They say everything is bigger in Texas; well northern Nevada is pretty damn big too.
You took a year off collage to reconsider things. You needed money though. There were plenty of tourists traps out on in the desert you could work at, but Western World was at least halfway respectable. Tourists would come through and get to experience a real live recreation if an old west prospecting town. There were horses, and shoot outs, and plenty of merch to sell.
The mother of all draws had to be BFC— Big Fucking Colt. At seven foot seven inches, and four hundred pounds of grade a beef, he was the embodiment of ‘The West’. He started as a bandit, but as he grew in popularity he took on the roll of head cowboy.
You were just support staff. Not even guest services: you were on stable management. Your days were spent fill up troughs and shocking manure.
You turned when you heard the thundering boot steps of colt stomp into your stable. At first you were frightened. He looked in a panic. His eyes scanned around.
“Fuck. I hoped it would be empty” He looked down at you from nearly a two foot difference.
“Ahh…um…can I help–” you stammered
He saw an empty stall in the corner.
“No time. Make sure no one comes in. Lock the door” he pushes you aside and makes for the stall. You obey and bar the only entrance into the barn.
“Everything alright Mr.BFC?’" You approach him from behind. You hear the tell tale sound if his zipper bring pulled down, then the spatter splatter of him pissing on the side of the barn.
”Oh that feels good" He sighs. “I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. All those tourist buying me pints and I gotta drink them in one slug ya know?” his stream shows no sign of slowing. The ground was getting muddy.
“I wouldn’t know. I gotta stay here and clean up after dumper here” The Clydesdale neighed at the sound of his name.
“I call him the mine layer” Colt says. “The Sheriff used to parade around on him all day. Had to watch your step if you didn’t want to step in the second biggest shit pile you’ve ever seen in your life” he waved you to come over.
“Second?” You say as you approach.
“If you ever use the bathroom after I forget to flush it would blow your mind” he took of his hat. “Go set that someplace safe. This is gonna be a while. I need a break from the public” he hands you his genuine antique leather hat. You can’t believe BFC is being do cool with you. You toss the hat someplace behind you.
“It’s all the food. Only thing a cowboy gets to eat when there are tourists around is cornbread, and chili with cheese. I spend most of my days holding in so much gas”
“Funny huh? My farts could peel paint. I gotta hold them in. A few years ago I thought I was alone and could let one out. Didn’t know some guy had come up behind me. They say he’s still puking to this day.”
You step aside as to not be in any danger should he decided to cut one.
“Hah, no worries,” Colt said. “Now a days the only ones who deserve my farts are the seat of my F-150” He lifted one leg and shook as he finished pissing “And anyone who rightly gets me upset”
He shook himself dry; what a tank he must have on him to piss do much. Quiet literally a tall drink of water. The stories of him and his blazing temper seemed like just a bunch of hot air.
“Hat” he said. He held out his hand.
You looked at your empty hand. The to the ground at your feet. No where. Then you remembered that you had tossed it behind you so you could gaze at Colt. You both saw it at the same time. The hat had landed upright behind Dumper who, out of necessity it sheer spite, had filled the antique Stetson with a fresh load of manure. His tail lifted and you both looked on in stunned silence as he dropped a few more pounds of wet horse fudge inside the brim.
“I—” you spoke, but with one finger Colt silenced you. He exhaled violently through his nose.
“See now we have a problem.” He spoke calmly, but you could sense the pent up rage behind his words. “I’ve been working real hard to try not to kick anyone’s ass through their teeth, but I got a powerful urge too now.”
Your stomach dropped out. Your sweat was running cold.
“So here’s what were going to do. You’re going to lay down on the ground. Then I’m going to park my ass on your face and fart out my anger. Every time I let one go your going to sniff in and say: Sorry Mr. Colt, sir”
You waited to see if he was joking. You looked up and his pricing green eyes were like daggers in your heart. You knees went weak. Your brain kept screaming at you to run, but his arduous will forced you to obey. With grim resignation and nearly on the edge of tears you dropped o his boots and built yourself a bed of clean straw.
He growled and spat. Something was wrong.
“The more my brain works it over the more I worry ripping some decent chili farts in your face might not do it all for my anger.” He said. He was looking around. Maybe he had come to his senses.
“Got it. I got it” he snapped his fingers. He bent down and grabbed the manure filled Stetson with his bare hands and slid it beside you. “Your going to use that as a pillow”
You furrowed your brow. “What?”
He grit his teeth and exhaled like a bull again. “If I have to repeat myself my visions going to go red and I might just bite off your fingers.” There was such a red hit fire behind his calm, yet sternly spoken words. He could command you to do anything with that demeanor.
Once again, you obeyed. You hesitantly lowered yourself into position. The back of your head squished into dumpers pile, the steam rising around you as your ears filled with the wet squishing sound. Looking up at Colt he seemed more the giant than ever. He kicked off his boots and stripped off his denim, taking great care to fold them and hang them on the side of the stall. His underwear was forest green. The fibers looked worn and threadbare— the sights, sounds, and smells they must have seen.
He dropped to his knees and inadvertently tea bagged you. His hearty sack bounced in your face feeling like a bag of uncooked sausage: rubbery and gamey. He was on his knees. He flipped over in one fluid motion. His ass filled your vision. It was titanic, gargantuan. This close you could feel the heat pouring off of it. Through the years you could see the bare skin. It was rough. For such a well groomed if not rugged man his ass looked down right bestial. Coarse hairs poking through the fabric, rough leather patches of skin. You could hear the inner working of his guts. His bowels, a fine tuned machine for turning the heartiest of western meals into gas and cowboy shit seemed to crank into over drive at the prospect of belching out it’s foul fumes into a fools face.
He lowered himself down. His big boots were beside your head locking it into it’s manure prison. Even half berried inside dumpers fresh pile, your nose was more upset at the aural miasma that was coming from colts asshole. He sat full weight, but because of your position you face was not crushed by his giant cheeks. He sat in such a way that your eyes were still free to look up his back. His ass sat perfectly pressed into your nose like a face mask.
It wasn’t long before the fireworks started. You felt a twitch from his body then long and bellowing blast beset you. It sounded like a gasket on an old truck giving out. There was a pop and then a slow and low, blubbery sigh. You fought through your natural instinct to hold your breath and sniffed in deep. “Sorry Mr.Colt, Sir” you said, though since your mouth was pressed into his perineum it was more of a muffled munching sound.
“Louder.” He growled. He ground his ass harder into your face. He rocked it back and forth like he was trying to scratch an itch. With each movement another deep and dark note was sung from his ass. You sniffed in them all. Your stomach had gone sour. Your nose was filled with a near demonic scent brimstone, beef chili, and cheap tourist beer.
“Sorry, Mr. sir, Colt” you said. “I mean Colt, Mr. No, sorry sir.” Your brain must have been melting.
Colt punched you in the balls and your world began to spin. “It’s Sorry Mr.Colt, sir” he correct. You shouted it into your flesh prison as the farts still blasted. There seemed to be no end to his potent brew. The hours of gas held in while he was incredible. We’re he to rip them as they came to him there would scarcely be a moment in the day when he wasn’t belching out toxic fumes.
He rode on, rocking back and forth on your face like you were a yearling being tamed. He growled again. He was enjoying this. He was exorcising his anger with each rancid rip into your face. The brief whiffs of horse manure you caught were like fresh air compared to what his body was pumping out.
He dismounted you and pumped his fist. “Now that was cathartic.”
You lay there in stunned horror. You could hardly think. You had been slurring your words in the end. You weren’t sure if you were saying what he wanted of if you were just mouthing terrified sounds into his flesh. You crawled forward. Your stomach finally gave out and you heaved behind one of the stalls. Colt took this as a personal victory.
“Here’s what were going to do. Your going to take that hat and get it cleaned. Every day after today that its not back in my hands clean, and undamaged, were going to do this again– only I’m not going to go easy on you like I did to day. Then when its back in my position, were going to do it every day for the next two weeks as penance.” He said slipping into his denim.
“Two weeks af–” you puked again.
“Not going to lie: I kinda loved doing that. It’s like therapy. All of my woes and worries just seemed to fade away. Who knew all it took to treat my anger was to detonate some warheads on a guys face.”
You sweat again. You turned, wiping your mouth. He had squat down and was staring you in the face. “And if you complain to HR, or try to run and quit; I’m going to find you, and after what I do to you you’ll be begging for me to fart on you instead”
You wanted to scream, but those beautiful emerald eyes with the fire of hell behind them knew that it was far to late.
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