Chapter 2: Fashionably Early
Disclaimer This is a work of pure fiction. All characters depicted are over the age of 21.
This chapter contains the following fetishes: [facesitting] [face farting] [fart sniffing] [smell] [smothering] [blackmail] [cnc] [femdom] [humiliation] [forced] [family taboo] [power imbalance] [breath control] [prolonged full weight] [thong gag] [dirty panties] [panty gag] [tipsy dominance]
If any of these themes are not for you, do not continue reading.
A full month passed before the pattern finally broke.
Maya had shown up three or four nights a week like clockwork. Every visit followed the same brutal rhythm. Study. Face. Study. Face. She never softened. She never forgot the planted tab sitting on my laptop like a loaded gun. By the time the final grades posted, I had memorized the exact weight of her thick thighs, the way her dark brown eyes sharpened when she was about to release, and the heavy coconut scent of her hair mixed with whatever she had eaten that day. I had stopped counting the times she locked my head in place and forced me to take everything she had been holding.
Then one Tuesday evening she walked through my door with tears in her eyes and a printout clutched in both hands.
Happy tears.
“I got an A minus,” she said, voice cracking. “In both classes. My organic professor pulled me aside and said he could not believe the turnaround. From a C minus average to this. He actually complimented me in front of the whole lab. Calc too. They all think I suddenly grew a brain.”
She laughed through the tears and shoved the paper at me. I scanned the numbers twice. She was right. The torture had worked. She was going to pass. More than pass.
For the first time in weeks my chest loosened. The constant low-level dread that came with every knock on my door finally eased. I actually smiled.
“Good,” I said. “You earned it. Congrats.”
Maya wiped her face, still grinning. “In two weeks I’m throwing a party at my mom’s house. Nothing huge. Just some people from class and a few friends. Food, music, whatever.”
“Have fun,” I started to say.
She was already dialing. The phone went to speaker before I could finish the sentence. Her mother’s voice filled the kitchen, warm and familiar.
“Maya? Everything okay?”
“Mom, Jeff’s here. Tell him he has to come to the party.”
There was a short pause, then pure delight. “Jeff! Of course he has to come. You’re the only reason this girl is even graduating on time. I already told her I want to thank you properly.”
I leaned toward the phone. “That’s really nice, but I already have plans that night—”
“Nonsense. I’ll order all the food you like. The good stuff. Just show up. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Maya’s eyes glittered with triumph as she ended the call. The trap had closed again without me even seeing the mechanism.
I hated parties. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many forced conversations with strangers who wanted nothing from me except small talk. Being social online while gaming with friends or talking to professors during office hours was different. That was controlled. This was not.
Still, two weeks later I found myself standing on the front porch of Maya’s childhood home at 5:15, steeling myself for whatever came next. The party was listed for 5:30. I told myself there was no way Maya would try anything with her mother and a house full of people around. It would destroy her own image. Even she had limits.
I knocked.
The door opened on Rebecca, Maya’s mother.
She was forty-four but could have passed for early thirties without effort. Long dark hair, a shade lighter than her daughter’s, fell in soft waves past her shoulders. Her eyes were the same deep brown, but warmer, currently a little glassy from wine. She had a full D-cup chest that filled out her fitted blouse, a narrow waist, and a pronounced bubble butt that strained the back of her dark jeans. The years had only added to her curves. She looked soft in the best ways and still carried herself like someone who knew exactly how she appeared.
“Jeff!” She pulled me into a tight hug that pressed those heavy breasts against my chest. “Come in, come in. I can’t thank you enough for what you did for Maya.”
I stepped inside. The living room was decorated with simple streamers and a table already loaded with food. No one else was there. No music yet. No voices.
“Where is everyone?” I asked. “I thought it started at 5:30.”
Rebecca laughed, kind and a little tipsy. Her cheeks were already pink. “People arrive fashionably late, honey. Always. You’re right on time for the important part.”
We sat on the large sofa. She poured herself another glass of red wine and pushed a plate of food toward me. We talked. She asked about my classes, my plans after graduation, how I had managed to drag Maya’s grades up so fast. She kept drinking. The pink in her face deepened to a soft red. She fidgeted more, shifting her weight, crossing and uncrossing those thick thighs, scooting closer until our knees almost touched.
Then she set the glass down and looked at me with sudden curiosity.
“Jeff… I’m curious. Is it true you like female farts?”
I spit a mouthful of soda back into the cup. “What?!”
“No. I hate it,” I said too fast.
Rebecca’s smile widened. “Oh my god. The way you just reacted. That’s exactly what Maya said you would do.”
My stomach dropped. “Look, I’m not sure what Maya told you, but I can tell you—”
“That you hate the feeling of a woman sitting on your face and farting in your nose while forcibly holding you down so you have no chance to escape?” she finished, voice almost gentle. “Did I guess right?”
I stared at her. The wine had loosened something dangerous. “Uh… yeah. That’s right. I hate it.”
She held my gaze. “Would you want to try it with me?”
Red flags screamed in every direction. “No. People are coming. This is a party.”
“I told everyone else six,” she said softly. “I told you to come early so I could thank you properly. Just us.”
Before I could stand she pressed me back into the sofa cushions with surprising strength. Her full weight settled across my chest as she straddled me. The bubble butt I had noticed earlier now hovered inches from my face.
“No, please, you don’t need to thank me like this,” I said, hands half-raised.
“Wow. Maya told me you would say that too.” She shimmied her hips, jeans-clad cheeks brushing dangerously close to my mouth. “Please stop. You’ve had too much to drink.”
“I’ve had just enough.”
She sat down hard.
The heavy, soft weight of her ass crushed over my nose and mouth in one decisive drop. The denim was tight enough that I could feel every contour. Her thighs clamped along the sides of my head. I tried to push, but she was solid, tipsy determination giving her more strength than I expected. The smell of her skin and the faint trace of whatever lotion she used filled my lungs first. Then she shifted, found the angle she wanted, and pushed.
A long, warm, dense fart rolled out of her and straight into my face. The sound was muffled by the jeans but still deep and wet. The heat soaked through the fabric and flooded my nose and mouth before I could turn. The smell followed immediately, richer and more mature than Maya’s, heavier, the product of wine and real food and zero shame. She held the seal, grinding just enough to keep me locked in place while the last of it drained into me.
I begged against the denim. “Please… no… Rebecca, stop…”
She only answered with another push. This one was shorter but sharper, a quick hard burst that forced my lips open even through the fabric. The smell spiked, thicker, almost sweet at the edges from the wine. She stayed at full weight, not giving me a single clean breath.
“Maya told me everything you like,” she said above me, voice calm and a little breathless. “Prolonged full weight so you can’t move. Facesitting until your vision spots. Making you take multiple rounds without letting you up.”
She farted again, longer this time, a rolling continuous release that seemed to go on forever. The heat built under the jeans until my face felt slick with it. I begged louder, words muffled and desperate. “No… please… I can’t… take it off… please…”
Rebecca finally lifted just enough to reach into the front pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a small wad of fabric and held it where I could see it. A thong. Black. Clearly worn. The crotch was discolored and still looked damp in places. The smell hit me even before she brought it closer, sour and intimate and heavily used.
“She also said you like these,” Rebecca murmured. “Dirty ones. The longer the better.”
“No… don’t… please…”
She ignored the begging. Her fingers pressed against my jaw, easily forcing my mouth open while her heavy ass still pinned the rest of my head in place. The thong slid between my teeth in one smooth motion. The taste flooded my tongue immediately, strong and filthy, the flavor of a full day of wear. She pushed it deeper until the soaked crotch filled my mouth and the straps hung past my lips.
Then she sat back down in full.
The next fart had nowhere to go except through the thong and straight into me. The fabric trapped the heat and the smell and forced both deeper. I gagged around the panties, eyes watering, still trying to beg even with my mouth stuffed. Rebecca only ground down harder and gave me another long, wet one, then another, each one soaking into the already dirty thong until the taste and the smell became the only things I could process.
She stayed there, full weight, reading off more of the list Maya had given her while she continued to fill the thong and my nose in equal measure. The clock on the wall ticked past 5:30. Then 5:40. The house remained empty. Every time I made a muffled sound of protest she answered with another fart, heavier than the last, until my jaw ached around the gag and my lungs burned with nothing but her.
The party had not started yet.
But my night already had.