, burying my face in his meaty orbs.
“For me, Mr. Jones, tardiness stinks. And I bet you’ll feel the same way after this… GGH”
BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHDDDDDDDDD
Mr. Smith rips a 7 second, chainsaw-sounding fart right in my face. It stinks of rotten eggs and cabbage.
I try to pull away but Mr. Smith grabs the back of my head, keeping my face smothered in his ass.
“Nu-uh, I’m not finished with your face yet. Since you’re 5 minutes late, you'll huff up five minutes of my ass gas. Let this be a lesson to you… NGH”
RRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLWWWWWWWWWWVVVVVVVVVV
DDDDDDDDDDMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBBPPPPPPPPPPP
FFFFFFFFFGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMM
BBBBBBBBBBBWWWWWWWWWUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRR
VVVVVVVVVVVBBBBBBBBBBBB-AAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPP
As promised, Mr. Smith vents 5 minutes of his butt vapors right up my nose. And it doesn’t end there. So I don't forget his lesson, he farts up my nose for five minutes straight, several times today. And that doesn't include the dozens of other times he farts on me today for my other screw ups.
I’ve been working for this flatulent monster for an entire month. Each day is a nauseating nightmare.
His butt fumes have now been ingrained into my skin. I’ve bathed in every kind of body-wash and soap I can find, and even used tomato paste, but nothing works. I’m rocking a serious case of blue balls because every girl turns tail when they catch a whiff of me.
Mr. Smith is ruining my life. I’ve only known misery for the past month. Everyone says he's a hard-ass who demands nothing less than perfection, but I know he’s torturing me because of my past with his husband.
Man, fuck those bitches who got pregnant with my children! Fuck my f*gg*t-of-a-boss! And fuck his f*ggy-ass husband!
Speak of the devil, a little before noon, the elevator opens revealing John. Mr. Smith steps out of his office, “Come on babe, lets go get lunch.” Calls John with a smile.
Fucking gross; disgusting f*gg*ts.
Mr. Smith's piercing silver eyes lock on me. A cold chill shivers down my spine.
“Mr. Jones, are those reports finished?” Mr. Smith booms.
“N-not yet, sir.” I meekly answer.
Mr. Smith narrows his eyes at me. “Well it better be done by the time I return from lunch with my husband or you’re gonna get a taste of my chili-empowered displeasure.”
With a sneer, Mr. Smith turns away and sticks his fat ass in my face. He grunts and presses down on his stomach.
PPPPPPPVVVVVVVVOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBB
I cringe as he fires an airy fart right in my face. The eggy stench flows up my nose.
Mr. Smith scoffs before heading towards the elevator.
I take a hesitant peek, wondering if John is enjoying my torture. Instead, I see him on his phone, not even caring about my suffering. For some reason that’s far more insulting.
Mr. Smith returns after taking an extended hour and a half long lunch. And unfortunately for me, I haven’t finished the reports.
I’m sweating bullets as Mr. Smith walks up to my desk.
“Are those reports finished, Mr. Jones?” Mr. Smith gets straight to the point.
“T-they’re almost f-finished, s-sir.” I stutter out.
No! No! No! I shout in my head as Mr. Smith slowly wheels around. Mr. Smith’s bubbly posterior is aimed at my face, from the other side of my desk.
While grunting and straining, Mr. Smith says, “HHG… Then smell my displeasure… NGH''
BBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTT
A 45 second long, foghorn-sounding fart bellows out of Mr. Smith’s ass. Even though he’s on the other side of my desk, his fart is strong enough to blow back my hair and dry out my eyes.
As it ends on a wet note, I’m bent over, head between my knees, dry-heaving. The vile stench of digested meat and methane destroys me.
“Ah, I did warn you that chili gives my gas a bit of a kick, didn’t I Mr. Jones?” Mr. Smith comments before heading into his office, leaving me broken at my desk.
These past two months have been sulfuric awfulness. I breathe more of Mr. Smith’s farts than natural air, everyday.
However, for the first time, I think today might be a good day. I started work an hour ago and Mr. Smith hasn’t farted on me once.
At the moment, we’re in one of the meeting rooms, acquiring a smaller company to join our conglomerate. I’m sitting next to Mr. Smith, with our company lawyer on the other side of him. Across from us is the owner of the soon-to-be-acquired company and his lawyer.
This should have been a quick meeting but suddenly the owner decided to triple the original price.
Mr. Smith scoffs before sliding the new contract back over to Mr. Charles. “That is not the price we agreed on, Mr. Charles.”
Mr. Charles frowns, “Well, that’s my new selling price. Take it or leave it.”
Mr. Smith slams the original contract down on the table, and slides it over to Mr. Charles. “That’s not happening. Now take the original offer or things are about to get smelly.”
I hear Mr. Smith’s stomach gurgle loudly. That combined with his threat as me physically shaking with fear. Damn it, that’s why he hasn’t farted on me yet today. He’s been saving it for this meeting.
Mr. Charles’ lawyer frowns as well. “We will not be threatened!”
Mr. Smith says nothing, just smirks ominously. He then gives our lawyer a nod. My fear heightens as our lawyer pulls out and inserts nose plugs.
Mr. Smith locks his jaw and his face turns red with exertion.
FFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRVVVVVVVVVVVUUUUUUUUUUUBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
Mr. Smith blasts out a minute long, thunderous fart that rumbles against his seat. The sulfuric stench fills the room, sickening me, Mr. Charles, and his lawyer.
“You disgusting pig!” Mr. Charles cries out.
Mr. Smith’s smirk turns devilish. “Keep talking, you're just gonna make me stink this place up even more… HGGH” He hikes up his right leg and…
MMMMMMWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPDDDDDDDDD
Mr. Smith unleashes another huge, beastly fart, poisoning our air even more. Mr. Charles and his lawyer stand up and make for the door, looking like they’re gonna hurl.
They try the door but it’s locked. I’m full-on panicking now. We’re all trapped in this room with this farting demon.
The two glance back at us with fear in their eyes. Mr. Smith's devilish grin broadens.
“No escaping for any of you. Now sign or keep suffering!” Mr. Smith stands up and aims his ass in their direction. Unfortunately that means his ass is just behind my head.
PPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFF-OOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM-RRRRRRRRRVVVVVVVVVVVVV
Mr. Smith keeps venting out one monstrous fart after another, their way. We’re all coughing and crying from Mr. Smith’s fumes. Even our lawyer, who has nose plugs, is suffering.
Through his coughing, Mr. Charles shouts, “Never!”
Mr. Smith growls like a feral dog. He picks up the contract and moves it to the end of the table, closest to Mr. Charles and his lawyer. He then climbs onto the table. He's on his hands and knees, with the contract located right behind his big ass.
Mr. Smith looks back and shoots a malicious grin at Mr. Charles. “Oh you're gonna sign. But since you’ve annoyed me so much, you’re gonna have to do it while I light your face up with my butt rockets.” Mr. Smith grits his teeth and fires off several more huge farts, in a row.
MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOBBBBBBBBB
FFFFFFFFLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR
DDDDDDDDDWWWWWWWWVVVVVVVVMMMMMM
“Sign for our original agreement and you're free to go. Until you do, I promise, I won’t stop farting.” Mr. Smith temporarily ceases fire to make his threat before continuing his gassy assault.
RRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHLLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDDD
PPPPPPPPPPUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMRRRRRRRR
VVVVVVVVVVVAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDPPPPPPPPP
It’s too much for Mr. Charles’ lawyer. He drops to the floor, knocked out. Mr. Charles looks like he’ll be following suit soon.
Mr. Charles' fearful eyes find mine. “Just do it! Believe me, he can do this all day, with ease.” I warn him.
He turns his gaze to Mr. Smith, on the table. “Alright, I’ll sign, just stop farting” Mr. Charles pleads.
“You’ve lost all rights to demand anything. Now sign or die by my farts… NGH”
PPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRVVVVVVVVVVVVUUUUUUUUUUUUBBBBBBBBBBDDDDDDDDDDDDD
A minute and a half long fart erupts out of Mr. Smith’s ass. It has the entire room shaking. The stink of rotten eggs and man musk makes itself known.
Mr. Charles dashes to the table and bends down to sign the papers. This puts his face right in front of my boss' toxic booty. Mr. Smith mercilessly blasts his face with smelly poots.
PPPPPPFFFFF, RRRRRRWWWWWW, BBBBBDDDDD, VVVVVVPPPPP, FFFFFHHHHH, DDDDDDDPPPPPPP, PPPPPPPWWWWW
“There, I’ve signed. Please sto-MMM”
Instead of stopping, Mr. Smith reaches back, grabs the back of Mr. Charles head, and pulls his face into his ass. I feel pity for Mr. Smith's next victim , but also relief because it's not me.
“I’m not finished with you yet! For what you tried to pull, I’m making sure all you smell for the next year is my butt stink.”
Mr. Charles' body thrashes, trying to escape, but Mr. Smith isn’t letting him.
“NGH… Good doing business with you Mr. Charles… UGH”
PPPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVBBBBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTTTTTTT
A 2 minute long fart roars out of Mr. Smith’s rump and pointblank into Mr. Charles’ face.
At the halfway point, Mr. Charles' flailing limbs fall limp at his sides, and he stops moving. When Mr. Smith fart finally ends, he rubs his ass around Mr. Charles' face before releasing the back of his head. As soon as he does this, Mr. Charles’ unconscious body falls to the floor like a ragdoll.
Mr. Smith sighs in relief as he climbs off the table and fixes up his appearance.
Mr. Smith glances at our lawyer, “Mr. Reyes, please have security toss these pieces of trash to the curb. And have someone fumigate this conference room.” He orders.
Mr. Reyes nods before pulling out his phone.
Mr. Smith looks at me, “Let's go. It's time for us to get back to work.” He commands.
I timidly nod and follow him out of the door that's unlocked now.
We walk down the hall and step into the elevator that I recently learned was Mr. Smith’s personal one. Apparently anyone using an elevator after Mr. Smith is a health hazard. I wish that applied to me but it doesn’t.
As usual, I stand right behind him in the lift. As we rise, he pelts me with airy, eggy farts.
I frown as we exit on our floor. A man comes out of Mr. Smith’s office with his chair.
“It’s all set up and functional, sir.” The man says.
Mr. Smith nods, before tipping the man 200 dollars, flooring him.
We're too late to act when the man takes Mr. Smith's private elevator down. We hear him violently coughing as he descends.
Mr. Smith pulls out his phone and calls security. Letting them know about the guy who's most likely unconscious in his personal elevator.
Mr. Smith frowns at me. “Get to work, Mr. Jones!” He barks.
I nod before nearly sprinting to my desk. Mr. Smith heads to his office.
My brow furrows as I start up my computer. I didn’t hear Mr. Smith’s door close. When I turn to look back, my face runs straight into Mr. Smith’s slacks-covered, meaty bum. I can’t believe this huge man silently crept up on me without me knowing.
With my face buried in his thick cheeks, I hear Mr. Smith darkly laugh.
“Heh, I see you’re eager for motivation to get to work. I’m more than happy to oblige.” Mr. Smith grabs the back of my head, keeping me in place, and then grunts.
BBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRWWWWWWWPPPPPPPP
He rips an 8 second, trumpeting fart right in my face. He sighs in relief as he grinds his butt vapors into my pores.
When Mr. Smith releases me, I fall back into my chair, coughing and gagging.
“Get to work or I’ll fart off your nose, Mr. Jones. Don’t tempt me!” He threatens before disappearing into his office.
Excluding the last hour, this day is going well. He’s hardly farted on me; I count that as a victory.
It’s the end of my workday and for the first time, the number of times Mr. Smith has farted on me hasn’t reached the double digits. That alone should've been a warning that life was about to screw me over.
As I’m getting ready to leave I get a call from a girl I was fucking 7 months ago, telling me I’m the father of twins.
Fuck! More kids I want shit to do with and more child support I have to pay! Working for Mr. Smith pays extremely well, but I’m barely staying afloat with the amount of child support I'm paying already. This is going to destroy me. I need overtime. Mr. Smith is my only hope.
Instead of heading home, I knock on Mr, Smith’s office door.
“Enter.” His voice booms from the otherside.
I do as he commands. Mr. Smith frowns up at me, as I walk up to his desk, where he’s working.
“Mr. Smith, I was hoping I could get in some more hours. I-I need the money.”
“Sure, I’m always willing to help out an employee. A few days of the week, like today, I work later than usual. So you'll assist me, starting now.” Mr. Smith offers with a devilish grin that has my nervousness sky-rocketing. But it’s no matter; I graciously accept his offer.
Still grinning, he stands up and tells me to round the desk. I walk around his desk and stand beside him. When I do, I frown at his new chair.
It’s bulky and just beneath it is a cot-like thing that could fit a grown man, that starts just beneath the seat of the chair. The cot also has straps on it.
My jaw drops as Mr. Smith reaches down and pulls a piece of the seat off, revealing a face hole. Shit! With this someone will be trapped beneath Mr. Smith’s chair, as he sits on their face.
“Your duty will be to huff up all my ass gas so I don’t hotbox myself, in my office. I won’t treat you as a person, you’ll just be a piece of furniture. Do this and I will pay you very well.” Mr. Smith explains with a feral grin that turns my blood to ice. I’ve got no choice.
I lay down on the cot with my face sticking out of the hole in the seat. All I can see is the ceiling. Mr. Smith fastens the several straps, binding me tightly to the cot, unable to escape.
I start to sweat with fear as Mr. Smith steps in front of the chair. His fat rear-end extends out several feet, eclipsing my trapped face in its shadow. My fear heightens as I hear the sound of his pants being undone. With a tug, Mr. Smith pulls his pants and underwear down, just beneath his ass. His mountainous mounds, covered in a dusting of hair, bounce into the open.
“No you never said-MMM” Mr. Smith silences me by dropping his bubble butt onto my face and barking out, “Silence, furniture doesn’t speak or care that I'm bare-ass.”
The last thing I see is Mr. Smith's pillowy globes parting as he sits down, revealing his twitchy pucker that’s heading straight for my nose, before everything goes black.
His meaty slabs spill over and clamp around the sides of my face like a vice. And the tip of my nose is lodged in his sweaty hole.
With my ears also buried in his cavernous crack, I both hear and feel Mr. Smith’s voice. “Alright, it feels like it’s time to start earning your pay, fart-cushion… NGH”
BBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPP
VVVVVVVVVVMMMMMMMMWWWWWWTTTTTTT
FFFFFFFFFFFFKKKKKKKKKOOOOOOOBBBBBB
RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDMMMMMM
Mr. Smith opens the floodgates, blasting a never-ending stream of beefy farts right up my nose. This is like a nightmare. I can feel the heat of his fumes burning the tip of my nose.
In an act of self-preservation, I hold my breath, not wanting to breathe in. This causes Mr. Smith to laugh.
“Haha, how long can you keep that up, fart-cushion? You’re gonna have to breathe sometime.”He taunts me.
I only last forty seconds before I breathe in deep through my nose and open mouth. The stench of spoiled poultry and sulfur flows down my throat and sets my lungs ablaze. I'm immediately coughing and retching on his toxic fumes. I can feel Mr. Smith’s mounds jiggling around my face from his cruel laughter.
Even with me barely able to breath, Mr. Smith ruthlessly pushes out one noxious butt-burp after another, up my nose.
I don’t know how long this has been going on. Three minutes or three hours could've passed, I can’t tell. But I’m given a moment of reprieve as Mr. Smith leans to the side, exposing half of my face to freedom. I desperately breathe in cool and semi-fresh air.
What Mr. Smith says next, causes me more misery. “Just so you know, fart-cushion, whenever I work late, my husband stops by so we can have dinner together.”
After saying this, I hear his office door open. “Hey babe, I got you two extra bean burritos like you asked-” John's voice pauses abruptly as I hear him sit in the chair on the other side of the desk.
“Matt, yes he bullied me all through highschool for being gay, but I’m over it.” John says.
Mr. Smith rests his lifted cheek back down, resealing my face in his cavernous crack.
“Maybe you are but my booty sure isn't… GGH” Mr. Smith counters before farting in my face.
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“Baby, I have a beautiful home, a career I love, and a successful handsome husband who's hung like a horse. My past with him doesn’t haunt me in the slightest.”
Mr. Smith responds with farting in my face, again.
DDDDDDDDDLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAABBBBBBBBB
I gag on the skunky fumes Mr. Smith rips up my nose. The paint-peeling stench is inhuman.
Like the stench, the realization that this’ll be for the rest of my life, hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ll always be working beneath this flatulent villain, who’ll be farting on me constantly. And thanks to his power and influence, I’ll never be able to quit and find a decent paying job anywhere else. All because of who I bullied in highschool. I can't believe that I used to think that gay people were beneath me.
"Wow, that's very big of you, Johnny. Let's see if my nasty booty will follow your example."
That's followed by Mr. Smith's guts loudly and ominously gurgling.
“Oh sorry, love. My booty's big, but not that big. Lips on hole, fart-cushion; time to earn your overtime.”
His statement horrifies me. I can’t do it. I can’t do that! I keep my mouth shut.
Instead of angering him, this makes Mr. Smith laugh.
“Haha, oh silly fart-cushion, there’s no resisting this.” Mr. Smith slides his greasy pucker against my mouth, and then starts wiping it from left to right, forcing my lips open.
FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRBBBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHDDDDDDDDDDDDDTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
