Fart, Scat, and More...

Gross dom bf who gets as rank as he can to bully you with his farts, pits, feet etc. He knows how much you like being humiliated and used. You live together and, one day, you run out of toilet paper, which he only notices after he's taken a dump. So how does gross dom bf wipe his ass? What's he going to rub against his rancid, dirty hole to clean it?

So then maybe he just so happens to keep promising you he'll get some more tp the next day, then the day after and so on, saying that your tongue is just softer than the rolls. He'll stop you in the middle of whatever you're doing, grab your face, and shove you into his ass, acting as if this is completely normal and making one-sided conversation with you.

Going out to the movies with your friend for the first time in a long while. The theater was mostly empty but you someone ends up taking the empty seat next to you.

He's a chubby hairy dilf, has a huge bucket of popcorn to himself, as he sits you notice he has a warm aura of sweaty armpit that you can't help but smell as the movie starts.

As usual your friend falls asleep a fourth of the way into the movie, you try and focus but the smell keeps distracting you from the plot on the screen. The slobby dad next to you has been loudly laughing at the movie the whole time, without a care for keeping the theater quiet. Finishing his popcorn, he places the bucket on the ground, and rests his now free arm over the back of your seat.

You feel the heat from his open armpit warm up the air near your head and shoulders, his grey shirt, stained on the front from the butter on his popcorn as a large dark grey stain that almost caused the air around it to steam like breath on a cold day.

The sharp, oniony smell was so intense you began to tear up, but as you stole glances at him, he seemed almost a little bit handsome. You find yourself taking deeper and deeper breaths of the warm sweaty smell of his pit near your head.

After about ten minutes of sitting in his hot, sweaty funk, you feel like you're about to bust, his rancid dad pheremones have worn their way into your brain and you feel your crotch grow warm as you take deeper and deeper huffs.

You look at your friend next to you, still deep asleep, unaware of the smell or anything that had happened in the last half hour of the movie. As you turn to your other side to steal another glance at the dilf, you jump when you realise he had turned his head as was now locking eyes with you, a smug grin on his bearded face. You immediately break out into a blush of both embarrassment and the hormones now coursing through you.

"I could hear you sniffing that whole time, cutie." He raises his arm up, revealing wisps of dark long hair hidden by his sweat soaked sleeves. "C'mere, have a sniff up close, that's what you've been thinking about, right?"

Your mind was running a million miles an hour as you actually contemplated doing it, staring deep into the hot wet pit in front of your face. You turn back and look at your friend to be sure that she's still asleep. As you look back at him he grabs the back of your head and shoves your face deep into his warm armpit. The thick warm intense oniony odor brings tears to your eyes, but you can't help to keep sniffing and sniffing.

Suddenly, he pulls your head back out of his armpit and looks you in the eyes. "Hey, your friend won't be awake until the movies over anyways, come and sit in between my legs." Before you even know what you're doing your face is resting deep in his warm crotch, his hand resting in the back of your head pushing you into his musky balls through his shorts.

Deep breath after deep break of the intense musk of his balls full your lungs, when suddenly, you hear a deep, low buzzing. You wonder what that noise is as suddenly the space between your face and his crotch rapidly heats up. "Ahhh, Jesus, sorry kid, I was holding that one in since the movie started." As you start to process what he said your nose connected the dots even faster.

He was farting. He was letting out a series of quiet, farts out, directly into your face, in public. You prayed your friend was still deep asleep. The smell was one of the most intense things you had ever encountered. That greasy, beefy rotten smell was heating up every inch of your face, drowning you in the thick, hot gas. It felt like your were trying to breath in warm water just to take a breath of the thick moist air in that small space. But you were compelled to stay firmly against his gross crotch, pleasing him felt like nothing you had ever felt before, and being the only one he wanted to sniff up his gas was a feeling that warmed you up inside.

After 3 minutes of near constant farting in continuous bursts, your face is covered in his scent. He loosens his legs and slowly lifts you back into your chair, you look at the screen and realize the credits are already rolling. You barely even remember what movie you came in here to see. As you sit in a dazy while the credits roll, you realize the dilf has already left. Your friend rubs there eyes as they begin to stir in their seat.

"I fell asleep again huh. Did you try to wake me up at all during the movie?" You can't even begin to explain what had happened and decided to just say they had refused to wake up, but before you can start your friend interrupts. "Ewwww, dude did you fart? You smell awful! No wonder you didn't wake up you must have had to fart and been embarrassed huh, and uh... you might wanna wear some more deodorant next time too, I think you're starting to sweat through it and I can smell you..."

Well, being the asshole brother Joey is, once he noticed how badly it affected me, he started locking me in the bathroom with him and threatened to beat my ass if I tried to escape. One night the smell got so bad that I went against my better judgment and ran for the door. He caught me around the neck and promised me it’d only get worse due to my disobedience. 

I spent the rest of the night with my face submerged in the filthy toilet, and my hands tied behind my back so there was no way I could flush it. Joey stood over me while texting his girlfriend to make sure I didn’t leave, and the smell got so overbearing that I passed out and my entire head submerged in the filth.

The stale air of the office building elevator usually hummed with quiet efficiency, a momentary reprieve from the relentless grind of the day. For Arthur, a man of meticulous habits and an aversion to anything disruptive, it was a space to be endured. His gaze, habitually fixed on the digital floor indicator, snagged on his sole companion: a Black street thuggish guy in a faded grey hoodie, his jeans saggin’ low enough to reveal a vibrant flash of bright orange boxers. The man, Lamar, slouched against the back wall, hinting at a defiance Arthur found subtly irritating. Arthur couldn't help but notice Lamar's big butt, an undeniable, almost gravitational presence in the confined space.

Just as the elevator groaned past the tenth floor, there was a sudden, jarring lurch. The lights flickered, plunged into momentary darkness, then sputtered back to life with a sickly yellow glow. The digital floor display went blank. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the hum of dormant machinery and the sudden, sharp intake of breath from Lamar. They were trapped.

Panic, a cold tendril, brushed Arthur’s nerves. He instinctively reached for the emergency button, his finger pressing it repeatedly to no avail. Beside him, Lamar, who had been so nonchalant moments before, now shifted restlessly. A low groan, raw and guttural, escaped his lips. His hand clutched his stomach, his knuckles white.

"Damn it," Lamar muttered, his voice strained. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down his temples and plastering strands of his hair to his forehead. "Not now. Not like this. Fuck, no!"

Arthur, momentarily distracted from his own anxiety, felt a strange curiosity prickle. Lamar’s discomfort was palpable, radiating through the tiny space. He watched, fascinated, as Lamar’s face paled, then flushed, a desperate battle playing out across his features. The jeans, already riding low, seemed to sag even further under an invisible weight. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his powerful thighs.

"You alright?" Arthur managed, his voice sounding strangely thin in the sudden quiet.

Lamar didn't answer. His eyes were wide, fixed on some unseen point, utterly consumed by an internal war. He hunched forward, his hands gripping his knees, a silent, desperate plea against the inevitable. Arthur could hear the subtle gurgling, the wet, churning sounds emanating from within Lamar's gut. The air in the elevator began to thicken, subtly at first, then undeniably, with the tell-tale scent of burgeoning biological distress.

"No! Don't you dare!" Lamar hissed, his voice a raw whisper, tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes. His body convulsed, a silent scream of defiance against the betrayal. "Goddammit, hold on!" He squeezed his buttocks, his jaw clenched so tight Arthur could see the muscles jump.

Then, with a soft, wet splutter that seemed impossibly loud in the confined space, it happened. Lamar's body stiffened, a strangled sob escaping his lips as his control utterly gave way. A thick, viscous mudslide of diarrhea erupted into his bright orange boxers. The fabric, designed for casual wear, quickly became saturated, stretching and bulging under the sheer volume of the release. The raw, hot stench of feces immediately flooded the small elevator, overwhelming the stale air, clinging to everything. It was a primal, undeniable odor, sickening yet, to Arthur, strangely compelling. Lamar’s legs trembled, a low moan of utter defeat escaping him as the last of the torrent emptied into his underwear. "Fucking hell," he choked out, tears now streaming down his face. "I shit myself." His boxers were overloaded, a horrifying, overflowing mass of dark, liquid waste.

Arthur's initial revulsion quickly gave way to a detached fascination. The sight, the smell, the sheer, unbridled surrender of this hardened stranger in such a confined space... it was intoxicating. He found himself not recoiling, but leaning in, drawn by a morbid, inexplicable curiosity. Lamar, now utterly defeated, remained hunched, his head bowed, the orange boxers a grotesque, bulging testament to his loss.

"Hey," Arthur said, his voice surprisingly steady, almost gentle. He reached out, not in pity, but with a strange, compelling urge. He laid a hand on Lamar's broad shoulder, then slid it down his back. The fabric of the grey hoodie was damp with sweat, the skin beneath warm and surprisingly soft.

With a deliberate motion, Arthur bent Lamar over further, gently pushing him against the cool, unyielding wall of the elevator. Lamar offered no resistance, his will seemingly shattered by the humiliation. The back of the saggin' jeans stretched taut, pulling away slightly from the brimming boxers. Arthur's fingers, almost instinctively, found the elastic band of the orange boxers. He opened the back of the boxers, peeling the soiled fabric away from Lamar’s big butt.

The sight was overwhelming: a raw, exposed expanse of glistening, feces-smeared skin. The rich, pungent aroma of fresh diarrhea filled Arthur's nostrils, a profound, primal scent that sent a shiver through him. He leaned in closer, driven by an insatiable need to see and smell his shit, to fully experience the depths of this man's utter, public surrender. The confines of the stuck elevator, once a source of anxiety, now became a strangely intimate chamber, a private space for a dark, unexpected fascination to unfold.

Arthur inhaled deeply, savoring the acrid warmth that permeated the air. His gaze meticulously traced the dark, oozing trails within the bright orange fabric, noting the texture, the consistency, the sheer volume of the discharge. His fingers, still holding the elastic of Lamar's boxers, trembled slightly, not from disgust but from a bizarre, escalating excitement. He could feel the residual heat radiating from Lamar's skin, a warmth that seemed to amplify the musky, pungent odor.

Lamar, slumped against the wall, stiffened. He let out a low, ragged growl, a sound of profound animalistic shame and confusion. His head, previously bowed, snapped up. His eyes, swollen and red from tears and humiliation, were wide with a dawning horror as he realized the invasive intimacy of Arthur’s scrutiny. He could feel the cool air on his exposed buttocks, the subtle shift in pressure from Arthur’s touch. The indignity of having defecated was now compounded by this stranger's uninvited, silent dissection of his mess.

"What... what the fuck are you doing?" Lamar's voice was hoarse, a raw whisper of fury and disbelief. His body tensed, a desperate attempt to regain control, to pull away from the encroaching violation. His limbs, however, felt heavy, leaden with exhaustion and the lingering shock of his involuntary release. The shame was suffocating, a heavy blanket pressing him further into the corner.

Dre thought he could hold it.

He really did.

We’d been parked in the Tahoe for twenty minutes after the gym, just vibin’, talking shit about PRs and pre-workouts. He was still in that black hoodie, sweatpants loose, no boxers — commando like always after leg day. I could smell him the second he sat down: that thick, ripe gym musk, sharp pit sweat, deep nutty ball funk rolling off him in waves from the workout. It had me half-hard before he even buckled up.

Then the cramps started.

At first he played it cool — shifting in the seat, thighs pressing together, hand “casually” resting on his lower abs. But I saw the sweat bead fresh on his forehead, saw his glutes clench hard under those sweats every time another gurgle rolled through him.

“Yo… you good, Dre?”

He laughed it off. “Yeah, bruh… just that shake hittin’.”

Ten minutes later he wasn’t laughing. Face tight, rocking side to side, lifting one cheek then the other like that would help. Little wet farts started slipping — pffrt… brrrt — each one hotter, nastier, the air turning sour and thick. He gripped the door, knuckles pale, whispering “hold it… hold it…” under his breath like a prayer.

I took the long way on purpose.

When the dam finally broke it was biblical.

Long, wet shlorrrrrp — hot semi-soft sludge exploding out in thick waves, packing the seat of his gray sweats instantly. You could hear it hit the fabric — heavy, mushy, spreading forward around his balls and dick, backward up his crack in greasy layers. Wet farts bubbled through — brrrraaaap — vibrating the load. The smell detonated: sulfur eggs, sour whey, meaty rot, all fused with his sharp gym stink into a humid, eye-watering fog that coated everything.

He moaned deep, head back, mouth open, body pushing on its own — wave after wave until the sweats sagged dark and heavy between his thick thighs, stain blooming wide, warm mush squishing with every breath.

Now look at him in the back — legs up, sweatpants tangled at ankles, that massive, stank, musky, shitty ass on full display. Brown mush smeared glossy across his cheeks, crack a swamp of sludge, balls coated thick, dick rock-hard and leaking in the filth.

He’s still flushed with shame… but the way he’s looking at me says he’s ready for Shit Master to slide in and stir it all up.

"Hey, can you come upstairs with me a minute"

...

"As you know, money's been a bit tight for me this year and so I wasn't sure I was going to be able to afford to buy most people gifts for Christmas. Dad's always been on at me to make sure I treat you like a real brother since our parents married, so I didn't want him hassling me if you were the only one without a gift. So I came up with an idea.

You know how you used to wait until I was out the room or you thought I was asleep to sneak a pair of my boxers to sniff while you jacked off - don't interrupt or pretend you didn't, I saw you doing it. As long as you didn't try and touch me it didn't matter if you were a pervert. Though I'd have broken your neck if you had tried it with me - anyway, I remembered that, so for the last 3 months I've been wearing the same pair of boxers. They have weeks and weeks of dried piss, cum and shit stains caking them. I didn't know what you liked the aroma and flavour off so I covered all the bases. I've farted a real storm in them and made sure to go hard at the gym to really soak them. There were many complaints about my hygiene at work I can tell you, but I'm too valuable to fire.

Anyway, all that to say that this year your Christmas gift is these stinking pair of underwear. Go ahead. Take a whiff. Enjoy them, this may be the best gift I ever get you. Here, let me put them over your head like you used to do. Smell good?