Smashwords

I hatched this plan the last time we had bean burritos. About two hours after dinner, while we were cuddling on the couch and watching a movie, he started farting non-stop. He kept apologizing and I told him not to worry. He tried to keep the blanket over our laps tight like an airlock, keeping the stench trapped beneath the fabric. But I made sure there was a little gap near my hip, allowing not only for the gas to escape, but for it to rise directly to my face.

I was so fucking hard during that movie. I don’t even remember what it was about because none of my blood was in my brain — it was all in my cock. After the movie, I excused myself, feigning a need to take a crap, but really I jerked my cock in the bathroom and I came so fucking hard I was wiping up cum from all over the floor and walls.

Ever since then, I’ve been thinking non-stop about that night. It’s been my daily bate fuel, but memories of it never got me off quite as hard as the actual thing.

So tonight I was going to make it happen again — and then make it go so much further.

The smell of burritos wafted through the kitchen, making me even harder. My cock was nearly throbbing at this point. I returned to the stove to warm up the burrito wraps, leaning hard against the oven handle in a desperate attempt to tame my cock.

Smashwords

Smashwords

The door to the men’s room clatters open.

I quickly shut off the phone and shove it into the pocket of my jeans, still pooled around my ankles. I listen intently to decipher if this guy is here to take a piss at the urinals or if he’s gonna come in the stall next to me — the only other stall here — to stick his dick in my face.

My heart beat kicks up a notch when my stall door rattles urgently and he lets out a groan of discomfort, then he barrels into the stall next to me. Given the urgency, I doubt he’s here for a blowjob. Dude’s gotta take a shit.

It takes all of my willpower not to lean forward and down to look at him through the gloryhole. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t make a few other discreet peeks. As he pulls down his pants and underwear and sits on the toilet with a loud clatter, his foot ends up under the stall divider between us. I gawp at it — a dirty work boot in, what, size thirteen?

As if my hand and cock have a mind of their own, I start stroking as I imagine the beefy, sweaty, hairy, masculine construction worker that’s likely on the other side — and the giant cock he’s probably packing in his pants.

He lets out a groan of discomfort and then — prappp-fffttttt-papapapa-ffttttt— he farts so loud it echoes in the bowl and the walls almost shake. And then like a nuclear bomb, the stench hits me. Holy fuck. That reek could peel the paint off the walls.

And in that, I’m reminded of when I was particularly drunk at college last year. My roommate and I had come back from having beers and burritos, so not only were we drunk, but we had gas like nothing else. And being the kinky frat pigs we are, we dared each other to sniff each other’s farts. One thing led to another and soon we took turns going balls deep in each other as we farted on each other’s dicks. It was the filthiestsex I’d ever had, the kind that I would always remember and would probably never repeat.

Smashwords

Smashwords

Cops stink. Literally. No wonder people call them pigs.

I shuffle in the back seat of the cop car, my hands awkwardly cuffed behind me. In the front seat is some muscle-bound but air-headed cop with a bad case of farts.

All of this is because I tried to sell some concert tickets I couldn’t use — this cop, who obviously needed something better to do, accused me of violating some obscure scalping law. I’m no fool, I know my rights, so I stood up to him and told him as much.

And a moment later I was pinned to the dirty concrete, cuffed, and accused of resisting an officer of the law. A moment after that I was thrown in the back of this power-hungry pig’s cop car. Now I’m stuck here while he ignores me and continues to fart, stinking up the car.

He lets out a long squeaker — he’s not even bothering to hide it anymore — and soon I’m gagging for oxygen. What makes it worse is that we’re not even going anywhere. We’re just sitting in the car, stewing in his noxious ass fumes in the middle of a sunny and sweltering July afternoon, ten feet from where I was arrested for scalping.

I start breathing through my mouth to avoid his noxious farts and the growing stink of his B.O. I can’t inhale it anymore or I’m going to vomit. I watch him in the rear-view mirror, trying to figure out if he’s enjoying this or something.

“Can we crack a couple windows open?” I ask, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of my voice. He shifts his eyes to glare at me in the mirror. “Please?”

In response, he leans to one side and lifts an ass cheek off his leather seat and lets a loud, vibrating fart rip through the air.

Pra-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-paaapppp…

“Fucking hell,” I mutter.

…ppaaaap-pa-pa-pa-praaaap…

“Surely this counts as cruel and unusual punishment,” I mutter, ensuring I’m loud enough for him to hear. When I glance up at the rear-view mirror, I find him glaring at me. “What?” I say, putting far too much challenge into that word than I really should.

“I can do worse,” he says.

I roll my eyes and look away.

“Hey!” he shouts. For some odd reason, the power in that one word sends a shiver through my body. I look back to the rear-view mirror and meet his glare. “Don’t look away unless I tell you to. Understood?”

Something has shifted between us. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is suddenly different. He’s got more power and authority and I, well … his glare is doing something to me. Like, in my pants.

I watch a lot of Dom/sub porn, like, the kind where the sub is a beta fag, whose whole existence is dedicated to pleasing his Alpha and gratefully taking the abuse that his Alpha dishes out. But porn is different than real life. Right?

“I said, understood?” He hardens his glare and he almost bites off those words.

I swallow, then say, “Yes.”

“Yes … what?”

What the hell have I gotten into? I’ve watched enough of that kinky shit on PornHub to know the answer he’s looking for. “Yes, Sir.”

His glare softens slightly. “Good fag.”

Smashwords

Smashwords

Muscles seems to get the hint, seems to know what drives my faggy desires. He angles his hips a bit, causing his deliciously hairy ass cheeks to spread and expose his tight, manly hole. It’s tightly knotted; this Alpha God has obviously never bottomed. If I were to show him my hole, he would see what a well-used ass looks like. We’re so different. We’re so perfectly matched.

I stretch my tongue up, trying to reach that amazing and perfect knot of flesh. Just as the tip of my tongue touches it, Muscles flinches.

“Everything okay, Sir?” I ask.

He looks over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. “How much of a pig are you, fag?”

My heart does a pitter-patter of excitement. “Very much so, Sir.”

“Good.”

He squats closer to my face, his tight asshole right in front of my mouth and nose. I stick my tongue out and caress the perfect flesh, lapping up more sweat. Here, though, the taste is drastically different. It tastes like he hasn’t washed his ass in days. I’m tasting things that would turn off most men — even most fags — but for me it drives me up the fucking wall with horniness. I have to fight with myself to not use my hands to grab those perfect, muscular ass cheeks and part them so that I can dig my tongue ever deeper into him. I have to obey the no touching rule.

I just wish I could get more.

Then Master lets out a grunt. I pause in my licking, uncertain of what’s coming next. Muscles’ asshole quivers, then opens.

Braaa-aa-aa-aa-appp-pp-pp

He farts, letting loose a long, noisy, filthy one. I raise my head and bury my nose in his crack, right against his hole. I huff that fart, fill my lungs with his stench. It smells like the men’s room at a greasy taco dive, the kind where the beans run right through you. And I love it.

Smashwords