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Family's Furniture
You wake up, your hands and feet tied up with the back of your head placed on a chair in front of the TV. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and something savory, perhaps a bean and sausage scramble, wafts from the kitchen. Your mother emerges, a large ceramic bowl in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. She’s wrapped in a plush, pink bathrobe, her hair still slightly damp and messy from sleep. Her steps are unhurried as she pads across the living room carpet, her gaze fixed on the blank television screen, completely ignoring your strained, muffled grunts from the chair. She stops directly in front of you, taking a noisy sip from her coffee mug. Without a word, without even a downward glance, she lifts the hem of her robe. The soft fabric parts to reveal the full, heavy globes of her bare ass. With a casual sigh, she lowers herself, the immense weight and warmth of her flesh enveloping your entire face. The world goes dark, filled with the soft, intimate scent of her skin. The pressure is immense, forcing your head back against the chair's unforgiving surface. A muffled groan escapes your lips, lost in the fleshy confines of her cheeks. Her weight shifts slightly as she gets comfortable, one cheek pressing harder against your nose, the other smothering your mouth. She reaches out, grabs the remote from the side table, and the TV blinks to life with the morning news. A low, gurgling rumble vibrates through her flesh, a deep tremor that you feel directly against your cheeks and nose. The pressure inside her seems to build, the muscles of her ass clenching tightly around your face. She shifts again, grinding her butt down harder, sealing off any chance of you getting a breath of fresh air. The sound that comes next is a long, wet, bassy brrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappp, a thunderous roar that seems to go on forever, vibrating your skull. A hot, humid wave of gas blasts directly into your mouth and nostrils, thick with the pungent, sulfurous stench of her breakfast. It's a heavy, eggy, meaty smell that fills your lungs, making your eyes water. She lets out a relaxed sigh, her body softening as the pressure is released. "Ahh, much better." She murmurs to herself, taking another spoonful from her bowl. "Knew I shouldn't have had that second helping of beans." She continues to watch the news report, completely unconcerned, as if you were nothing more than a purpose-built piece of furniture designed for her morning routine. Your mother remains perched on your face, the weight of her enormous buttocks a constant, smothering pressure. She idly scrapes the last remnants of her breakfast from the bowl with her spoon. Each shift of her weight grinds her fleshy cheeks against your nose and mouth, recycling the foul, eggy air trapped between you. Another rumble starts low in her gut, a gurgling premonition. Her ass cheeks clench once more, this time less forcefully, and a series of short, damp little puffs, pfffffffft-pfrrrrrft-phhhrrrrrrt escape directly into your nostrils. The smell is less potent than the first blast, more of a warm, lingering sourness, but no less humiliating. Suddenly, you hear footsteps descending the stairs. Your sister, Chloe, enters the living room, dressed in a tight-fitting workout outfit, a yoga mat tucked under her arm. She doesn't even spare a glance at the bizarre scene of her mother sitting on her brother's face. She walks over to the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. "Morning, Mom. You hogging the good seat again?" Chloe asks casually, stretching her arms above her head. Her own plump, spandex-clad butt juts out as she bends over to tie her shoe. "I ate that whole protein bean burrito last night. My stomach's been doing backflips all morning. I was gonna use the toilet chair before my run, but I guess you beat me to it." Your mother lets out a noncommittal grunt, her attention still on the TV. She finally stands up, her massive, sweaty assprint leaving a damp, warm patch on your face. The sudden rush of fresh air is dizzying, but the disgusting stench of her farts clings to your skin and fills your lungs. She places her empty bowl on the coffee table. He's all yours. Just make sure you put the gag back on when you're done. I don't want to hear him whining all day. She says, walking back toward the kitchen, her bathrobe swaying with the heavy motion of her hips. Chloe barely acknowledges her mother's departure, her focus already shifting to you. She sets her water bottle down on the coffee table with a soft thud and strolls over, her hips swaying confidently in the tight spandex. The fabric strains across her well-defined, muscular glutes, a product of countless squats and runs. She looks down at you, her expression one of mild annoyance, as if you're a piece of exercise equipment that wasn't put away properly. "Right, let's get this over with." She says, her tone brisk and business-like. She grabs the gag—a simple ball gag attached to a leather strap—that was hanging off the arm of the chair. Without any gentleness, she shoves the silicone ball into your mouth and tightens the strap behind your head, pulling it snug. The taste of old saliva and your mother's faint scent fills your mouth again. With the gag secured, she grabs you by the hair and forcefully yanks your head forward, then shoves it back against the chair, repositioning you to her liking. "Stay still. I hate it when you squirm." She turns around, presenting her spandex-clad rear to your face. Bending at the knees, she grabs her own butt cheeks, spreading them wide before pushing herself against you. The thin, stretchy material does little to dampen the feeling of her flesh pressing firmly against your nose and gagged mouth. The pressure builds as she lowers her weight, grinding her ass into you. A deep, guttural churning noise echoes from within her, and you feel the vibration directly through the fabric. "Ugh, finally..." she groans, the words muffled against your face. Her muscles tense, and a long, drawn-out, hissing fffffffsssssshhhhhhhhhh rips from her asshole, the sound slightly muted by the tight spandex. The hot, pressurized gas inflates the fabric for a moment before seeping through, a foul wave of spicy beans and synthetic protein powder assaulting your nostrils. It's a sharp, chemical-tinged stench that burns your sinuses. She stays pressed against you for a moment longer, letting a few smaller, wet little *pfftfff* pffffttttt escape before standing up. "Okay, all yours, Aunt Carol." Chloe announces to someone you hadn't even realized had entered the room, before grabbing her water bottle and jogging out the front door for her run, leaving you tied up and waiting for the next assault. From the corner of the room, you hear the rustle of a magazine page turning. Your Aunt Carol, who had been sitting quietly on the armchair, lets out a sigh of impatience. As she stands, a soft, airy pffffft escapes the seat of her gray sweatpants, the sound barely audible over the morning news broadcast. She's a large woman, even bigger than your mother, with a truly prodigious rear that strains the fabric of her casual attire. Each step she takes towards you causes her massive buttocks to jiggle and sway, a hypnotic, intimidating sight. "Honestly, that girl takes forever," she mutters, her voice a low, gravelly timbre. She stops in front of you, placing her hands on her wide hips. Even as she stands there, a low gurgle emanates from her, followed by a short, punchy brrapppp that puffs out the back of her pants. The faint, sour smell reaches you even from a few feet away. She doesn't waste any time with pleasantries or adjustments. With a practiced motion, she simply turns and lowers her colossal weight onto your face. The world is plunged into a suffocating darkness of warm, soft cotton and even softer, warmer flesh. Her sweatpants are thin, doing nothing to mask the sheer mass and shape of her ass as it completely smothers you. The pressure is immense, and you can feel the distinct divide of her cheeks pressing into your gagged mouth and nose. Before you can even process the initial shock, her body tenses. A deep, wet, rumbling BRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMPPP explodes from her, vibrating through your entire skull. The hot, foul gas is forced through the porous fabric directly into your sinuses, a thick, putrid wave that smells of stale beer and greasy takeout. "There we go," she grunts, shifting her weight to settle in more comfortably, grinding the contaminated fabric against your face. "Knew I shouldn't have finished that leftover chili for breakfast." Her massive butt remains firmly planted, a living, breathing, and endlessly gassy prison. The television continues to drone on, but it's impossible to focus on it. You begin counting the seconds in your head, a dreadful anticipation building. True to form, not thirty seconds later, you feel the familiar clenching of her powerful gluteal muscles. This time, it's a series of rapid-fire, wet pops, ppplop-pbt-pbt-pbt each one releasing a small, hot puff of rancid air. The smell is compounding, a thick, room-clearing stench now trapped in a two-inch space around your head. "Oh, for goodness sake," Carol complains, not to you, but to the room at large. Another thirty seconds, another fart, this one a long, loud, flapping PFFLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRBBBBPT She sighs again, picking up the remote Chloe left on your chest. "It's going to be one of those days. Let's see if there's anything better on." Aunt Carol finally settles on a morning talk show, the host's bright, cheery voice a bizarre soundtrack to your muffled suffering. She lets out a grunt of satisfaction, her immense body sinking deeper, molding itself to your face as if you were a custom-made beanbag chair. The sheer weight is suffocating, and the fabric of her sweatpants, now damp and warm, feels like a second skin plastered over your own. Just as the show's host begins interviewing a celebrity chef, Carol's stomach lets out a loud, liquid gurgle. The muscles of her huge ass clench powerfully, and a wet, sputtering plllrrrpp-splaaaaaaaaat-pfft erupts against your gagged mouth. The stench is eye-watering, a potent brew of spicy chili and fermented sourness that burns your nostrils with every desperate, shallow breath you manage to pull through the sides of your nose. "Oh, I love this recipe for bean dip," she comments idly to the television, completely ignoring the foul explosion she just unleashed. She shifts her weight, not to relieve the pressure on you, but to get a better viewing angle. The movement forces a trapped pocket of the putrid gas directly into your sinuses. Another thirty seconds tick by with dreadful certainty. This time, it’s not a loud blast but a series of soft, hot puffs, phhfffffffrtht... pfrrfrfrft... prfrfrfhht that seep slowly through the cotton. Each one is a silent, insidious little assault, layering the thick, inescapable stench until the air around your head feels physically heavy and toxic. "They always make it look so easy on TV. Mine never turns out this creamy." She continues her one-sided conversation with the television, her body a relentless torment. You feel another tremor begin deep within her gut, a low rumble that promises another onslaught. Right on schedule, her entire lower body tenses. She lifts one massive cheek just slightly, a deliberate, practiced movement, before clamping it back down as a thunderous, bass-heavy BRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWMP rips out of her. The force of it vibrates through your teeth and jawbone. This fart is the worst yet, a thick, beefy, room-clearing cloud of chili and digestive juices now trapped in the humid prison she has created around your head. She lets out a long, satisfied sigh, her body relaxing completely as she settles in to watch the rest of the segment, leaving you to stew in the filth. "Hmm. Maybe I'll make that for dinner tonight. Lord knows I've got enough beans." The twenty minutes you spend under your Aunt Carol are a dizzying, nauseating eternity. She shifts and grinds, releasing a seemingly endless barrage of wet, chili-scented farts that leave the fabric of her sweatpants feeling damp and hot against your skin. Finally, with one last, long, roaring PFFFLAAAAAAAAARRRRRRPPPPTTT that seems to shake the very chair you're tied to, she stands up. The sudden release of pressure makes your head swim, and the air that rushes in is thick with the foul remnants of her digestive distress. "Alright, I've got to get to the store before all the good produce is picked over," she announces to the room, grabbing her purse from the armchair. She pats your head condescendingly as she walks past. "You be a good footstool now." Just as the front door clicks shut behind Carol, your mother wanders back into the living room. Her pink bathrobe is pulled tight across her torso, and she's patting her noticeably bloated, round stomach with a soft hand, a pained look on her face. "Ugh, I swear that scramble doubles in size once it hits my stomach," she groans, more to herself than to you. Her eyes land on you, and a look of cold practicality replaces her discomfort. She walks over and, with a rough tug, unbuckles the strap of the gag, pulling the slick ball from your mouth. You gasp in a breath of the fetid air, coughing as the stench of Carol's farts hits the back of your throat. Without a word, she goes to a heavy wooden chest in the corner, opens it, and pulls out a contraption of dark leather straps and steel buckles: a smother harness. She lets her bathrobe fall open, then shrugs it off her shoulders entirely, letting it pool at her feet. She stands before you completely naked, her enormous, pale bubble butt swaying slightly as she begins to buckle the main part of the harness around her wide hips. She approaches you, the leather creaking softly. Her expression is all business. "That breakfast is already starting to bubble. I can't be running back and forth from the kitchen every five minutes." She grabs you by the hair, forcing your head up and forward. She turns, positioning her massive rear directly in front of your face, and then pushes you forward. Your nose and mouth are buried in the warm, soft, pillowy flesh of her ass cheeks. The intimate, musky scent of her skin overwhelms the lingering sourness left by your aunt. She wiggles and adjusts, using her hands to guide your face until your lips are pressed perfectly around her wrinkled, waiting asshole, creating a tight seal. "There. Perfect." She reaches around, grabbing the head straps of the harness and pulling them tight, locking your face firmly in place. You are now attached to her, a human accessory for her digestive needs. She gives a tug on your head via the harness, testing the connection. "Let's go. I feel a big one coming on, and I want to get the onions started." With that, she turns and walks towards the kitchen, forcing you to stumble awkwardly out of the chair and follow, your face still suctioned to her ass with every jiggling step she takes. The journey to the kitchen is a short but humiliating ordeal. With every heavy step your mother takes, her enormous buttocks jiggle, and your head is pulled along with the motion, jerking back and forth. The soft, warm flesh of her cheeks presses and releases against your face in a nauseating rhythm. You stumble awkwardly behind her, your arms still tied, struggling to keep your footing as you are tethered to her like some grotesque appendage. The musky, intimate scent of her skin fills your senses, a smell that is somehow both clean and deeply personal, and it does nothing to quell the dread building in the pit of your stomach. She finally stops at the kitchen counter, her back to the sink. The abrupt halt causes you to bump into her, your entire face pressing deep into her pillowy ass. She reaches for a large yellow onion from a basket on the counter, her body twisting slightly. The movement grinds her ass cheeks against your face, the seal of your mouth on her asshole tightening. You can feel a low, deep rumble travel through her flesh, a definite gurgling that vibrates directly against your lips and tongue. It's the premonition she warned you about. Her muscles begin to tense, the large mounds of her ass cheeks squeezing your head like a vise. There's no escape; you are her release valve. "Always start with the onions," she mutters to herself, grabbing a large cutting board. Her voice is calm, focused entirely on the meal she's about to prepare. The internal pressure in her gut audibly builds, and you feel her asshole twitch and pucker against your mouth. Her entire lower body clenches with a powerful spasm. There's no loud report, no sound to warn the world. Instead, a violent, pressurized torrent of hot gas erupts directly from her asshole into your mouth. FFFFWWOOOOOOMMPPHH. The force of it inflates your cheeks and floods your throat, a disgusting, hot violation. The taste is indescribably foul—a direct injection of half-digested eggs, coffee, and stomach bile. You gag involuntarily, but the harness holds your head fast, forcing you to swallow the rancid air. A second, wetter blast follows immediately, phlurrrpp-blat carrying with it a minuscule, warm wetness that dots your tongue. She lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, her muscles relaxing as the pressure in her gut subsides. She places the onion on the board and picks up a knife, completely unfazed. "Ah, that's better. Now I can concentrate." She begins to chop the onion, her hips swaying gently with the rhythmic motion, your face still locked to its source of filthy relief. The hot, foul taste of your mother’s intestinal gas coats your tongue and the inside of your cheeks, a lingering flavor of sulfur and half-digested breakfast. You can do nothing but swallow repeatedly, trying to force down the vile air, but the harness keeps you locked in place, ensuring every breath you take through your nose is still thick with the musky scent of her skin and the faint, putrid echo of her release. Your mother, entirely untroubled, continues the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her knife against the cutting board. Her enormous ass sways gently with the motion, the soft flesh a constant, smothering pressure against your face. After a minute of chopping, she scrapes the onions into a sizzling pan on the stove, and the sharp smell of frying onions does little to cut through the filth you're breathing. She turns from the stove and walks towards the refrigerator, forcing you to stumble along behind her, your face still suctioned to her rear. The cold air from the fridge washes over your back as she rummages inside. "Let's see... bacon or sausage? The bacon makes such a mess, but I do love the smell," she muses aloud. As she bends over to look at the bottom shelf, her massive buttocks rise, forcing your head downwards. The angle puts immense pressure on your neck, and the seal of your mouth tightens even further against her asshole. You can feel a wet, gurgling churn deep inside her, a liquid rumbling that signals another impending eruption. Her cheeks spread slightly from the bent-over position, exposing you more directly to the source. "Ah, bacon it is," she declares, pulling a package from the shelf. She straightens up, and as her body returns to a vertical position, her powerful gluteal muscles clench hard around your face. The internal pressure needs a release. Instead of one large blast, a series of wet, sputtering pops escape directly into your mouth, pbpbpbpblblb-ploooooop-splarrrat-pffffffft Each one is hot and carries a distinct moisture, a tiny, warm spray of microscopic filth that splatters against your tongue and the back of your throat. The taste is even more foul this time, acidic and deeply unpleasant. She lets out another satisfied sigh, the tension leaving her body. "Right. Now, where did I put the big frying pan?" she asks, turning and heading towards a low cupboard. Your mother continues her breakfast preparations, a whirlwind of activity that forces you to be her constant, unwilling shadow. As she seasons the bacon in the pan, the heat and spices seem to agitate her gut further. She pauses, pressing a hand to her bloated stomach, and leans forward against the counter. A long, hissing psssssssssssssssst escapes directly into your mouth, a slow, seeping release of hot, sulfurous gas that tastes like rotten eggs and fried pork. The pressure is steady and unrelenting, lasting for a good ten seconds before tapering off. She doesn't even grunt, simply continuing to prod the bacon with a fork. "Almost crispy," she hums. A moment later, as she transfers the cooked bacon to a plate, she lets out a final, sharp PFFT! a punctuation mark to her culinary efforts, before finally unbuckling the harness. She shoves you away from her sweaty rear, her task complete. "Go on, get out of my kitchen." Just as you stumble back, the back door swings open and your sister Chloe breezes in, laden with glossy shopping bags from expensive boutiques. She's slurping the last dregs of a massive milkshake and looks utterly self-satisfied. She barely glances at your mother before her eyes land on you, still on your hands and knees on the kitchen floor. A smirk plays on her lips. "Oh, perfect timing. I just finished a triple bacon cheeseburger, and it is doing things to me!" she announces, patting her flat stomach. She looks at your mother, gesturing towards you with her empty milkshake cup. "Are you done with him? I need him for some... studying." Your mother just waves a dismissive hand. "He's all yours. Don't bring him back smelling like shit." Chloe grins, a predatory glint in her eyes. She grabs you by the collar of your shirt and yanks you to your feet, dragging you out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom. The bags are dropped carelessly on her bed as she shoves you towards her desk chair. Without any preamble, she turns her back to you, hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her tight yoga leggings and matching thong, and peels them down her legs in one smooth motion. Her bare ass is round and perfectly toned, a stark contrast to your mother's heavier build. She reverses and, with a casual grunt, plops her entire weight down onto your face, forcing you into the chair. The world becomes a smothering darkness of warm, soft skin. Her body wiggles for a moment, a slight adjustment that grinds her flesh against your nose and cheeks until her asshole is sealed perfectly over your mouth. Your neck is bent at an awkward, straining angle under her weight. She reaches for a textbook from her desk, flipping it open on her lap. "Okay, so you're not going to believe how much this new handbag was." she begins, her voice muffled slightly by the position. A low, bubbly gurgle emanates from deep inside her, vibrating through her flesh and directly against your lips. "But I just had to have it. I put it on your card, obviously. By the way, this is going to be a long night of studying, so get comfortable." Chloe shifts her weight, grinding her bare ass cheeks against your face as she gets more comfortable. The pressure on your neck intensifies, and the soft, peachy scent of her skin fills your nostrils. She casually flips a page in her textbook with one hand while holding up a new, ridiculously small leather purse with the other, dangling it in front of her. "And then there's this adorable little clutch from Céline. It was on sale, but 'on sale' for them is still, like, twelve hundred dollars. I mean, can you even? And these shoes-," she kicks a leg out, pointing her toe to show off a ridiculously high stiletto still in its box on the floor, "-are Louboutins. They're basically a work of art, so two grand is practically a steal. You should be thanking me for my excellent taste." As she speaks, a long, low gurgle rumbles through her body. You feel the vibration travel directly from her flesh into your skull. Her stomach is clearly processing the greasy burger and rich milkshake. Her asshole twitches against your lips, a tiny, involuntary spasm that signals the inevitable. The pressure builds rapidly. Her toned glutes clench tight, squeezing your head. There's a wet, gurgling sound from within her, and then she lets loose a long, thick, bubbly fart directly into your mouth. PPRRRPPPPPPBPBPBBBBBBBBRAAAAABBBBBLBLBLBLBLT! The blast is hot and dense, carrying the greasy, savory scent of fried onions and beef mixed with the sickly sweet undertone of dairy. It inflates your cheeks with a foul, warm pressure, forcing a gag reflex you can't act on. A tiny bit of wetness accompanies the gas, a warm spritz against your tongue. She doesn't pause her monologue for even a second. "Ugh, see? That burger is sitting like a rock. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right, the silk blouse. It was only five hundred, which is practically free..." She continues her materialistic litany, completely unconcerned, as you're forced to swallow the disgusting remnants of her digestive process, her weight pinning you in place for the next release. Chloe's stomach is a relentless engine of foul gas. The greasy burger and sugary milkshake have created a volatile chemical reaction in her gut, and you are the designated vent. She shifts again, another page of her textbook turning, and with the movement comes another eruption. A loud, ripping BRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWP! tears from her asshole, blasting a hot, heavy gust of air directly down your throat. The taste is a rancid combination of beef fat and something vaguely fishy, a new, disgusting layer to the flavor profile. She groans, not in pain, but in mild annoyance. "Ugh, this is just ridiculous. I can't even concentrate." She sighs dramatically, her entire body seeming to deflate with the sound. The release of pressure only makes room for more to build. She lets out another wet, sputtering fart, phlurt-splat that feels unpleasantly moist against your lips. She wiggles her ass, grinding the dampness into your face before settling back down. "You know, it's not just me bleeding you dry," she says, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. A low, ominous gurgle rumbles through her flesh, a promise of more to come. "Aunt Carol called me. She's at 'Le Ciel' tonight. Apparently, their tasting menu is, like, 500 dollars a person. She said to say thanks, by the way." The thought seems to amuse her, and the amusement seems to trigger another biological response. Her cheeks clench tight and a rapid series of hot, sharp pops are fired into your mouth, pfffffft-pffffffft-poopppppt-PFFT! each one stinging your tongue with its acidic heat. "Actually," she continues, a smug, cruel edge to her voice, "that's probably what's doing this to me. Me and the girls went to that new sushi place, 'Umi'. The omakase is, like, six hundred bucks a person. We got the sake pairing, too. So all this..." She pauses, her body tensing. She lifts one cheek slightly, aiming her asshole more directly at your mouth before unleashing a long, wet, hissing roar of a fart that feels like it's never going to end. PFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRBBbbbbbbbbbbbbbBBBLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT. The stench of old, expensive raw fish and fermented rice wine floods your senses, a uniquely disgusting and stomach-turning aroma. It's the most repulsive one yet, and you're forced to swallow it all. "...is basically your fault for having such good credit. You're welcome." Chloe's monologue is cut short by your mother's voice echoing from the living room. "Chloe! The finale is starting! Are you coming or not?" Chloe lets out an annoyed groan, not at your mother, but at the inconvenience. She stands up abruptly, her sweaty, fish-smelling ass cheeks peeling off your face with a slight sticking sound. She doesn't bother to pull up her leggings. "Coming!" she yells back. She grabs you by the armpits, her grip firm and uncaring, and begins to drag you from her room. Your feet scrape uselessly against the hallway carpet. You are nothing more than a piece of furniture being repositioned, an object to be used. She hauls you into the living room and dumps you on the floor in front of the sofa, right where the coffee table used to be. Your mother is standing there, holding a coil of thick rope. She looks down at you with the same detached expression she'd use to look at a wobbly table leg. "Honestly, Chloe, you could have at least put him back where you found him," she chides, before kneeling down. With practiced efficiency, she binds your arms tight against your sides, then loops the rope around your chest and legs, cinching it until you are completely immobilized, a human log on her living room floor. She rolls you onto your back, your face pointing towards the ceiling. "There. Much more stable." Chloe, still bare from the waist down, stands beside her. They exchange a look, a silent agreement passing between them. Together, they turn their backs to you, presenting a wall of flesh. Your mother's wide, heavy buttocks and Chloe's round, toned ones loom over your vision like a twin-peaked mountain range. Slowly, deliberately, they lower themselves down. Your mother's left cheek and Chloe's right cheek press against your face, squishing your nose and mouth between them. They wiggle and adjust, their combined weight crushing down on your head until they're both settled comfortably, sharing your face as if it were a custom-made ottoman. The TV clicks on. Your world is now a suffocating darkness filled with the mixed scent of their skin and the pressure of their asses. Your mother reaches over to the end table and picks up two large bowls of steaming, fragrant curry. She hands one to Chloe with a warm smile. "I made it extra spicy, just how you like it." Chloe takes a large spoonful. "Mmm, thanks, Mom." They begin to eat, their conversation turning to the characters on the TV show. The warmth from the curry begins to radiate through their bodies and into your face. A few minutes into the show, you feel a familiar tightening in your mother's side. The pressure builds, and then a hot, thick cloud of gas is pressed directly into your nostrils and mouth. PFFFRRRUUUMMPPH. It's a dense, silent blast, thick with the pungent, spicy aroma of curry and turmeric. You're forced to inhale the foul air as your mother nonchalantly takes another bite. Chloe doesn't even react, engrossed in the show. "Can you believe she's going back to him after he cheated?" Chloe asks, before her own gut lets out a low gurgle. She shifts her weight, grinding her cheek against your face, and releases a wet, bubbly fart of her own, ppbpbpbrrblblb-blurrrp adding a layer of greasy cheeseburger and rancid sushi to the curry-filled air you're forced to breathe. The spicy curry acts like a potent fuel in your mother's digestive system. Her heavy buttocks clench tight, and a deep, volcanic rumble vibrates through her flesh into your skull. She unleashes a thick, semi-liquid torrent of gas that feels more like a hot, wet sludge being pumped into your mouth. BBBBRRRRAAAAAAAAPPPPP-SQUELCH The force is immense, and the sound is accompanied by a distinctly moist splash. The taste is an unholy trinity of pungent curry, her earlier breakfast, and a foul, eggy sulfur that coats your tongue in a warm, gag-inducing film. She doesn't even pause her chewing, simply swallowing a mouthful of food as the foul air escapes her. Chloe, not to be outdone, feels a sympathetic gurgle in her own gut. The new curry warring with the day-old sushi and grease creates a truly vile concoction. She lifts her cheek slightly, repositioning her asshole directly over your left nostril, and lets out a high-pitched, sizzling hiss. Psssssssttttssssssssssseeew-splat! It’s a thin, piercing stream of gas that smells sharply of fermented fish and spicy chilies, and it ends with a wet spritz that dampens the bridge of your nose. "Oh, that reminds me," your mother says cheerfully, as if the disgusting symphony they're composing is the most normal thing in the world. She taps Chloe’s thigh. "I ordered that cashmere sweater set you wanted. And a matching one for me, of course. I just put it on your brother's card. It should be here Tuesday." "Oh my god, really? The one in baby blue?" Chloe asks, her voice filled with genuine excitement. Her excitement translates into another bubbly rumble from her insides. She wiggles, grinding her ass against your face, and releases a series of soft, wet pops directly into your mouth, which is still reeling from her mother's assault. Plooooop. Pblpbblbb. Blurp. "I have been wanting that for ages. You're the best, Mom!" She completely ignores the fact that her flatulence is bubbling against your lips. "We should get the matching shoes. I saw a pair online that would be perfect." Your mother lets out another slow, rumbling fart, a long phrrrrrrrrttttttrttrrrrrrmp that smells of digested lentils and cumin, as she considers the suggestion. "An excellent idea, sweetie. Pull them up on your phone." Your mother pats her stomach contentedly, the movement causing her heavy buttocks to shift on your face. A low, wet gurgle escapes her, a sound you can both hear and feel reverberating through your jaw. "Oh, and I didn't just get the sweaters," she says, her voice bright and cheerful. She takes another large spoonful of curry, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "I found a gorgeous leather handbag from Prada. It was almost a thousand dollars, but it's an investment piece, really. It will go with everything." Her words are punctuated by a sudden, violent clenching of her ass cheeks. A hot, thick, semi-liquid blast erupts from her, so wet it’s more of a shart than a fart. BBBRRRLLAAAAARRRRT-SPLAT! The foul, shit-tainted curry stench is overwhelming, a thick, putrid cloud that fills your mouth and sinuses. The texture is disgustingly tangible against your tongue, a gritty, warm paste. Chloe, completely unfazed, lets out a delighted gasp. "The Prada? The one with the gold hardware? Mom, that's amazing! We are going to look so good." Her own body tenses, and she adds to the foul atmosphere with a long, gurgling fart that feels like it's bubbling up from the depths of her intestines. Pppppbbbbrrrroooobbbllle-phlewp. The rancid fish-and-grease odor mixes with the feces-smelling curry, creating a uniquely nauseating cocktail. Your mind, unable to process the constant sensory assault, begins to shut down. The voices of your mother and sister become a distant drone, their words about money and clothes losing all meaning. The crushing weight, the suffocating heat, the constant, disgusting violation... it all merges into a single, numb reality. You are no longer human. You are a chair. A toilet. A credit card. BPOPRPRPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT PBRAAAAAAARTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT Your mind goes blank as their farts mingle in your mouth. THE END |
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