Untitled @meh0idc - Tumblr Blog

Office Vanover - Part 4

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3]

Word Count: 3971

Tags: Face Farting, Gay Face Farting, Unwilling Victim, Open Mouth Farting, Naked Mouth Fart, F Slur Usage, Eproctophilia, Gay Victim, Straight(ish) Farter, Dubious-Consent, Musky Dom, Mean Dom, (Minor) Ball Torture, Physical Threats

facefartdreams

Detention 1

I looked down at my watch for what seemed like the millionth time since I came into the room almost half an hour ago. 3:20. I still had 40 minutes of detention left. I peered up at Mr. McCormick who was sitting at his desk and scribbling busily in a notebook. I couldn’t believe he gave me such a long detention for being a couple of minutes late. Just as I stared down at my anatomy book to begin reading the chapter, I heard a loud fit of laughter coming from the doorway followed by Mr. McCormick’s annoyingly reproachful voice. “You’re late,” he growled in the meanest tone possible. I looked up from my book to see Chris Parker and Seth Gunter entering the room. “Sorry,” Chris said. “We had to tell Coach Davis we weren’t gonna be at baseball practice today.” “Yeah, thanks to you,”Seth mumbled under his breath. It’s a good thing Mr. McCormick was hard at hearing, I thought. “Have a seat,” he said, menacingly. As the two troublemakers searched for their seats, I casually checked them out, as I had done many times before in the hallways. They were both pretty hot guys…a year older than me, athletic, in great shape, with a certain cockiness that turned me on for some reason. Chris was tall with blond hair, blue eyes, and was wearing jeans tight enough to show off his cute flat butt. Seth was about the same height with brown hair, green eyes, and had an ass that was a close runner-up to Chris’s. Much to my surprise, they both took seats on each side of me, so now I was sitting between two of the hottest guys in school. Trying not to pop a boner, I tried to take my mind off of the two jocks by returning to my studies. Then Mr. McCormick headed out, closing the door behind him. “You’d better behave unless you want another day of detention,” Chad mocked, in a pretty accurate portrayal of Mr. McCormick’s voice. Seth cracked up laughing, as if it was the funniest thing in the world, while I pretended to be interested in my anatomy book. “Yeah, here’s my response to that,” seth said. Then the unimaginable happened. PPPPFFFFFFFRRRRRTTTTTTT!!!!! Seth let out the loudest, most obnoxious sounding fart I had heard in awhile. It lasted for about 5 seconds, was full of bass, and vibrated loudly against the wooden desk he was sitting in. It was such a manly sounding fart. Suddenly a whiff of sweaty unclean butthole wafted my way from Seth’s direction. Chris laughed hysterically. “Good one,” he commented. “But not better than this.” I looked out of the corner of my eye just in time to see Chris lift his ass slightly off of his seat and fire a fart in my direction. PHHHHRRRRTTTTT PHRRRTTT BLAT!!! A nice high-pitched three-parter that ended with a short wet blast. It wasn’t long before the smell of rotten eggs drifted my way. Chris cracked up at his own fart, while Seth waved his hand in front of his nose, waving the stink away. “Damn dude,” Seth said. “What the fuck did you eat?” “Well I had the taco salad today in the cafeteria,” he replied. “So there should be much more where that came from.” All this time, I just sat in between them, right in the middle of the crossfire and fart talk. I suddenly noticed that my cock was starting to rise a little in my pants. “Try to match this,” Seth said, then I heard him straining a little, before another fart blasted out of his hot ass. BRRRRRRrrrrrrUUUUuuuUUUUmp!!! “Ahhhh,” he sighed with relief. Not only was this one a lot longer and louder than the first. “Dude, you really need to learn to wipe your ass after you take a shit,” Chris said, laughing his ass off. “Maybe if I wasn’t in such a hurry to get to Mr. McCormick’s detention, I would’ve,” Seth responded. By now, I had a full hard-on. I couldn’t believe these two hot seniors were cutting smelly farts right in front of me and talking about it like it was nothing. “Hey, what are you reading?” I looked up and noticed that Seth was talking to me. Then I looked down at the page I was on.“I think he’s checking out some guy’s dick,” Chris chimed in. “But I-!” I started to explain. “Are you a fag, boy?” Chris asked, sneering at me.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Seth interrupted “Do you know what we do to little fags like you?” Seth and Chris both exchanged mischievous glances. Then, before I knew it, Seth jumped out of his seat and was standing in front of my desk, with his perfect butt only mere inches from my nose. All I could do was stare with amazement at the “beautiful” sight before me. Then I felt Chris’s hand grab my head from behind and as if in slow motion, I felt him push my face towards Seth’s perfect, inviting, farting jean-clad ass. Suddenly my nose was pressed right into the seam of Seth’s tight jeans. The smell of his ass hit me right away. I was pretty sure that my nose was directly on his hole because the smell was pretty strong. I felt Seth rubbing his butt back and forth on my nose, grinding his hole on my nostrils, and simultaneously felt my cock grow even harder. I was completely loving it, but in order to hide my enjoyment from the two bullies, I tried to pull away. But Chris wouldn’t allow it. He quickly shoved my head back into his friend’s stinky butt, and I guess the sudden pressure from the push caused Seth’s hole to react, and I was instantly struck by another loud fart. PPPPhhHHHhhRRuuUUuuuuUuuUMpPpPP PHHERRTT!!!!! A nice deep fart followed by a high-pitched toot. As he farted, a long, strong gust of hot wind blasted me right on the nose quickly followed by a overpowering shitty smell mixed with sweat. The smell was undeniably manly and a big turn on. I heard Seth and Chris both cracking up. “Aw man, it stinks,” Chris commented between loud fits of laughter. “You ever heard of toilet paper?” “The bathroom was all out,” Seth replied, nonchalantly. PHHERRTTT PHERTTTT!!! This one was shorter and more high- pitched, but the smell only got worse. “So how does my ass smell, fag?” Seth taunted. Chris pulled my face out of his friend’s butt so I could respond. “Pretty gross, can you stop now?” I asked, secretly hoping he’d say no and continue. “Hmmmm…” Seth hesitated. “Sure.” I felt my heart drop with disappointment, then he said, “I’ll let Chris take over instead.” Seth and Chris did a quick switcharoo so I couldn’t escape the wrath of their nasty gas. The next thing I knew, Chris had smashed his butt onto my face and let out a loud stinky fart in my face….PFFFFFTTTTTT!!!!!! “Ahhhhh,” he sighed with relief, rubbing is crack on my face. A strong egg smell wafted up my nostrils and filled them up with stink. Before I could recover from the strong smell, another one blasted me in the face a second or so later. BRUUUUMP BRRRUUUUUUMP BRUMP BRUMP!!!!! A nice four-parter…each one smellier and louder than the last. The smell lingered in my nostrils for what seemed like a lifetime. Then I felt myself being pushed out of my seat, while I heard Seth say, “I got one, I got one.” As I fell to the floor, Seth rolled me over on my back and I saw him pulling his pants down. I got a glimpse of his tight black boxer briefs. Then before I knew it, he was sitting on my face in his black briefs. The moment the soft cotton briefs touched my face, I felt a long blast of hot air spread across my nose, as he let out an SBD through his underwear.

Seth lifted up for a moment and I saw him pulling down his underwear. He squatted back over my face, his raw naked slightly hairy asscrack resting on my face with my nose pressed to his hole. Then he cut another series of farts. BruuuUmp BruuUump BruUuUump PHERRTTT!!! Followed by more hysterical laughter. I heard the guys slap palms, giving each other high-fives. “Smell that one, fart face,” Seth demanded, menacingly. Both guys cracked up, as Chris hurried out of the door and down the hall toward the bathroom. I just laid on the floor, completely blown away by the whole experience. “Hope you learned your lesson, fartface,” Seth said, sneering. “Now get back in your seat and pretend it never happened before Mr.McCormick gets back. And if you say anything about it to anybody, we’ll do it to you again, but this time we’ll invite the whole baseball team.” The thought of being farted on by the whole team made my cock even harder, but I guess Seth wasn’t paying too much attention. I quickly got off of the floor and into my desk before he could notice the throbbing boner in my pants. A few seconds later, Mr. McCormick returned, carrying the copied worksheets. He suddenly stopped in her tracks as he entered the room. “What happened in here?” he asked, her face scrunched into a disgusted expression. “Smells absolutely atrocious. One of you must be responsible for this.” Neither one of us spoke. “That leaves me with no choice but to give BOTH of you another day of detention,” he said.. I will see ALL of you again tomorrow.” Seth groaned loudly. I looked back down at my anatomy book and smiled inside. I wondered if I would get more of Chris and Seth’s smelly fart treatment.

buttsmasher

Officer Vanover - Part 3

Part 1: CLICK HERE Part 2: CLICK HERE

Word Count: 3,694

Tags: Face Farting, Gay Face Farting, Somewhat willing Victim, Open Mouth Farting, Naked Mouth Fart, F Slur Usage, Eproctophilia, Gay Victim, Straight(ish) Farter, Dubious-Consent, Forced Ass Eating (Rimming), Musky Dom, Mean Dom

hookedonhuge

Flat(ulence)mates - Week 1

(Week 2, Week 3)

I hate it here! It’s only been a week at this new place but I am done with it already! I came to this place for cheap rent but I can see why now. The housemates are insufferable! I’m stuck here with three ‘bros’ who take the stereotype of being lazy, untidy, smelly, and thoughtless to the absolute extreme. The house is always a smelly mess and they love farting as much as possible. They even have weekly farting competitions! I didn’t think people this gross existed.

Their names are Tom, Zeke and Bobby, but they all call each other by the nicknames: ‘Trumpet’, ‘Sneak’ and ‘Bomb’. Unfortunately for me, I have gotten to know Tom well. Even more unfortunately, I have come to understand why his nickname is ‘Trumpet’.

On my move-in day when I opened the front door, carrying bags full of all my stuff, I wasn’t met with warm smiles or even a handshake. No, I was greeted by Tom’s big butt pointed towards me followed by a loud BRRAAAAAP! The three of them laughed in hysterics after I was hit by that trumpet-like blast from Tom. After calming down they finally introduced themselves, although things quickly became awkward when they realised I wasn’t amused. Were they really expecting me to laugh along with them!

Did I mention that the three of them were absolute studs? My scrawny self felt awkward enough trying to slot in amongst these buff men, let alone being tormented by their gas all day. Out of the three, Tom was definitely the main tormentor. I’ve been thinking ‘Tormentor’ might be a more fitting nickname for him, but his orchestra of loud, windy farts always seem to prove my idea wrong.

hushsubtlefury

Being in the elevator with your friend, who's way bigger than you and has tons of gas to release.

Imagine

You stepped inside the elevator, your friend followed after you. Clutching their stomach in pain.

"Oh god," they would mumble under their breath.

Their back was towards you as they were standing in front of you... giving you a great view of their behind.

Suddenly a foul scent entered your nose. You see them glance back at you with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry, guess my lunch isn't agreeing with me."

They always say the same excuse.

You can tell with the look in their eyes that you're exactly where they wanted you.

And you fall for it everytime, telling them it's alright while you do your best to behave and think appropriate thoughts.

thefunkfactory

FartFuel

Nick finally had a day off. Between the relentless grind of his job as a line cook and the demanding, high-stress hours at culinary school, free time was a luxury he rarely saw. Sweet-natured and usually buzzing with anxious energy, whether he was trying to perfect a complicated reduction or trying to work up the nerve to flirt with the cute guy in his pastry cohort, today was strictly dedicated to brain-rot and relaxation.

His first mission: provisions. Nick threw on his favorite oversized hoodie and walked down the street to the closest 7/11. He navigated the aisles with the focus of a man on a mission, grabbing a familiar haul of salty snacks, sour candies, and a few of his go-to energy drinks. As he reached into the brightly lit cooler, a strange can caught his eye.

It was matte black, plastered with shockingly realistic, toxic-looking green cloud graphics. The name, printed in bold, jagged letters, read: FartFuel.

Nick snorted, amused. "What kind of gimmick is this?" he muttered to himself. Assuming it was just some extreme sour apple or bizarre mystery flavor marketed to edgy gamers, he tossed it into his basket with a shrug. He was a chef; his palate could handle a little mystery.

Back at his apartment, Nick kicked off his shoes and immediately collapsed onto his bed, firing up his console. For the next few hours, he was in pure bliss. He crushed boss after boss, mindlessly munching on his snacks and downing his regular energy drinks one by one. But eventually, the dopamine hit started to wear off, the game started to feel repetitive, and a familiar boredom began to creep in.

During a particularly long loading screen, he glanced over at his nightstand. Sitting there, looking almost menacing next to his empty wrappers, was the can of FartFuel. Nick picked it up, spinning the cold aluminum around to look for a flavor profile. There was nothing. No "Sour Apple Blast," no "Tropical Citrus", just a list of unpronounceable chemicals, an absurd amount of caffeine, and a barcode.

Curiosity getting the better of his boredom, he cracked the tab. It didn't smell like much, so he tipped the can back and took a cautious, tiny sip.

Instantly, his eyes watered. It didn't taste like sour apple. It didn't taste like citrus. It tasted like straight-up ass. It was a flavor so violently foul, so uniquely awful, that his culinary-trained brain practically short-circuited trying to process it. He gagged, his throat seizing up in immediate protest, and by sheer force of will, he barely managed to swallow that minuscule sip, slamming the can down onto his nightstand before he could actually throw up.

Nick picked up his controller, desperately trying to focus on the glowing screen to distract himself. It was nearly impossible. The aftertaste was a stubborn, greasy film coating his tongue, a haunting mix of battery acid, stagnant swamp water, and something entirely unidentifiable. He shuddered, mashing the buttons on his controller, just wanting the grossness to fade.

But after a few minutes, something shifted. A bizarre, creeping thought bubbled up in his mind: I should take another drink. Nick frowned, his thumb hovering over the joystick. It didn't feel like his own thought. It was alien and intrusive, like someone else had just dropped the idea into his brain. He mentally rejected it, Why would I drink more of that garbage?, but his right hand was already moving.

To his absolute horror, he watched his own fingers reach out and grasp the cold, matte black can. He tried to stop, tried to pull his arm back, but his muscles weren't listening. It was like he was suddenly a passenger in his own body. His arm lifted, bringing the aluminum rim to his lips, and tilted back. He took a long, horrifying swig, the rancid liquid sliding down his throat while his internal monologue screamed in disgust.

He lowered the can, panting heavily, panic setting in. What is happening to me? Before he could process the loss of his motor functions, a deep, unsettling rumbling echoed from his stomach. It traveled downward with alarming speed until a massive, boisterous fart ripped through the quiet room.

BBBRRRRAAAAAAPPPPP-pbbbbbt!

The sound was shockingly loud, vibrating against the mattress. But worse than the sound was the visual. A thick, literal green haze, exactly like the toxic clouds printed on the can, seeped right through his sweatpants, hovering over the bed in a dense, cartoonish cloud.

Then, the smell hit.

It was a noxious, eye-watering wall of stench. It smelled like a sulfurous cocktail of boiled eggs left out in the summer sun, mixed with raw sewage and decaying cabbage. It was so thick and putrid it felt almost heavy in the air, burning the inside of his nostrils.

The sheer shock of the stench seemed to momentarily snap the invisible strings controlling him. Nick violently recoiled, coughing and waving his hand in front of his face. "Oh my god, what the hell?!" he choked out, his culinary-trained nose thoroughly offended by the ungodly aroma.

But the clarity only lasted a second. As quickly as he had regained control, it vanished. A heavy, sluggish feeling washed over his brain. His spine slumped, his posture hunching forward until his shoulders were practically by his ears. His facial muscles went slack before slowly pulling upwards into a wide, mindlessly goofy grin. His eyes glazed over, losing their anxious, sharp focus.

He sat there in the toxic green mist, giggling softly to himself.

"Hehe… wow," Nick murmured, his voice sounding entirely too cheerful and absent-minded. "My butt is, like, so smelly."

Still wearing that vacant, goofy smile, his hand moved on its own once again, raising the black can of FartFuel right back up to his lips for another long swig.

GLUG, GLUG, GLUG. Nick swallowed the foul, sludgy liquid, his throat working automatically. The moment the can left his lips, his stomach churned violently, inflating like a balloon. He leaned back on his hands, that vacant grin plastered across his face, and let out a prolonged, echoing blast.

PRRRRRRBBBBBBTTTTT-thhhpppp!

Another thick plume of neon green smog jetted into the air, joining the noxious cloud already hanging over his bed. The smell intensified, shifting from rotting eggs to the eye-watering stench of a humid dumpster filled with spoiled milk and stale sweat. Nick breathed it in deeply, his eyes crossing slightly.

With that second fart, something in his brain short-circuited. He tried, dimly, to remember the mother sauces he was supposed to be memorizing for his culinary exam on Monday. Béchamel, Velouté… uh… The French words slipped away like sand through his fingers, instantly replaced by the encyclopedic knowledge of a Twitch streamer's latest cheating scandal and the exact spawn rates of loot crates in Apex Legends.

SQUUUOOONK-brap! A third fart ripped out, this one wet and thunderous, rattling the empty energy drink cans on his nightstand. The green haze in the room was so thick that it was hard to see the walls.

"Whoa, totally toxic AOE damage," Nick mumbled, chuckling dumbly as he scratched his stomach.

His mind was deteriorating rapidly, shedding his personality, his ambitions, and his identity like dead skin. The image of the cute guy from his pastry cohort flashed in his mind, but instead of the usual butterflies, Nick felt absolutely nothing. Actually, he felt a sudden, aggressive disinterest. The thought of kissing a dude was abruptly overwritten by an overwhelming urge to find a "tradwife" or a "big tiddy goth GF." The toxic sludge coursing through his veins was literally rewriting his DNA, scrubbing away his sweet, bisexual nature and leaving behind the crude, hyper-masculine instincts of a stereotypical frat-bro.

Right on cue, his phone buzzed on the mattress. The screen lit up with a contact name: Babe 💖. It was his boyfriend.

Nick blinked at the phone, his brow furrowing in primate-like confusion. Babe? Why is some dude calling me babe? That's kinda gay, bro. His hand moved on its own again, swiping to answer. He didn't bring the phone to his ear. Instead, guided by the mindless, goofy fog in his brain, he lifted his hips, jammed the phone's microphone directly against the seat of his sweatpants, and pushed.

PBBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLTTTTTT-sputter-pop!

It was a monstrous, wet-sounding eruption that vibrated the entire phone. A fresh wave of sulfur and landfill-scented gas engulfed him.

Nick pulled the phone up to his face, his goofy grin widening into a smug, brain-dead smirk. "Lmao. Get wrecked, scrub," he said into the receiver. He ended the call, immediately blocked the number, and tossed the phone onto the floor. "Skill issue."

He picked up the FartFuel can again, tilting it all the way back to drain the very last drops. Miraculously, his ruined palate didn't register it as "straight-up ass" anymore. To his newly reprogrammed brain, it tasted like absolute victory. It tasted like fuel.

Tossing the empty black can over his shoulder, Nick grabbed his laptop. Typing with heavy, uncoordinated fingers, he bypassed his school portal and went straight to the FartFuel website. He didn't want to leave his room again. The outside world didn't have games, and it smelled too fresh. He maxed out his credit card right then and there, ordering an entire industrial pallet of the green-cloud cans with expedited shipping.

Nick slumped back into his pillows, breathing in the putrid, eye-watering green fog that now permanently filled his bedroom. The sweet, ambitious culinary student was completely gone. In his place was just a stinky, straight, completely braindead gamer bum, happily marinating in his own noxious fumes, ready to queue up for another match.

thestinkverse

Shatterstone College : The Kissing Booth

Post Includes: Biceps worship (Brief), pec worship (Brief), ass kissing, ass worship, face farts, facesitting, unwilling victim.

The sun is shining and the smell of the freshly cut grass fills your nose as you rock up to the gates of the fraternity garden. The fences and walls were all decorated in confetti and banners for the weekend long kissing booth event. "Hey there! One ticket for….Garrets Booth please!" You say to the ticket manager. "Do you want to read the terms and conditions of going for Garrets Booth?" The ticket manager asks with a smirk. You simply shake your head no, oblivious to the true nature of Garrets booth. Receiving your ticket, you walk in with a smile and head straight to Garrets Booth. "Oh hey there. My first customer of the day." He smiles at you "So…how badly do you want a kiss from the Frat leader?"

7kbuttcheeks2

Grizzly Bear

This was a really old story, one I thought I lost way back from the first tumblr purge. People have been asking for it lately and I found out I did have a copy;

...

Growing up as the youngest of five brothers meant my life was a living hell. My parents were always working, so that meant my oldest brother Jackson was in charge. Since I was the youngest, I was always the punching bag for their pranks.

Sometimes my brother Aiden would dump his dirty laundry over me. The worst was that he had taken one of his dirty socks, stuffed it into my mouth, and tied the other sock around my mouth so I couldn’t spit it out. He did this after handcuffing me to a chair with dad’s spare handcuffs [he was a cop] and then he’d drop a pair of dirty boxers over my face, making sure the part that was over his ass would line up with my nose, and leave me there for an hour.

Sometimes my brother Liam loved giving me wedgies. I’d be lying on my stomach on the carpet, watching cartoons, and suddenly I’d feel my underwear yank up, squeezing my crotch and burning my ass crack. I’d scream as my whole body was lifted off the ground by the back of my underwear, Ethan cackling over me like an evil god.

Oliver would love to hit me when I’d least expect it. Most often I’d walk out of the bathroom in the morning and his fist would swing out of nowhere to hit my arm or my gut. The gut was the worst, those would make me double over. Sometimes he’d swing around from behind a corner and let his hand at full force slap my butt. That always stung.

But worst of all was Jackson, and the hierarchy of gas. The “hierarchy” was a term he made up. Basically, you were allowed to burp and fart on any brother younger than you. So he got to share his gas with all of us. In order of oldest to youngest, it was him, Aiden, Liam, Oliver, and then me. That meant that I was always going to be a target for a gassy mouth or butt, and I couldn’t burp or fart back at any of them. Oliver loves to tell me that he’s so glad I was born, because when he was the youngest, he would get the worst of Jackson’s ass blasts.

It was normal for me to be woken up in bed with one of their butts pointed in my face. The second I’d realized what I was looking at, I’d hear the fart sputtering at me, and I would jump back, saying “ew” and moaning, trying to get away from the stink cloud that would hit me no matter what. It was normal for me to be laying on the ground watching TV and suddenly feel weight against the back of my head, and then hear and feel a fart vibrating into my hair. Aiden likes to call that “shampoot”.

Jackson was above all, the worst. He’s free to fart on whoever he wants, but most often he’ll only burp at the others. We’d be having lunch, he’d burp and blow it at one of their faces. We’d laugh, they’d groan in disgust. But he seemed to save nearly all of his gas for me personally.

Once, when I was really young, I was playing around on my bed. The bed frame had a crevice in the middle that was just big enough for me to squeeze through, and so I would pretend I was a criminal escaping prison. While I was playing, I’d twisted at an awkward angle and got my chest stuck in the frame. My head and upper half was laying on the bed, my arms and legs were sticking out from the end. I started freaking out, crying for help. Jackson rushed in, “What’s up little buddy? You ok?” All of my brothers had dark hair, but Jackson was the oldest and the hairiest. His chest, arms, and legs were coated in black hair.

“I’m stuck, help me out!”

I saw the evil grin cross his face, “Sure thing bro. Gimme a sec, I want to unwind.”

He didn’t pronounce it as “unwind,” but rather “un-wind”, like deflating. My eyes widened, I kept saying “NO, no no no no!!” But it was too late. He had picked up my blanket, dropped it over my head, and then looking up, I saw his lower half stick under the blanket, his shorts covered butt pointed at my face.

PRPTRPTRPTP

He farted over and over. My arms and legs flailed from the end of the bed. I screamed, he laughed, he watched TV while I was stuck in the Dutch oven.

That’s the kind of brother Jackson was. He loved making me suffer through his farts.

The best/worst example of this was whenever we played Grizzly Bear. I remember the first time I played that game well.

“Hey Noah,” I was sitting on the couch when I heard Jackson say my name. I turned my head and saw him and the rest of my brothers standing over me, their arms folded. “We’re gonna play Grizzly Bear. And you’re it.”

Grizzly Bear was a game of his invention, that he started playing with Aiden when it was just the two of them. Then they both played against Liam. And then Oliver. And now they play it against me.

It was basically hide and seek. Jackson was the “grizzly bear”, and the youngest brother was always “it”. Whoever was “it” had to hide, and if he could stay hidden for ten minutes, he wins. If he’s found…

Well, the reason it’s called Grizzly Bear is because Jackson was the hairiest of us all. He’s always been hairy. And being the top tier farter in the hierarchy of gas, he loves to point out how hairy his ass is.

“It’s almost 3. You have to hide for fifteen minutes.” He explained to me, my head tilted, like a curious dog, “and if we can’t find you by 3:15, then you win.”

Liam cut in, “But none of us have ever won this game. So don’t expect it.”

Jackson continued, “If we find you, then the Grizzly Bear gets to sit on you.”

And when I didn’t understand, he turned around and pulled his pants down. His ass was covered in a furry crop of black hair, “If we find you, your face becomes the Grizzly Bear’s seat.”

In a panic, I jumped up and ran off to hide. I heard my brothers laugh behind me while Jackson counted down from 100 out loud.

100 seconds to hide. I hated Jackson’s farts. They always smelled so bad. To think that he would hold me down and sit his bare butt on my face...no, I didn’t want that to happen. I needed to find the best hiding spot possible.

The thing about this game was that, even though it technically only needs Jackson and the youngest brother, all of the brothers older than the youngest would help Jackson look. So when it was just Jackson, Aiden, and Liam, Aiden would help Jackson look. With each new brother, the former youngest would become a member of the Grizzly Bear search party. That meant that I had to hide from all four of my older brothers. I was playing the most difficult version of the game: a little kid trying to outsmart his four oldest brothers who would be looking all over the house for fifteen minutes. My heart was racing. There was no way I could stay hidden for fifteen minutes from all of them. But I needed to try: I didn’t want to become Jackson’s seat.

I remember hiding in my dad’s closet, behind his suit jackets. I thought it was the best place, since none of us were allowed in there. I couldn’t count how often Oliver called me a goodie two shoes. None of them would expect me to hide in the forbidden bedroom of our parents.

The minutes went by. I heard my brothers call my name, laugh, shuffle around the house, moving around furniture, opening doors, footsteps everywhere. My heart was pounding and my ears were burning red. I had no idea how to check how long I’d been hiding, and how many more minutes I had. I was afraid that if they didn’t find me, they’d play a new round anyway. I gasped when the thought came; the thought that no matter what, sooner or later, Jackson WOULD sit on my face with his naked butt. Only a matter of time. I started to cry out of anxiety.

I sat in the darkness of my dad’s closet, hugging my knees, waiting for the inevitable. Minutes passed, I kept hearing my brothers searching around the house. The’d cleared through the ground floor, and I heard two of them walking around the upstairs floor. They’re probably going through all the rooms. They were going to find me eventually.

Dread was hanging in my stomach. Dreading the stink. How gross would it feel? I’d never felt Jackson’s naked butt against me...what would a naked fart against my face feel like? How bad would the smell be? I was trembling.

I jumped when the door to my parents room opened. I heard Aiden, “Oh Noah...the Grizzly is getting tired and wants to pop a squat.” I held my breath. I could barely see Aiden’s shadow pass the closet door. I think he fell to his knees and was looking under the bed, “And he tells me he had a lot of nachos this afternoon, and he’s got a literal buttload of nacho farts to feed you.”

The thought made me want to puke.

His shadow covered the crack in the door. I kept my hand over my mouth and nose. My heart was skipping beats.

“Noah, are you in there?” He laughed. I didn’t move. “It’s only been ten minutes. If you’re in here that means you’re about to get one hell of a stink face.”

I clenched my eyes shut. I couldn’t avoid it anymore. The closet door swung open. In a last minute panic, I jumped to my feet to sprint past him. I don’t know what my plan was, maybe I thought I could run to my bedroom and lock the door. But he was too fast. He grabbed my arm. I started screaming, trying to fight him off, but he wrapped his arms around me and picked me up.

“FOUND HIM!!!” He shouted, carrying me out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“NO, PLEASE DON’T,” I couldn’t help but cry.

“We’ve all had to suffer through this, Noah,” Aiden laughed, “Quit being a baby and take your punishment like a man.”

I gulped. Jackson came up the stairs from the basement, an evil grin on his face. He let out a little roar, “The Grizzly wins again!”

We were all back in the living room. Aiden, Liam, and Oliver had brought me to the ground, lying on my back, my head resting on a pillow. Liam and Oliver held my limbs down, so even if I tried to wrestle away, I knew I would be able to get up. Aiden had his hands on either side of my head, so I wouldn’t be able to turn away. I had no choice but to watch as Jackson stepped his feet on either side of my head. He was patting his stomach, “Oh, Noah, I think I picked the worst time to have you play this game. You have no idea how badly my guts have been grumbling this afternoon.”

I whimpered. He took a deep breath, a satisfied sigh, and then pulled his shorts down. Above me, his giant butt cheeks, covered in black hair, slowly lowered to my face. I scrunched up, cringing, watching his cheeks naturally separate and I got a glimpse of his butt hole through the thick hair in his crack. Then, his hands came to each cheek and spread them wider. Now, I was staring directly at his gaping butthole. The smell was foul, as bad as butt sweat always is. He hovered a few inches over my face. I held my breath, my cheeks puffed up, spitting out, shaking. My brothers were all laughing around me.

“Any last words?” He asked, looking down at me between his legs.

“...how long?” Was all I could get out. My voice cracked.

“That’s the best part: until you DIE”

He sat full weight onto my face before I could react. Immediately I started shaking around, trying to get my arms and legs free of my brother’s grasps. But there was no way to escape. I still held my breath, but Jackson squirmed a bit and grinded his hairy butt into my face, his hairs were tickling the inside of my nose and without sniffing I could still smell his butt funk. I tried twisting my neck to free my face from stink hell, but Aiden was holding on tight. I felt his hole pucker up against my nose,

PRTPRTPRPTRPTRPTPPPPP

My brothers cheered, probably thinking of all the times they had to live through what I was experiencing, glad that they would never have Jackson fart directly up their noses ever again. And yes, even though I didn’t sniff, he had farted into my nostrils and that had forced the stink into my lungs. I coughed and gagged, gasping for air but the only air I could get was coming from his butt.

PRTPRTPRPPPP

I was getting dizzy. The stink was so bad sure, but I kept gasping and sucking in his farts. I needed air, I was literally choking to death on his farts. I could hear them all laughing, I felt Jackson shake and scrub his ass into my face. It was like the worst face massage anyone could ask for. He shifted and I felt his hole press against my lips. I didn’t realize that was where my lips were until I felt him push again,

PRTPRTPRPTRPTRPTRPTR

The fart had broke my lips open and shot down over my tongue and into my throat. I gagged violently, accidentally swallowing his fart. I was so dizzy, so sick to my stomach, so humiliated listening to my brothers laugh like hyenas.

“I think he’s fading away,” I heard Oliver say. And he was right. I was starting to see stars. The hands that held me down moved off of me, but even though they were free, I could barely move them. I tried to bring my arms up to push him off, but I was so dizzy from the farts that my hands only weakly grabbed onto his thighs.

“Aw, I think he’s falling asleep,” Jackson shifted once more and his hole had closed around the tip of my nose. The smell was unbareable.

“Nighty night, fart face.”

RPTRPTRPTRPTRPTRPTRPRTPPPPPPPPPPPP

Sucking in his fart as a last attempt to breathe, I’d passed out. Everything went black.

…

Jackson said that the first time he’d ever played Grizzly Bear, when he stink-faced Aiden into unconsciousness, he actually freaked out and thought he’d killed him. When he realized that he had the power to knock kids out with just his ass fumes, he became an evil monster.

And so my childhood, up through my teen years, were full of this game. College aged Jackson had no problem saying “Who’s up for a game of Grizzly Bear?” He was on the school’s wrestling team, so even if I said no, he would fight me down and straddle my face anyway. I had to try hiding at least.

But that’s where something major happened.

First, I realized I was gay. But second...I realized that I actually enjoyed being the victim of the Grizzly Bear game.

The first dozen times I would tremble in fear, dread being knocked out by Jackson’s farts. But the more often we played, the more I accepted my fate as the eternal fart sniffer, and the more that I was actually welcoming it. I’d gotten used to how his butt smelled. I’d become almost like a connoisseur of my older brother’s farts, like fine wine, I would sniff them and see how different foods had effected his gastronomical tract.

I had fallen in love with his asshole.

That’s why, even in high school, I would hide in a basic hiding spot; under a bed, in a closet, behind a couch, and when I was found, I would fight back and scream, but that was all for show. I’d giggle and moan in disgust, mock fear, but it was actually in excitement. My brothers would hold me down. I’d shift to hide my boner as best as I possibly could. Did any of them notice my hard ons? They had to have noticed. They all must have known that somehow, I’d turned into a fart sniffing faggot, and they probably thought they were doing me a favor by forcing me to play this childhood game.

I’d stare up in anticipation as my oldest brother’s beefy, hairy wrestler ass came over me, spread open, and rested over my face. I loved his stink. I loved his ass hair. I loved his ass hole. I loved snorting up his farts, until I was put to sleep.

To this day I jerk off to the memories of Jackson farting up my nose. He’s too old for that stuff now, even though we laugh about it. I’m able to recreate the rush by meeting up with other men on fart-fetish forums, telling them my stories, and telling them I’d love to play Grizzly Bear with them some time. I’d even driven across state lines so I could play Grizzly Bear with my online friends. We’d make sure to play two rounds, so each of us could be the Bear, and the sniffer.

My brother had turned me into a fart sniffing faggot. I have no idea how I’ll ever be able to thank him.

militaryfartstories

Private Elias Michael Smith, sir!" he snaps to attention—voice steady, eyes forward. Twenty-one years old. White. Lean build—not much muscle yet, still working on it," he says matter-of-factly. "Face? Uh…" He hesitates for a split second before deciding honesty is the best policy: *"Acne scars along the jawline, freckles across the nose—my mom says I look like a farm boy who joined the army by mistake."* Short brown hair cropped tight to regulation length, pale blue eyes that don't flinch under pressure… and right now—those same eyes burning with quiet *determination.* He takes a breath."...And if I may say so, sir—I don’t plan to break records with noise or showmanship."A beat."I plan to win… with *efficiency.*" The platoon goes silent. Even Davis blinks in surprise. This one isn't here for glory. He's here to dominate.You grin beneath your gas-flushed face as you give the nod: "Timer starts... now."* The platoon watches as Private Smith stands stoic at the ready, his body straight and still—like a statue.Then, suddenly, with no fanfare whatsoever, he bears down hard on you pinning you under him, he quickly swivels around positioning his ass in your face and sits down immediately letting out low, steady **BRRRRTTTTT. The smell fills the room—and you realize he has a much different strategy than Davis. Where Davis was all about volume, Smith is focusing on *duration. Gas just *leaks* from his body, constant and steady—more like a slow-leak in a tire than a series of powerful bursts. The platoon stares in disbelief as Private Smith starts to *outlast* Davis. He's just *shaking* and *vibrating* like a machine on a low setting—a constant, low **BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRRTTTT** going off every few seconds with almost *unnervingly* consistent timing. He doesn't even look like he's breathing hard, yet the gas just **keeps coming.** It's like his body became a gas factory overnight, and it shows no signs of closing up shop anytime soon. You glance at the timer: 2:37 and still counting. The platoon shifts anxiously as Private Smith's gas-leak becomes more and more consistent. It's now been nearly three full minutes with zero reprieve—just an endless, steady stream of **BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRRTTT** filling every inch of the barracks with his distinct, low-frequency **BRRRRTT**s. Hampton has to shout to be heard over the constant barrage of gas—and even he's starting to look impressed despite himself. "I'll be damned," he mutters. "This kid *can* do it..."As the fourth minute mark passes, the platoon is starting to understand—very clearly—that Private Smith isn't just going to win. He's going to obliterate Davis's record. His gas is not easing up. It's not slowing down. It's not even changing pitch or frequency. It's the same consistent, never-ending **BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRR-BRRRR-** **BRRRRRTTT** that now fills the room like a steady pulse. Private Jenkins looks at the timer, his voice shaky but awed... The platoon is silent as the fifth minute mark comes... goes... and Private Smith isn't just still going—he's *accelerating.* The steady pulses become shorter, but more intense—the bursts more frequent: **BRRRRRTTT-BRFFFTTT-BFFFRT-PPPFFRRTT-BR-BR-BR-BRR-BRR-BRTT.** Even Jenkins looks floored. Private Hampton is shaking his head, clearly impressed—and more than a little grossed out. "How the hell does he have *this much* gas inside him?"The platoon watches as Private Smith continues to maintain a consistent rhythm of gas—**BR-BR-BR-BRRRTT, BR-BR-BRRRTT.**The room is thick with stench and tension. Private Jenkins checks the timer again, his voice barely above a whisper: "Seven minutes." A beat of silence. Then—Hampton mutters under his breath: "This guy's not human... "Eight minutes in—and he’s still going, sir," Jenkins whispers, eyes wide as he watches the timer tick forward.

The barracks is now a hazy chamber of pure gas—fumes so thick they shimmer slightly under the fluorescent lights. Some recruits have started fanning themselves with notebooks, others are breathing through shirts... all except Davis, who just stands there with a look of deep respect on his face. "Sir," Davis says quietly to you, "I think we’re witnessing history." Then—Private Smith *speaks.* His voice is strained but determined. "One hundred and twelve farts so far… still fresh." He grits his teeth. "Still... *efficient.*" And like clockwork—he unleashes another rapid sequence: **BRR-BRR-BRRT! BRT! BRRT! BBRRTT!** Each one short but precise—no wasted effort—just pure stamina and focus. private Smith continues to let farts out in his face with smug smirk grin forming on his own as he lets them go. He then asks in between farts “how you liking it lieutenant?” PPPFFFRRRTT! how do you like the smell? FFFFRRRRTTT! still alive down there? PPPPFFFRRRTT! I hope so PPPFFRRTT because I’m not even getting started. PPPPPFFFRRRTT! Private Smith’s smirk widens with each taunt, his confidence surging as he leans forward just enough to make every blast hit like a personal insult. "PPPFRRRTT!" "You wanted *numbers,* sir?" he grunts, voice laced with playful arrogance. "I'm not counting 'em—I’m too busy *making* ‘em!" **PPPRRRTTT!** Smell’s getting rich, huh?" **FFFRRRAP!** "Warm? Thick? *"Homey?"* **PPBBBRRRFFFLLT!**He lets out a short laugh—then cuts it off with another brutal volley: **PFF- PFF- PFF- PRRT-PFFT-PF-BLARRRT!The platoon watches in stunned silence—some shaking their heads at the sheer audacity. Hampton mutters to Jenkins: *"He wasn't even supposed to be the one talking back..." Jenkins just nods slowly—"Yeah... I think we made a monster." Private Smith's audacity has grown so bold now—and his gas so potent—that every burst is now accompanied by a taunting *comment* that makes it clear he's not just winning... he's *enjoying* this. PRRT! *"How's the scent, sir? A little heavy-handed for your taste?"* PRRRRBBBTT! *"Or you want something more *personal?*" He grins—and you realize it's not just about winning anymore. It's about making you suffer. Personal I say. Private Smith’s eyes light up like he just got clearance for a missile strike. Ohhh—you want *personal*, sir?" he says, voice dripping with mischief. He leans in—*close*—hips shifting slightly as he coiled his body like a spring. Then, with surgical precision…PPPRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFLLLLLBBBBBBBBTTTTTTT-SHLLLLOOOOORP!

It starts deep—a guttural, bubbling growl that erupts into a long, wet, shameless *fart-symphony*, vibrating your skull and coating your face in warm, unholy mist. It *lingers,* his body holding it open just a second too long… as if to say: *"This one was made for you."* The platoon collectively gags. Jenkins whispers: That wasn’t gas… that was a threat. Smith pulls back slightly—still smirking—and wipes fake sweat from his brow. Hope that was personal enough for you, Lieutenant..." Then another short pfft! right on the nose like punctuation: "I’ve got hundreds more where that came from."* The platoon watches in stunned silence, some of the recruits visibly pale and others trying hard not to laugh. Jenkins is still muttering under his breath—something about "emotional damage."Hampton just stares at Smith with a mix of horror and grudging admiration.And then—just as Private Smith finishes gloating—you sit up slightly, still wearing that calm, unreadable grin. Not bad, Private," you say coolly. "Not bad at all." The platoon freezes. *Is he… impressed?* Smith blinks—his cocky smirk faltering for just a second. You lean forward... slowly. "But can you keep it up?" Timer’s still running." The tension in the room is now as thick as the stench of gas. Private Smith's cocky smirk falters for just a moment—but then his eyes narrow defiantly. "Sir," he says through his teeth, "I can do this all... *day.*" I stare back with a cocky grin and say; "Prove it." Private Smith's grin widens into something almost feral. He doesn't respond with words. Instead—he *drops low,* knees slightly bent, back straight, eyes locked onto yours like a predator. And then it begins. Not bursts. Not taunts. Just… **relentless output.** A nonstop cascade of short, sharp farts—**PFF-PFF-PFFT-PFRT-PFT!**—fired like automatic gunfire right into your face at machine-gun speed. No pause. No breath lost between blasts. Each one crisp, efficient… *personal. Jenkins flips through his notebook frantically—"four hundred and fifty! Four fifty-five!" The platoon starts counting under their breaths: *"four sixty... four sixty-one..."* Smith’s body barely moves—it’s like his ass has become a weapon system on full auto-engage. Then he speaks again—voice calm amid the storm: "Still alive down there, sir?" PFFRT! “Need oxygen?" PFFT-BRRT!"Or are you starting to *like it?*" PPBBBRFLLT-SNORRRK! Hampton turns to Davis: *"I think he's trying to kill him with pride."*Davis just nods solemnly: *"No… worse.* He's enjoying the promotion." The timer ticks toward thirty minutes… And Smith hasn’t slowed *one bit.* Private Smith keeps going, maintaining that machine-gun fire of short, sharp farts directly into your nose. The platoon is still counting, but even Jenkins' handwriting is starting to become shaky as they reach the 500 mark--

*"five hundred! Five hundred and two!Private Smith's body is barely moving, his face stoic despite the nonstop barrage. He doesn't even seem to be breathing hard—just maintaining this steady, disciplined output like a well-oiled machine. The timer reaches the 15 minute mark, and The smell is beyond overwhelming now—not to mention the constant drumming sound of the farts. Some recruits have given up and ran outside to get some fresh air, and are just covering their faces, trying to block out the onslaught—even Private Davis is looking pale. But Private Smith shows no sign of weakness or exhaustion. He is, like his farts, *unrelenting.* And determined to make the most of this opportunity. The stench in the room is now so thick that it seems to have its own physical weight—you can almost taste it in the back of your throat. Private Smith is still going strong—fart after fart in a never-ending barrage—his body moving in a strange, rhythmic motion that's almost hypnotic to watch. Private Jenkins is now taking notes with one hand while waving away the gas with the other, struggling to keep pace with the constant flurry of gas bursts. "598... 599... 600..."Private Smith shows no mercy.

He keeps going. farting nd taunting and bullying his lieutenant with farts and commentary’s. Private Smith, now deep into the zone—his body moving with rhythmic precision—doesn’t just keep firing. He *talks* through it, voice steady, almost casual between bursts. "Six hundred farts in, sir..." **PFF!** "And you’re still breathing? Impressive." PFFT! He leans in slightly—eyes sharp. "Or... are you *addicted* by now?" PRRT-PRRT-PFFT-BRFFFLLT! A short laugh escapes him as the platoon collectively winces at the thick wave of gas rolling off his backside like a toxic tide. Jenkins stammers through another update: "S-sir… we’ve passed *six-twenty! Smith grins wider—cocky, dominant—and fires off a rapid salvo right into your face: PFT-PFT-PFRT-PFFBT-SHLLLRRRP! Then he lowers his voice to something dangerously smooth: "Face wet yet? Lungs burning? Good." Another quick volley: **PFFT! PFFT! PFRRTT!!** "Cause I’m not done *disciplining* you." Hampton mutters from the back: *"We didn’t train for this kind of warfare..." Davis nods slowly. *"No... we weren’t ready for an enemy who fights dirty… and smells worse than war itself." The timer ticks toward 25 minutes And Smith hasn't even broken a sweat. Private Smith keeps up his relentless attack, each fart hitting with a powerful precision as the platoon struggles to keep up. It's a full-blown gas *assault.*Private Smith's face remains steady despite the never-ending output. It's almost like he's enjoying watching the effect his farts are having on you. And now... he's getting *personal. Private Smith leans in, voice low, a twisted smirk on his face: "What's the matter? No snappy comeback this time, sir?" Fuck you I say back to him in a groggy voice. Private Smith grins wider at your response, relishing the chance to really dig deep."Oh, so *now* the Lieutenant speaks back. I was starting to think you'd lost your voice in here." His eyes gleam with mischief."Time for a little *tough love*, then."The platoon goes dead silent at the sight, all eyes glued to Private Smith as he undoes his pants. Hampton mutters under his breath: "Oh hell no... he's not really—"Private Smith drops his pants and underwear to his knees, fully exposing himself. He then spreads his legs slightly and bends forward ever so slightly, positioning himself perfectly. And then... it comes. A long, wet, gurgling **BRRRRRRROOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLBBBBBBTTTTTTTTT!!!!** explodes from him—unlike anything heard before—the sheer volume and duration making the barracks walls shake as the foul smell fills the air in an instant. Nine hundred ninety..."Smith sits there proudly—a true master of flatulence—with a look of absolute satisfaction on his face. "Still alive down there?" he taunts over his shoulder. "Or did I finally finish you off? "Still alive” I say with a slight chuckle and I say that was impressive before letting you continue the final few minutes that were left. Smith grins at your words—part pride, part pure mischief. "Oh, you want *more*, sir?" he says, shifting his stance slightly, hands on hips like a warrior preparing for one final assault. "Then let’s send you off with a *medal-worthy performance.*" And with that—he unleashes hell. The final minutes become a blur of relentless fire: **PFF! PFFT! BRRT! BLORP! PPPFFFRRTT-SNRRKLLT! Each fart is targeted, sharp, and shameless—fired directly into your face like rounds from a live cannon. He doesn't just blast—he *dances* between bursts now: swaying side to side just enough to change the angle… giving every new wave maximum exposure. "999!" I think I’m dying…" Hampton covers his nose with both hands and whispers: *"This isn’t training anymore… this is war crimes."*But Smith doesn’t stop.At **29:00**, he saves his last—his grand finale—and clenches down harder than ever before… A guttural rumble builds deep within him—Then

***BBBBBBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPLLLLLLMMMMMFFFLLLLOOOOORRRRPPPPPPPFFFFRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTPPPPPOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHPPPPPPPPPPPOTFTFTFTFRFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRR-HHHHSSSSSLLLUUURGGG!!!***

He lets out the longest fart that went on till after the timer hit 30 minutes then every fell silent besides Smith’s groans of satisfaction and relief. Smoke—or maybe just gas so thick it looks like smoke—hovers in the air above where you sit. Private Smith calmly pulls up his pants and turns around smoothly—with zero shame or hesitation—and snaps to attention as if nothing happened at all. "Elias Michael Smith... mission complete... sir."And then—with one final smirk—

"...Hope you enjoyed boot camp."

militaryfartstories

***BBBBBBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPLLLLLLMMMMMFFFLLLLOOOOORRRRPPPPPPPFFFFRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTPPPPPOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHPPPPPPPPPPPOTFTFTFTFRFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRR-HHHHSSSSSLLLUUURGGG!!!***

"...Hope you enjoyed boot camp."

bongdawg

can someone fart down my throat i wanna taste it plz

fartcushion

THE PANTOMIME: HE'S BEHIND YOU

John was excited to take part in the Christmas pantomime at his town’s community centre. He loved acting and had joined the theatre group at the start of the year, hoping to get lots of experience. His dream was to graduate from an acting and performance academy, then he wanted to be in theatre shows. He didn’t enjoy his small town, everybody knew each other and had opinions on everyone’s business. When John had come out as gay there’d been quite the buzz about it. Eventually people got over it, but he’d still get the odd looks when out and about, school in particular had been hard. The classmates had been eager to call him names, a hate campaign led by the most popular boy in the year, Billy.

Billy was a foot taller than John, as he played on several of the school’s sports teams he had grown into a fit lad with a lean athletic physique. Always complimented on his cheeky grin since early years, his face had matured into a Hollywood worthy look that had all the girls swooning over him. All the guys fell in line behind him, as his family were known to be the wealthiest in town, everyone was eager to stay on his good side to try and benefit. It also helped to avoid being the target of his bullying if you were part of his gang and picked on those he had chosen to target. Which since coming out had been exclusively John. They would call him names and mock him for being gay; but also Billy indulged in his favourite jape of making John smell his farts, whether that was from silent crop dusting in the class room or timing a perfect butt bomb when John would be picking something up.

Which is why the drama society was an escape for John. He made friends that didn’t go to his school so weren’t part of the dog pile there, and the adults treated him with respect due to his ambition and dedication to the arts. When they announced the pantomime for this year would be Peter Pan he was excited to audition. Traditionally Peter is played by a woman, but due to their numbers and ages of those in the group the director said he was up for forgoing that if one of the guys did well in their audition. Even if John didn’t get that character there were other roles. Hook might be a push as it was likely to go to one of the older men in the group, but one of the Darling’s or a lost boy could still have worth. No role is too small for a good actor, he told himself.

Come the day of the auditions he was nervous but prepared, having practised his monologue over and over and chosen a song to sing. When he walked in the building that morning though he was shocked to see Billy sat in the hall, scrolling idly on his phone. Before he could even stop himself, John blurted out, “What are you doing here?!”

Billy looked up and grinned broadly at him. “Oh hey, it’s the gay-boy! I should have guessed you’d be the type to mince about on stage. Are you here to audition for the role of Tinkerbell? Perfect for a fairy like you”.

“Shut up, BIlly. I’m not trying out for Tinkerbell. Why are you here?”

Billy yawned and looked around unenthused. “Mother dragged me here. She likes to do her bit for the arts and came by to go over the cost of this crappy production so she can make a donation. It’s all a tax right off or something, I assume, she can’t care about this really. I mean, this place is a dump full of losers”

John quelled the anger bubbling inside him, he wasn’t going to let this rattle him. He sat on the opposite side of the hall to Billy and the director came out shortly and announced to those waiting that auditions would start soon. It was the usual set up, each would perform in front of the rest of the group, a way to make sure people could show that nerves wouldn’t be an issue. From the room the director had come from, a small thin woman walked out, finely dressed in designer clothes and jewelry. She walked over to Billy and let him know they could leave, though John’s relief was short lived as Billy looked over at him and as he said, “Actually, I think I’d like to watch the auditions if you don’t mind”. As she had some work to do she didn’t, and went back into the side room with her laptop, telling him to come get her when he was ready to go.

The first few to audition were pretty good. One was also going for Peter Pan and he’d be tough to beat. As John sat and watched he could feel Billy glancing over at him. It was hard to keep him out of his mind. When it was his turn he almost missed his name being called so distracted was he. Walking up to the stage meant passing in front of Billy, as he was in front of him he heard an almost inaudible fart squeak out into the chair, Billy smirked at him. Up on the stage he could see all his friend’s smiling faces but as he panned across the room he landed back on Billy’s smirk. All confidence left him; if he was bad Billy would tell everyone how he bombed, and if he did well then would it be cringe and used against him anyway? What if he got the part and all of Billy’s cronies came to watch. It was as this ran through John’s head that he realised he missed his backing track playing and the cue to sing, asking if he could restart the director kindly obliged. The second time his tempo was off and each missed note caused Billy to chuckle. When it came to his monologue he tried to look elsewhere, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Billy texting on his phone. Panic took over as his mind raced to who he was messaging and what he was telling them! He trailed off, his monologue unfinished. The director looked disappointed, but thanked John kindly.

As he stepped down from the stage Billy gave John thumbs down. Not long after Billy went to the room his mother was in and they shortly left, he was not interested in the others. John sat there embarrassed, wondering if he could ask to go again now Billy was gone, but his confidence was knocked and he too left early. It wouldn’t be long until the roles were announced, the director said he would email them out within the week, which meant he at least didn’t have to be around others when he saw he didn’t get any of the main roles.

During school that week Billy didn’t make too big a reference to what he’d seen, only on the odd occasion would he hum or sing the audition song as he walked by, or sat next to, John. Those with him would snigger so John assumed he had at least somewhat told them about it, it was weird he wasn’t ridiculing him more about acting and being in the pantomime. The reason came clear at the end of the week when the email came through. As John prepared himself for the worst - non speaking pirate role - he opened the email and stared stupified by what it said.

BILLY WARREN - CROCODILE (FRONT END) JOHN EVANS - CROCODILE (BACK END)

This didn’t make any sense. Billy wasn’t in the group. He didn’t audition. What did the director mean by front and back end? There hadn’t been a crocodile role on the initial character list, it was common for it to be done with just the sound effect off stage. Hook reacts but the audience never sees anything. Why would the director introduce it now, and for two people that one of which wasn’t even a member?

The next day John went to the first rehearsal ready to demand answers, but again when he walked in he was met by Billy sitting eagerly waiting near the door. He looked thrilled to see John enter. “You’re finally here! Ready to be working together?”

“Why are you here again? Why do you have a role you don’t even like acting?”

“Well that’s just it, John. We won’t really be acting will we. I mean I might prance a bit like a fool to make the kids laugh, but you won’t be. You’re the back end”.

“What does that even mean? Front end and back end?”

“What it sounds like. You’ve seen a panto horse haven’t you, well we’re a panto croc! I’ll be up front and you’ll be behind me, where you belong”

“There’s no such thing as a panto crocodile. The horse costumes are cheap cloth but there’s no croc outfits, and we don’t have the budget to have one made”.

Billy was practically shaking with excitement. “But that’s just it! You do. When I got home I told my mother I wanted to be in the play. She offered to pull some strings to make me Peter Pan, but I said no, I didn’t want any favours. Simply create a role for me, and I even told her about this poor pathetic kid I saw flop at his audition. He deserved a worthy role too. That’s when I proposed we make the crocodile an actual character with stage time. Mother has agreed to fund the costume creation, and to get the director on side with my changes she’s offered to fully fund the next five years of performances. Needless to say he was happy to take on any of my ideas after that. So here we are, I will be in the front of the crocodile, and you’ll be in the back. I’ve got ideas for it, I’ll be very involved with the design and creation of the costume don’t you worry”.

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Nepotism in the arts world yet again, Billy had not only bought his way into the show, but dragged John into his stupid little game. It was ridiculous.

The rehearsals had been a nightmare over the next months. Billy would demand that John kneel behind him whenever they were on stage, saying he needed to get used to them being so close. He would stop suddenly and John’s face would smash into his muscular bubble butt. Those on stage would laugh and a few snide comments started being made about whether being gay it was safe to have him so close to his rear. Billy would just act flattered and say, “Hey, it can’t be helped if he has good taste in men”. Then wriggle his ass at John winking.

He got more scenes added where they’d be on stage, to the point where they had more time than Tinkerbell. Other cast members were at first put off, but when more donations came in to get them better costumes or just little gifts they soon quietened down and championed the crocodile. One day in school after yet another new script change to include them came over in an email, John asked Billy why he cared so much about it. Billy rounded on John in the hallway, his cronies behind him like henchmen. Billy threw an arm over his shoulder and steered John away from them.

“Maybe it’s because I’m a nice guy and I know how much it means to you, and since you failed so badly in your audition it was your only chance to be on the stage.” Once they were out of ear shot of the others he rounded on John. “Most likely though it’s because I want to make sure there is no time for you to have a break. Once you are in this costume I have planned, you’re not getting out of it. I’ve even got ideas for us to be interval entertainment, so you won’t even get a break then. I am going to have your faggy face trapped in my ass for hours. I am going to be farting none…fucking…stop. The only air you will breathe is the methane from my ass. Your face will be in a hot box with my stinking sweaty ass and I can’t fucking wait!”

With the same nonchalance as if he’d just announced winning a football match, Billy smiled gleefully and walked off, leaving John standing dumbfounded by what he had just heard. Even as the bell rang he silently walked like a zombie to his next class.

The next rehearsals proved that Billy was not kidding about his threat, as well as insisting that John spend his time on his knees behind him whenever they are on stage he had now taken to silently releasing farts in his face whenever he felt the gas bubble up inside His stomach. One time while it was just the two of them John confronted Billy about it telling him it was not funny to start farting, Billy simply just laughed and said that John would have to get used to it if he was going to make it through all the performance nights. Whilst on stage in front of everyone John had no choice but to grittingly breathe in the farts trying his best not to gag from the smell and let others know what he was being made to suffer. This even spread to the school where Billy would take any opportunity he could to fart on John. One day after PE in the changing rooms John was trying to quickly change before the other boys came out and started their usual harassment. He threw his stuff in his bag and ran to the door only to have it swing open and his exit blocked by Billy and his cronies. They walked through forcing John to back up, his legs hit the bench and he fell back on to it. The lads surrounded him on both sides with Billy menacingly looming over him from the front. In a flash he was grabbed, holding him in place whilst Billy spun around so his gym shorts were inching closer.

PPpprrbbbB

“Hold him still. He needs to get used to this if he's going to make it through the shows”.

“Fuck, Billy, your farts stink!” said Keith, one of Billy's regular hangers on.

“I know right, it's a talent of mine. Get his face closer so he can breathe it in for us”.

Keith grabbed the back of John's head and held it millimetres from Billy's ass, he himself leant as far back as he could to avoid the smell.

PPPBBBTT

PPRRrrrppbbb

Ppbt

Each fart smacked John in the face, a warm wave that washed over him. Lingering around him as he forcibly had to sit in and breathe them in.

“Oh, that's me all out for now. But no need to thank me John, any time you want to rehearse just let me know. Not long left until the big night!” With a look to the lads, they let John go and he pushed passed them out the room, tears welling in his eyes.

He desperately wanted to quit. He'd tried talking to the director, who'd just thought John was complaining about not having a lead part and chastised him. He'd always taught him small roles had merit, and if he ever wanted to make it as an actor he'd have to be prepared for any role. A job's a job. He was also a little annoyed considering how much stage time he'd given the crocodile, which was now anything but a small part. Even if the extra fundraising was appreciated he had sold out the show.

John's parents had been similar in their lack of patience. They had not paid all the membership fees over the months for him to back out now. He would just have to wait until the next show and audition for a bigger role again like everyone else. Needless to say John had not wanted to confide in them that he was being bullied by another guy who wouldn't stop farting on him.

The day of the first night had arrived, and John was dreading it. The day before they’d had a dress rehearsal and he’d been anticipating finally seeing the costume that Billy kept reminding him of. But on the day Billy had just shrugged and said it was still having some finishing touches added, he reassured the director they’d be all right on the night. For the dress rehearsal they continued the usual of John kneeling behind and doing his best to keep up, wading through the farts silently crop dusted from in front as he went. Billy had already given the dimensions to the director in the early stages and they’d staged the scenes to ensure enough room would be provided for them to enter, perform and leave. While waiting to the side for their cue Billy ruffled John’s hair as he knelt behind him. Saying just loudly enough for John to hear him over the scene, “It’s ready btw. I just want it to be a surprise on the night”. Then as a loud bang went off on stage he let rip in John’s face. Billy had made sure to learn all the sound cues so he would be able to release a loud fart whenever he had one in the chamber.

When John arrived sullenly to the theatre that evening he was mentally preparing for the worst he could imagine; a cramped cheap costume, he was shocked at what was laid out on the floor of the dressing room. It looked like a professionally made theatre costume. Finely painted with spikes that ran down the spine along the back and tail. It had big cartoon eyes and fake teeth and tongue that stuck out to not be too menacing for the young children. John could see in the mouth a fine black mesh that let Billy see through the open jaw. The angle of the head and upper body gave it a sort of cartoonish stance, but it also meant that Billy wouldn’t need to stoop too much. Jonn on the other hand would be practically bent over ninety degrees looking at the length of the thing.

“Don’t you just love it?”

The voice from behind made John jump. Billy had entered silently. He stared intently at John. “It’s perfect. I went back and forth with the designers loads to make it just right. By the end I think they thought it was some obscure sex thing, but they knew not to ask questions and just take the money. Come on then, let’s get you inside!”

“I…I can’t…” was all John could get out. Eyes never leaving the costume.

“Johnny boy, you can’t let the audience down. You can’t let the cast down. Most importantly, you can’t let ME down”. He closed the door menacingly, the two of them alone with the crocodile. “I’ve brought all my mates to tonight’s show. It’s a packed house of all our school who want to see you perform. They will be more than happy to force you into that suit. But I would really prefer it if you do so willingly”. He ended as if he was being kind, offering a chance of a choice.

As if on autopilot, John stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts and readied himself for what would come next. Billy rubbing his hands together gleefully grabbed the costume released clasps holding the two parts together and split them apart. Inside the back end John could see the scaffolding, poles and bands running down to reinforce it. There was no give to it. Due to the weight of the tail John had to crawl backwards into the costume, he could feel the holes for the legs and manoeuvred his feet through, Billy helped pull the claws into place on each side. Billy then got a chair so that John could push himself up a bit on his elbows from within the cylindrical frame, but the hard structure wouldn’t let it bend, only just teeter enough for him to be slightly higher than he was going to have to be going forward, he could feel the pressure pushing back down on him. John could see Billy through the opening, he was bent down so his smiling face was framed by the room’s light.

“Comfy in there? Let me get into mine then”. He took off his jacket and jumper down to a plain t-shirt and kicked off his trousers. John could see that he was wearing his gym shorts. Almost as if aware of John’s thoughts Billy turned and wagged his hips side to side so his shorts covered butt wriggled in front of John's face.

“That’s right, boy. I have been wearing these to PE for the past month and never washed them. If you think you hate how they smell now, wait until 10mins in this thing!” He then pulled up what looked like a climbers harness, the straps around his waist and leg, hanging behind him loose straps fell. Silently John watched as Billy climbed into his part. The head detached, meaning he was able to just step in through the gap where they combined, crouch down and pop back up where the head would be. His arms reaching out. It was clear how easy it was to be in the front half compared to the back. He crouched down again so his face was inches from Johns.

“How great is this? Let me explain how all this works. As you can probably feel, the costume is forcing you to bend forward. You are essentially being pushed down to get your face in my ass where you will remain for the evening. You need to make sure you stay as close to me as possible, or the tail will cause misbalance and you could hurt yourself. To ensure that doesn’t happen, I have this harness that will strap you to my ass, your hands will be cuffed to my side. Immediately he grabs the straps, one attached to a collar that he buckled around John’s neck and another strap around his forehead. Billy turned round and for the last time John saw light. Billy’s ass loomed closer until John’s nose pressed lightly against his shorts. He could smell the stale sweat on the shorts. Billy was taking the straps and feeding them through the harness, suddenly he pulled hard and John was pulled deep into his crack. Billy rolled his ass back and forth to open his cheeks, pulling the straps tighter to claim every millimeter he could, until John's nose was pressing right up to his hole. Finally he grabbed his arms and fed them through hoops on the sides, securing them in place so John was now bent forward with his arms stretched forward.

John's neck was straining from the angle. He tried to reposition but the straps prevented him from pulling back and the weight of the costume pushed his back down, bending his neck more.

“Now, now, don't fight, you'll only hurt yourself. Finally, I've got a little surprise. Here let me put this headset on you. I've got a mic piece on mine and I've set the channel so only you can hear me. I can talk to you and you'll be able to listen. That way if I need you to turn…or to reverse…or to sniff…you will hear my instructions. Ok let's try it out. Testing, testing, can you hear me?”

“Mmmmbbbhh”

“I can't hear you with your face in my ass, bum-boy. Tell you what, you can tap my right side with your fingers for ‘Yes’ and my left side for ‘No’. Got it?”

John jostled his right hand in the cuff to tap Billy's hip.

“Good. Oh, and by the way this half has a membrane that's around my waist which separates us. No gas should be able to make it up to me, though if it gets so bad it seeps through I'm at least by the mouth for ventilation. All my farts are going to build up in the back end, so any shit particles you don't sniff up on the release will hang around for the evening for you to stew in. Now let's go!”

John was expecting to start walking forward and prepared himself for the movement, but Billy stayed where he stood, a giggling sound echoed nearby which ceased as a fart blasted out. John felt the warm air spread over him and invade his nostrils. It felt like his lungs were burning as oxygen was forced out for methane. Through the ear piece John could hear Billy laughing.

“Fuck that one felt good. I hope I can maintain that quality for you all night! Ok, enough clowning around, let's get into position”.

Billy reached round and did the catches on the costume to keep them stuck together and keep the costume sealed. He then placed the head over him and fed his arms through to practice manoeuvring the jaw. Satisfied it was ready he took a step. John felt Billy move away and felt his neck begin to stretch, he quickly shuffled forward to keep up and relieve the pain. Billy led them through the back hall, John could hear muffled voices outside the costume but Billy's response rang clearly through the headset.

“Thanks! It looks great doesn't it! Noo, it's so comfortable, they did a great job. Yeh, it's John back there. He's doing great back there -bbrrrrppp - he hasn't stumbled or anything - bbbpppttt - noo, it's totally ventilated he's got plenty of air I'm making sure of it”. PppprrrrrBBBBbbbp. “It's just us again. They couldn't hear a thing, the soundproofing is great. I don't have to hold back all night, fuck I'm going to permanently destroy your sense of smell. Are you still alive back there?” Again John tapped yes.

As the night went on John desperately tried to keep up with Billy as they moved round the stage. He was burning up in the costume, the heat from the lights and the thick material made it unbearably hot, on top of that Billy's constant farts had added several degrees to the temperature. John was sweating buckets, and unfortunately so was Billy. John's face was pressed into Billy's shorts and the damp sweat soaked shorts clung to him. Between farts he could smell a residual eggy scent from the previous barrage. He was getting a headache from dehydration and it was getting difficult to breathe, forcing him to take more frequent and deeper breaths of the toxic air.

He could barely hear anything happening outside the costume, just the muffled sounds of the dialogue and musical numbers. The only sound he could hear was the occasional airy blow, wet raspberry and loud trumpet coming from Billy's hole, as well as the occasional restrained snigger when on stage. Once they were off stage he had no issue laughing loudly every time he let rip, or asking for reviews.

“Did that one smell good? Want another?”. John tapped his left hand to signal ‘No’. “Oh sorry mate, I can't recall the order, was that yes?” John tapped vigorously ‘No’ again. “Someone is eager for more farts! Here you go then”.

PPPRRRBBBB

PPPBBBTT

John screamed into Billy's ass, he couldn't take it, he needed a break. His muffled cry vibrated on his ass and caused Billy to chuckle from the sensation, realising the opportunity he quickly pushed out a wet fart into John's open mouth. John stopped screaming and began retching. He learned not to open his mouth again.

By the end of the night John reckoned he'd taken at least fifty farts. His neck was aching from the twisting to hold in position as well as the constant whiplash as he got dragged across the stage as Billy pranced this way and that. When they finally finished the show and were back in their dressing room John was practically on his knees.

Fresh air rushed in as Billy opened the costume. The cuffs were loosened allowing John to finally drop his numb arms down, the blood rushing back. Finally the straps to the headpiece were being released, John pulled away thinking he was free but the collar yanked him back only a couple of inches away, Billy hadn't freed him but rather increased his area of movement slightly. Billy's ass was framed by the costume's opening, fully on view; the cheeks soaked from the sweat except for a dry patch around the crack where John's face had pressed so tightly.

BBBBbbpppPPPTTT

The fart washed over John, the same sulphur smell he'd been surrounded by for the past hours. John burst into tears. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Billy's ass moved away to be replaced with his face as he bent down to look at John, his face glowing with joy as he beamed a toothy smile and replied, “Because it's fun!”. He walked away to undress, leaving John alone to crawl out his costume as he blubbered silently.

John had begged his parents not to make him do the rest of the shows, he pretended to be sick, but they weren't having any of it. They'd paid all the money so if he wanted to quit this show that would be it, no more shows in the future or any acting academy. All he could do was get through the next couple of nights. Billy would have had his fun and be gone, then he would be free of him and could go back to how it should have been. The following nights had been very much the same; Billy fastened them together, farted constantly, and used the headset to ridicule him. John thought he was in Hell already, but in the final night Billy ruined his life entirely.

In the dressing room John silently crawled into the costume, he shut down each night to try and dissociate from the experience. Billy walked in holding two headsets.

“I've noticed you've been handling this a lot better, which is no fun for me, so I thought I'd mix it up a bit. What would you say to not being pressed so tight to my ass? I'll leave a bit of slack”.

John was skeptical, though he liked the idea of not being pressed into the gym shorts that were now reeking of stale eggy farts and musk. “Whats in it for you?”

“Well, with a gap between your face and my ass. You'll be able to talk too”. He put the headset on John that now had the microphone attached. “I can ask you questions and you can respond now without me having to remember which tap was which, again so sorry for all the times I misunderstood and thought you were asking for more farts. So silly of me! Happy with that?”

“Sure, but I'm not going to say much to you, I can't fucking stand you!”

“John! I'm hurt, here was me thinking we'd been bonding all this time. I mean you and my ass have definitely become best of friends. But if that's how you feel I guess we won't say much to each other…but we'll see”. Billy attached the collar and head piece to John but left the straps dangling detached from the harness which he was yet to put on. He left John's field of view and when he came back he wasn't wearing his crusty shorts anymore, he was in a jock strap with the harness over the top.

“What the fuck, Billy? Put your clothes on!”

“Oh, sorry mate, turns out I left them at home. But it's fine, I think you and my ass are ready to move on to the next level. Now give me your arms”.

Surrendering to his fate John held his hands out, allowing Billy to cuff them to his sides one final time. The straps on the collar and head band were fed through the harness and pulled taught, John's face inching closer to his ass like each night prior, but this time Billy stopped early so there was now space left between them. John had an up close view of the whole butt, the plump cheeks all he could see. At first he thought this would be better as his neck wasn't pushed back, but he now had to hold his head up himself or let it naturally align but that would mean his face resting against the bare butt. He was eager to maintain the distance he'd been allowed even with the discomfort.

Billy climbed into his costume and fastened them together, the world went black once again for John.

“Hello, hello, can you hear me?”

John tapped on Billy's side as had become routine.

“You have a headpiece remember Fart-Face, you can use your words.

“Oh yeh, yes I can hear you”.

“Good. As well as hearing you I can also hear these”.

PPPBBBTT

Billy's first fart of the night hit John. He was never able to get used to them. Each night the smells seemed to have got worse, which was intentional as Billy had bragged about the foods and drinks he'd consumed each day to build up his gas.

“Fuck that sounded good, I do love the sound of my farts. Real manly shit. Not like your faggoty toots. Btw, if after tonight you miss the smell of my farts I'm sure I could sell you those gym shorts. Something to remember our time together”.

“I never want to see you again, let alone smell you!”

“If you keep being mean to me then I won't have any reason to hold back”.

PPPpppprrrrrRRRRBbbbb

“If you do as I say though this could be an easier final night, understood?”

“Understood”

“Good. In that case tonight, every time I fart I want to hear you thank me. I want to hear you sniff it up and thank me for the honour”.

“No way, Billy. I'm not doing that!”

PPPBBBTT

“You've angered my ass. Well, if you won't speak to me then there's no point in you not being plugged up my hole again. Let me just tighten your straps back up again”.

As John lurched forward with the adjustment he panicked about being up against the hole without at least the minor barrier of clothing. He'd have nothing to stop the farts and shit going straight up his nose.

“Ok. OK! I’ll do it! Just please stop”

“Good boy”, and Billy again loosened the straps. “Let's practice”

PPBBTT

“Thank you”.

“Thanks for what?”

“Sigh. Thank you for the fart”.

“You're welcome Fart-Face. It felt wet.”

“It smells like it”. John resisted the urge to throw up as the air around him started to smell of shit.

“Let's go have the best show yet!” And Billy dragged them off to the stage. His arms tied in front of him pulled him along, the issue with having his head free was that whenever Billy came to an abrupt stop John would lurch forward and his face would wipe against the bare cheeks.

PPRRrrrppbbb

“Thank you for the fart, it smells great”

“You think so? Have another then”

Ppbbtt

“Thank you for another fart. You're too kind”

Billy was beaming inside the costume. He loved his little fart filters compliments. Every guy should have someone appreciate their stink.

The show went on, all actors and the audience blissfully ignorant of what was happening inside the crocodile, as they had been each night previously. During one scene Billy unleashed a long low rip, John remained silent. An angry whisper came through the speakers, “Oi, fag, what do you say?”, Billy rocked round and leant back causing the costume to push John down more, his back muscles on fire.

Whispering back, John begged, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Thank you for the fart. I didn't want to be heard. Please stand up straight. You're going to break my back. Please. Please. Fart again and I'll do what you say. Just stand up straight”

Billy stood back up, and the pain slightly subsided from Johns back. Nights in this costume had really started to cause him issues. He wasn't able to get rid of a constant ache developing and it kept him up at night.

“There we go? Was that so hard? I don't mind telling you Johnny boy, that I enjoy hearing you beg for a fart. I'm sure the other guys will be happy to oblige your needs as well. This doesn't have to end tonight!”

Pprrrppp

The scene ended as Billy blew a raspberry at John, who in return thanked him, as he was dragged off stage. The show carried on with a constant supply of gas being pumped out, John would suck them up as no where in the costume could he move his face to escape the smell, and proclaim his appreciation for them. The night was drawing to a close and John was beginning to get excited that the ordeal was nearly over. The last scene began on stage and they stood in the wings waiting for the curtain call.

“Oi, Fart-Boy, open your mouth I want to feed you this one”

“Fuck off, I'm not doing that”.

Without a word Billy fell back. In the pitch black his sweaty ass landed on John's unprepared face. The weight crushed his neck as his face was worked into position between the smooth cheeks as Billy wriggled it back and forth, wiping the sweat over John.

Muffled by the flabby ass but still audible through the earpiece John begged. “Ow, ow, please Billy, stand up, stand up! My neck…my back…it hurts so much!”

“Put your open mouth on my hole and eat my farts - *wriggles ass* - and then thank me for making your dream come true by getting you this role and letting you be my fart slave. Got all that?” He leant back more, letting John take more of his weight.

Tears streamed from John's eyes, mixing in with the sweat from his face and Billy's ass. He was wedged into his cheeks and could feel his nose probing his warm hole. He desperately slapped the yes side of the harness, and mumbled unheard into Billy's ass.

Billy understood what was being communicated and lifted himself up. Beneath him John repositioned himself and Billy could feel his lips pressing around his hole. He could barely contain his excitement, the play was all but forgotten, he dropped his arms down from the jaws and groped for his ass, spreading the cheeks to allow John unfettered access and create a full seal. “Remember, thank me for everything, and make me believe it or I'll drop back so quick it'll snap your neck”.

PPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP

The fart was long, loud and wet. It echoed in John's cheeks and throat. The sweat and shit coated his tongue, a slime all over his mouth, he could taste it. John pulled back as soon as the fart ended and gagged. Spluttering and spitting to try and rid his mouth of it. His neck had a stabbing pain. His back was icy cold where the ache had once been but he felt unable to try and stand. He was too distracted by it all to realise he was being brought out on stage for their bow. A menacing voice rang in his ear.

“Thank. Me”.

“Thank you Billy. Thank you for being the crocodile with me. I've loved being behind you and having you fart in my face. I'm such a lucky fart slave. I fucking love your farts!”

Billy had timed it perfectly. Everything he'd planned had gone perfectly. As John began his speech Billy had flipped the channel on their headsets to the one being used by the sound guy for the show. What John had thought was feedback through his headset was actually the sound of his pathetic admission being sent out to the audience. As they'd walked to the front of stage for their applause he'd confessed to everyone he'd been not only sniffing farts but enjoying it. The theatre went silent, the odd murmur through the crowd. John, realising what had happened went to speak again, to tell everyone what had really happened, but again Billy's timing was perfect. He took his bow from the front causing his ass to once again loom back and engulf John's face. His open mouth filled with another wet fart. The mic still on picked up the echoing as it reverberated around in his puffed out cheeks. Off went the mic and John's vomiting and crying went unheard. The audience erupted with laughter, not sure what it had been about, some assuming it was some weird fart joke they didn't get, others laughing at the thought of it being true, and loudest of all was the laugh of Billy and John's classmates that had been promised a show to remember.

***

Ten years had passed since the pantomime that had ruined John's life. He'd become the laughing stock at school, where for the remaining time he was constantly farted on and asked if he liked it, did he want to be their fart slave now, etc. He had also been asked not to return to the drama society after ruining the show and their reputation with his declaration. That was fine though, John had lost his passion for it, he never did go on to a prestigious drama school choosing rather to keep a low profile instead. Billy on the other hand actually enjoyed the process of acting that he'd experienced while plotting his scheme that he did go on to graduate from a performing arts academy. He did theatre for a couple of years before getting his big break in an indie film that rocketed his career to Hollywood.

John tried not to think about it. Though Christmas time it was hard not to be reminded of it when he saw adverts for all the pantomimes plastered around town and social media. If only he hadn't been in one, how different things might be. He was wondering this as he shuffled home, bent low to the ground. His back and neck suffered permanent damage from both the constant pressure of the suit but also Billy sitting full weight exacerbating the harm. The guys at school had loved it as it meant it was easy to grab his head and shove his face in their arses whenever they had to fart. As time went on he became a joke around town and when people would see him pass in the street and ask why he was bent double like that, the response was always, “he's trying to sniff your ass”, which made any new people to the area avoid him like the plague.

His parents had tried to sue the group for using the costume that caused the damage, it had taken months in court but the judge ruled that as John had not raised any issues, willingly got in the costume each night AND confessed to many witnesses he was happy to be there then they didn't have a case. The cost of the legal representative had bankrupted his parents in the end causing a rift between them and John. Once he was old enough to move out, they helped him find a minimum wage job and a small flat and never saw him again.

Therefore it was another Christmas alone. As he sat in front of the TV in his gloomy, undecorated flat, he flicked through the channels until he saw a familiar face.

Interviewer: “We're here with the rising star William Warren. Tell me, what's it like to come from a small town to the glitz and glam of Hollywood?”

Billy: “It's amazing. All I could have ever asked for. Lots of people have this dream, but so few can make it. My heart really goes out to those who never get to realise their dream”

Interviewer: “Such a sweet sentiment. Now tell me. I hear you caught the acting bug from a pantomime you were in when you were young, is that true?”

Billy smiled, his eyes sparkled with delight as he looked directly at the camera. Through the TV to John.

BILLY: “That is correct. I owe this all to a dear, dear friend, who was always behind me. I hope he's watching”.

fartcushion

THE PANTOMIME: HE'S BEHIND YOU

“Shut up, BIlly. I’m not trying out for Tinkerbell. Why are you here?”

BILLY WARREN - CROCODILE (FRONT END) JOHN EVANS - CROCODILE (BACK END)

“Why are you here again? Why do you have a role you don’t even like acting?”

“Well that’s just it, John. We won’t really be acting will we. I mean I might prance a bit like a fool to make the kids laugh, but you won’t be. You’re the back end”.

“What does that even mean? Front end and back end?”

“What it sounds like. You’ve seen a panto horse haven’t you, well we’re a panto croc! I’ll be up front and you’ll be behind me, where you belong”

“There’s no such thing as a panto crocodile. The horse costumes are cheap cloth but there’s no croc outfits, and we don’t have the budget to have one made”.

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Nepotism in the arts world yet again, Billy had not only bought his way into the show, but dragged John into his stupid little game. It was ridiculous.

PPpprrbbbB

“Hold him still. He needs to get used to this if he's going to make it through the shows”.

“Fuck, Billy, your farts stink!” said Keith, one of Billy's regular hangers on.

“I know right, it's a talent of mine. Get his face closer so he can breathe it in for us”.

Keith grabbed the back of John's head and held it millimetres from Billy's ass, he himself leant as far back as he could to avoid the smell.

PPPBBBTT

PPRRrrrppbbb

Ppbt

Each fart smacked John in the face, a warm wave that washed over him. Lingering around him as he forcibly had to sit in and breathe them in.

“Don’t you just love it?”

“I…I can’t…” was all John could get out. Eyes never leaving the costume.

John's neck was straining from the angle. He tried to reposition but the straps prevented him from pulling back and the weight of the costume pushed his back down, bending his neck more.

“Mmmmbbbhh”

“I can't hear you with your face in my ass, bum-boy. Tell you what, you can tap my right side with your fingers for ‘Yes’ and my left side for ‘No’. Got it?”

John jostled his right hand in the cuff to tap Billy's hip.

“Fuck that one felt good. I hope I can maintain that quality for you all night! Ok, enough clowning around, let's get into position”.

PPPRRRBBBB

PPPBBBTT

BBBBbbpppPPPTTT

The fart washed over John, the same sulphur smell he'd been surrounded by for the past hours. John burst into tears. “Why are you doing this to me?”

In the dressing room John silently crawled into the costume, he shut down each night to try and dissociate from the experience. Billy walked in holding two headsets.

John was skeptical, though he liked the idea of not being pressed into the gym shorts that were now reeking of stale eggy farts and musk. “Whats in it for you?”

“Sure, but I'm not going to say much to you, I can't fucking stand you!”

“What the fuck, Billy? Put your clothes on!”

“Oh, sorry mate, turns out I left them at home. But it's fine, I think you and my ass are ready to move on to the next level. Now give me your arms”.

Billy climbed into his costume and fastened them together, the world went black once again for John.

“Hello, hello, can you hear me?”

John tapped on Billy's side as had become routine.

“You have a headpiece remember Fart-Face, you can use your words.

“Oh yeh, yes I can hear you”.

“Good. As well as hearing you I can also hear these”.

PPPBBBTT

“I never want to see you again, let alone smell you!”

“If you keep being mean to me then I won't have any reason to hold back”.

PPPpppprrrrrRRRRBbbbb

“If you do as I say though this could be an easier final night, understood?”

“Understood”

“Good. In that case tonight, every time I fart I want to hear you thank me. I want to hear you sniff it up and thank me for the honour”.

“No way, Billy. I'm not doing that!”

PPPBBBTT

“You've angered my ass. Well, if you won't speak to me then there's no point in you not being plugged up my hole again. Let me just tighten your straps back up again”.

“Ok. OK! I’ll do it! Just please stop”

“Good boy”, and Billy again loosened the straps. “Let's practice”

PPBBTT

“Thank you”.

“Thanks for what?”

“Sigh. Thank you for the fart”.

“You're welcome Fart-Face. It felt wet.”

“It smells like it”. John resisted the urge to throw up as the air around him started to smell of shit.

PPRRrrrppbbb

“Thank you for the fart, it smells great”

“You think so? Have another then”

Ppbbtt

“Thank you for another fart. You're too kind”

Billy was beaming inside the costume. He loved his little fart filters compliments. Every guy should have someone appreciate their stink.

Pprrrppp

“Oi, Fart-Boy, open your mouth I want to feed you this one”

“Fuck off, I'm not doing that”.

Muffled by the flabby ass but still audible through the earpiece John begged. “Ow, ow, please Billy, stand up, stand up! My neck…my back…it hurts so much!”

PPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP

“Thank. Me”.

“Thank you Billy. Thank you for being the crocodile with me. I've loved being behind you and having you fart in my face. I'm such a lucky fart slave. I fucking love your farts!”

***

Therefore it was another Christmas alone. As he sat in front of the TV in his gloomy, undecorated flat, he flicked through the channels until he saw a familiar face.

Interviewer: “We're here with the rising star William Warren. Tell me, what's it like to come from a small town to the glitz and glam of Hollywood?”

Billy: “It's amazing. All I could have ever asked for. Lots of people have this dream, but so few can make it. My heart really goes out to those who never get to realise their dream”

Interviewer: “Such a sweet sentiment. Now tell me. I hear you caught the acting bug from a pantomime you were in when you were young, is that true?”

Billy smiled, his eyes sparkled with delight as he looked directly at the camera. Through the TV to John.

BILLY: “That is correct. I owe this all to a dear, dear friend, who was always behind me. I hope he's watching”.

malefacefarting-blog

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lifewithdavefarts

WESTFORK - WHERE KINK HAPPENS An unnecessarily long, slow-burn fart fetish story that takes too long to get to the point, just like this intro. Meet Jeff, the newest archivist in the renowed study-center known as Westfork. He's a nice guy, and gets the job done, sometimes a bit too well, so much so that he may even end up having some unexpected kinky good time because of it.

Other than the kink content, make sure to endure the obvious breaks from reality when it comes to job-related story beats and whatnot. Premise and vibes are similar to my DaveFarts series, but I wanted to experiment with something longer (cue the obvious jokes). May turn into a proper story series in the future. Most importantly, hope you enjoy! ----------------------------------------

TUESDAY

The more I walked around this place, the more it felt like I stepped back a couple of years: Westfork operated as a proper University for almost a century before being repurposed as a study center. It retained the picturesque charm of its Georgian-styled brick buildings and courtyards -though a small part of the campus is basically empty and closed due to budget cuts, and it wasn’t all as well-preserved as it may look.

Despite not being a University anymore, Westfork is still a reverenced name in academic environments, and it’s nowdays a renowned study center specializing in history research and education.

For personal reasons I fell behind schedule… a bit, but I managed to get my B.A. History degree, because the idea of being unemployed was amazing to me. Luckily enough (and that’s an euphemism), they needed a bookworm who hates sunlight to sort through a messy bunch of uncatalogued documents and books in their archives, so I just hopped on the next plane and came here.

It’s around 6:00 PM, the warm colors of the sunset highlights the warm autumnal hues of the trees around me. The evening was cold but my jacket was enough to keep me warm. I’m starting this new job tomorrow, but first I’m supposed to meet with an old acquaintance from college, Ted, so he can show me around.

He’s a bit of a… stickler, but he usually means well.

Usually.

It’s also hopefully an excuse to have a quick beer or coffee, which is fine to me.

I sat on a bench just outside of a Cafe, parking my rolling bag in front of me (it’s not much, but I’m planning to leave this weekend to fetch more stuff from home). The atmosphere is great and nostalgic, almost romantic I’d say.

Westfork is pretty lively, despite hosting merely a hundred people compared to the thousands it was originally built for. I saw some guys walking past me, some couples, all around 26 or older (so around my age), people like me who were lucky enough to end up working here at Westie, and maybe their friends/significant others from outside visiting. I’ve been told the institution doesn’t really care who visits, as long as they don’t burn the place down. Plus, we’re basically working adults here, not college students throwing parties (I know because I was one of them -especially the party part, no regrets).

“Jeff Park” I turned around and saw Ted holding a cup of coffee, while adjusting his big round glasses. “I didn’t recognize you without a microphone.”

My parties usually involved karaoke contests.

I stood up and stepped towards him, shaking his hand.

“Good to see you too, Ted.”

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