By: Dawofwar
Weeks had passed since the infamous bet, and things had settled into a twisted routine. Mom was back home, oblivious to the siblings' secret games, and Rachel had been biding her time, letting Matt think he was safe. But she wasn't done—not by a long shot. She'd been planning something special, gathering supplies from online orders and thrift stores: a vintage gas mask with a long hose, thick rope, and an old blanket. Tonight, with Mom out at a late meeting, Rachel decided it was time for a "reminder session."
Matt was in his room, scrolling on his phone, when Rachel burst in with a mischievous grin. "Hey, fart boy. Miss me?" Before he could react, she tackled him onto the bed, pinning his arms. Matt struggled weakly—still recovering from the last ordeal—but Rachel was stronger and quicker. She grabbed the rope from her backpack and expertly tied his wrists behind his back, then his ankles together. "What the hell, Rach? Untie me!"
She ignored him, rolling him onto his stomach and wrapping the thick blanket around his body like a burrito, securing it with more rope. Only his head stuck out, his face flushed and panicked. "This is for cheating last time," she said sweetly, straddling his back. "You tried to breathe through your mouth too much. Tonight, no tricks."
From her bag, she pulled out the gas mask—an old military-style one with a rubber seal and a long, flexible hose. Matt's eyes widened. "No... please, not that. I can't—"
"Shut up," Rachel snapped, forcing the mask over his face. It fit snugly, the straps tightening around his head. The hose dangled loosely, and she adjusted it so the intake valve was right under his nose. "There. Now you breathe whatever I give you. No fresh air, no cheating. Just my gas, straight to your lungs."
Matt whimpered, his voice muffled by the mask. "Rachel, this is insane. You'll kill me!"
She laughed, patting his masked cheek. "Oh, come on. It's just farts. You've survived worse." But deep down, she knew this setup would be intense—her gut had been rumbling all day from the beans she'd eaten for lunch, and she planned to make it count.
First things first: the camera. Rachel had set up her laptop on the dresser, the webcam angled toward the bed. She hopped off Matt and fiddled with the settings, positioning it for the perfect view—Matt's wrapped body on the bed, his masked face helpless. "Let's make sure this films well," she muttered, hitting record. She waved at the lens, then bent over to check the angle, her butt facing the camera. "Good lighting? Check. Focus on the hose? Check. And... action!" She blew a kiss to the camera, then turned back to Matt. "Smile for the fans, bro. This one's going viral... in my private collection."
Matt squirmed in his blanket cocoon, the ropes biting into his skin. He could barely move, and the mask made every breath echo strangely. Rachel climbed back onto the bed, positioning herself behind him. She pulled down her leggings and panties, exposing her bare ass, and grabbed the end of the hose. With a wicked grin, she connected it directly to her crack, pressing the nozzle against her asshole. "Time to connect the dots," she said, wiggling her hips. "Breathe deep, Matt. This is gonna be a long night."
She strained, and the first fart erupted—a low, rumbling blast that surged through the hose. Matt's eyes bulged behind the mask as the hot, noxious gas flooded his nostrils. It was pure sulfur, thick and choking, filling his lungs instantly. He coughed, but the mask trapped it all, forcing him to inhale more. "Ungh... Rachel, stop! It's too much!"
Rachel moaned in relief, rubbing her belly. "Feels good to let it out. And you? How's it feel to be my personal gas tank?" She pushed again, releasing a second salvo—a sharper, more acidic one that burned his throat. Matt's chest heaved, his body convulsing in the blanket. The gas was overwhelming, a mix of rotten eggs and something meaty, coating his insides like poison. Tears streamed down his face under the mask, and he gasped desperately, but there was no escape. Only her farts.
Minutes ticked by. Rachel kept the hose connected, her ass sealed against the nozzle, ensuring every puff went straight into Matt's airways. The third fart was longer, a deep bass rumble that inflated his lungs painfully. "Take it all, slave," she taunted, grinding back. "This is what you get for losing bets." Matt's vision blurred; the stench was so intense it felt like his brain was melting. His stomach churned, nausea rising, but he couldn't vomit with the mask on.
By the fifth or sixth blast, Matt was fading. The gas was cumulative, each one building on the last—hot, humid, and utterly debilitating. His heart raced, his head pounded, and his body went limp in the ropes. Rachel noticed, checking the camera feed on her laptop. "Aw, already? It's only been... what, 10 minutes? Pathetic." She disconnected the hose briefly, letting him wheeze, but then reconnected it for one final, massive salvo—a wet, explosive fart that echoed through the hose like a bomb.
Matt's eyes rolled back. The noxious fumes overloaded his system, and he blacked out, his body going slack in the blanket. Rachel laughed, disconnecting the hose and patting his masked head. "Night-night, fart boy. Sweet dreams." She stopped the recording, satisfied, and left him there, wrapped and gassed into oblivion.....
Rachel sauntered back into the room a few minutes later, a fresh glass of water in hand, humming to herself. She'd taken a quick break to check her email and admire the footage she'd just captured—Matt's muffled struggles looked hilarious on camera.
But as she stepped closer to the bed, her smile faded. Matt was awake, his body wriggling furiously in the blanket cocoon. The ropes were loosening; he'd managed to twist one wrist free and was clawing at the knots around his ankles. His masked face turned toward her, eyes wide with desperation behind the foggy lenses.
"Damn it, Matt," Rachel muttered, setting the glass down. It seemed he'd gotten used to escaping her traps over the weeks—slipping out of handcuffs or wriggling free from sheets. But not this time. She moved silently behind him, her bare feet padding on the carpet. In one swift motion, she wrapped her legs around his torso from behind, her thighs clamping down like a vice on either side of his wrapped body. Matt gasped, his struggles intensifying, but the blanket and ropes held him mostly in place.
"Rach—let go! I can't breathe!" His voice was muffled and panicked through the mask, his free hand flailing uselessly.
Rachel leaned forward, her chest pressing against his back, and grabbed the hose dangling from the mask. She yanked it taut, ensuring the intake valve was perfectly aligned with his nose. "Oh, you think you're slick, huh? Escaping like a little Houdini. Well, guess what? You're not getting out of this one." She pressed the mask firmly against his face, sealing it tighter, her fingers digging into the straps to hold it in place. Matt bucked weakly, but her legs pinned him down, her weight keeping him immobilized.
"Now, hold still," she whispered in his ear, her breath hot. "Time for your bedtime story." She shifted her hips, pulling down her leggings just enough to expose her ass, and backed up slightly, connecting the hose's end directly to her crack again. Her gut gurgled ominously—she'd been holding this one in, a greasy monster brewed from the oily pizza she'd scarfed down earlier. "Sweet dreams, bro."
With a grunt, Rachel unleashed it: *Brrrggggggfftttt* a horrible, greasy fart that erupted like a wet cannonball.
It was thick, oily, and rancid, surging through the hose in a hot, viscous wave. The stench was pure nightmare—greasy meat, burnt fat, and something sickly sweet that clung to the insides. Matt's body jerked violently as the gas flooded his mask, invading his nostrils and lungs in an instant. His eyes fluttered, a choked gasp escaping before his muscles went slack.
"That's right... just let it take you," Rachel cooed, holding the connection tight. The fart lingered, a deep, suffocating infusion that coated his airways like tar. Matt's struggles ceased entirely; his head lolled forward, and he slumped into unconsciousness, plunged into a profound, dreamless sleep. Rachel disconnected the hose, patting his masked cheek. "Good boy. Sleep tight—I'll be back when you're ready for more."
She re-tied his loose wrist securely, smirking at her handiwork. The night was young, and so were her ideas.
Matt stirred groggily, his head throbbing as consciousness seeped back in. The world was hazy at first, but panic hit him like a wave when he realized he couldn't move. He was on his back, his body immobilized, and his head... his head was encased in something cold and transparent. Glass? He blinked rapidly, his vision clearing to reveal a small glass cube surrounding his face and neck, sealed at the bottom where it attached to the floor with heavy clamps. Only his head protruded from the top, exposed to the air, but the rest of him was trapped below. He thrashed wildly, his arms and legs straining against unseen restraints—ropes or straps, he couldn't tell—but nothing budged. The cube was airtight, and a small trapdoor hinged above his head, currently open, letting in a sliver of light from Rachel's bedroom.
"Rachel! What the fuck is this?!" Matt shouted, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. His heart pounded; he felt like he was suffocating already, the glass walls closing in. How had she moved him? And when?
The door creaked open, and Rachel stepped in, beaming with delight. She was wearing a short skirt and a crop top, her hair tied back in a ponytail, looking every bit the triumphant dominatrix. "Oh, you're awake! Perfect timing." She sauntered over, her eyes sparkling as she peered down at him through the glass. "Like my new toy? I call it the 'Fart Chamber.' Cost me a fortune—custom glass, reinforced seals, the works. All for you, little bro. No more escaping this time. You're stuck until I say otherwise."
Matt's eyes widened in horror. "You... you spent money on this? For me? Rachel, this is insane! Let me out! I can't breathe in here!"
She laughed, circling the cube slowly. "Breathe? Oh, you'll breathe plenty. That's the point." With a graceful motion, she hiked up her skirt and sat down on the trapdoor, her bare ass sealing it shut. The hinge clicked, and the chamber was now completely enclosed except for the small opening around Matt's neck. Rachel wiggled her hips, getting comfortable, her weight pressing down firmly. "See? No way out. And I've got a full tank ready just for you."
Matt's panic surged. He tried to hold his breath, clamping his mouth shut and pinching his nose, but the glass amplified every sound. Rachel grinned down at him, her face inches from the trapdoor. "Aww, trying to play tough? Cute. But let's see how long you last." She rubbed her belly, which gurgled audibly, and then relaxed.
The first fart came out as a low, ominous rumble, venting directly into the cube through the trapdoor. It was thick and heavy, a dense cloud of hot, sulfurous gas that filled the small space instantly. Matt's eyes watered as the stench hit—rotten eggs mixed with something sharp and acidic. He held his breath tighter, his face turning red, but the gas swirled around his head, inescapable.
Rachel chuckled, watching his struggle. "Come on, Matt. Breathe it in. It's good for you." She extended one foot, pressing the sole against his belly. With gentle but firm pressure, she guided his breathing—pushing down to make him exhale, then lifting to let him inhale. "In... out... in... out. That's it. Smell your sister's love."
Matt resisted as long as he could, but his lungs burned. Finally, he gasped involuntarily, sucking in a mouthful of the noxious fumes. The gas seared his throat, making him cough violently, and his vision blurred. "No... please..." he wheezed, but it was too late.
The concentrated fart overwhelmed him, his body convulsing as he lost consciousness, slumping limp in the restraints.
Rachel clapped her hands in glee. "One down! But we're just getting started." She waited a minute, letting the gas dissipate slightly through a tiny vent she controlled remotely, then released another blast—a sharper, more explosive one that echoed in the cube. Matt came to with a jolt, gasping, but Rachel's foot was already back, guiding his breaths. "Breathe, slave. Deeper." He fought it, holding out for a few seconds, but her insistent pressure forced him to inhale the fresh wave. His eyes rolled back, and he blacked out again, the glass fogging from his labored breaths.
She repeated the process, playing with him like a toy.
The third fart was a long, drawn-out squealer, filling the chamber with a humid, cheesy aroma that clung to everything. Matt woke in terror, thrashing weakly, but Rachel's foot pinned his belly, making him breath. "Good boy. Almost there." He passed out once more, his body going slack.
For the fourth time, Rachel built it up, teasing him with a series of short puffs before unleashing a massive, rumbling finale—a greasy, meaty bomb that turned the cube into a sauna of stink. Matt stirred, pleading through tears, but her foot guided him relentlessly. "Inhale it all." He did, choking on the fumes, and darkness claimed him again, his head lolling to the side.
Rachel leaned back, satisfied, fanning the air outside the cube. "Four times in a row. You're getting better at this, Matt. But don't worry—we've got all night." She stood up, opening the trapdoor slightly to let in a breath of fresh air, knowing he'd wake soon for more. Her investments were paying off.