Jason's Story
by Silmaril

Everyday her heels would tap fiercely on the floor.

Tack, tack, tack.

I knew everyone around me would be aroused, every boy in the room, every boy in the fucking academy could hear it. That sound was a gift from heaven, granting us a divine vision for only a second, but that second was what saved us from lectures about Homer's Odyssey or about logarithms.
It's hard trying to hide your erection in an all-boy's school. If you randomly thought of your girlfriend or just felt damn horny throughout the day, especially in the morning. But when she walked down the hall everyone would understand and it would be excused.
There would be false alarms though. Sometimes it would only be a guy wearing really nice shoes or, unfortunately, it would be one of the old hags who happened to wear heels that day.

But when it was her, Ms. Johnson, it was eye-candy galore.
It was better when she sauntered down the hallway in between classes; that meant more time to stare at her lovely ass rivaled only by Kim Kardashian. In that business suit of hers and that skirt and boys would gawk like you wouldn't believe. And that face, oh that lovely face. A widow's peak truly means beauty, trust me. I hated it when she cut her hair, but when it was long, that brunette waterfall shimmered down just beneath her shoulders.

For three and a half years at the school I had watched that ass jiggle down the hallway. Interestingly enough, she had gained weight. The width of her rump widened to a more pleasing degree, jutting out like a balloon. But I've noticed her skirts becoming increasingly tighter and tighter around the waist, her buttons straining more and more. She was full of meat and thick, juicy meat. Not the obese kind, nor even the typical "fat" kind and strong, firm meat.

I just had to imagine the kind of fart that would come out of that ass. It had to have been bassy. Yes, I could picture it now. She's alone in the hallway, feels one brewing, she looks to the left and then to the right, the pressure is killing her. She lifts her leg in that tight-ass skirt and lets loose a monster's groan. She was down-to-earth enough with the boys to enjoy a fart joke . . . right? The curiosity pounded me. And her belches, they must have been bassy too. I once froze with amazement when I witnessed her grunt as she tried to hide in a belch in the lunchroom, only to keep the beast inside and puff out her cheeks. But I imagined what it would be like had she not restrained herself, had she been walking alone in the hallway with no one to judge her. Would she let it loose even slightly louder? Even if she deemed all those functions gross, immature - can she not help but embrace that orgasmic release?
She was an advisor to the students, suggesting what they should go for next and how they should go about it. She knew about the colleges and the universities. And she also simply knew about life and how to handle it.

Everyone was assigned to either her. . .
Or Mr. Gary, the old man who grunted and stared at you awkwardly behind a pair of spectacles. The mere thought of him could ruin my libido.
But knowing my life, the paths it forces me to take, I get Mr. Fucking Gary.
And for three years I was forced to chat with the mumbling geezer, while trying to hide my erection from hearing Ms. Johnson's voice in the office next door, imagining her sighs and groans in that sweet and sultry voice.
This was what plagued me almost every day that I saw her. And in a world where I've failed to find someone to please me, I obsessed over it.
It was my last year there. I had to find out. Someway, somehow.
So I did something crazy.
It wasn't that crazy but I never could predict what it led to.

I created an imaginary survey from the boys themselves. It was stupid, yes, but I had nothing to lose really. It was all anonymous and she would only toss it away. The highest level of threat would be that she could complain to the Principal that someone was stalking her. I just wanted to see what would happen.
I made up some bullshit that the boys were beginning a raucous tradition of secretly asking their teachers embarrassing or silly questions. I had no idea where I was going with this and only let my imagination fly with the questions. Do you sigh? Lift a leg? Ever told someone to pull your finger? Had a bad experience in a fancy restaurant? I made it simple and yet very satisfactory for me.

I created another email account just to serve for her purpose and told her to send those answers to it.
I slid it under her door long after the day was over (I did lacrosse practice after school and managed to sneak back inside the halls).
The next day I asked myself what I had done. She didn't send me an email, not for an entire week. As I predicted, she probably grunted at it in distaste and tossed it away.
I caught sight of the Principal one day coming from her office. He glared at me. Then again, he glares at everyone. He had something in his hand. I couldn't tell if it was my envelope or not. I almost died of a heart attack that day and but still and nothing happened.
I decided to focus on my studies and finish strong. So what if I never found an outlet for my fetish? I could live with it. It was alright. I knew I had to pay attention in Calculus anyway.
And then I heard it.

Tack, tack, tack.

It stopped.
Ms. Johnson looked into our room.
Oh no . . .
This was it. I was caught. That stern look on her face. She could be a bitch, I knew it. One time she totally raped these boys a new asshole when they were fighting in the hall. She snared at them, the fierce tiger she was.
The teacher called me up, saying she needed to talk to me, then went back to the lesson.
I got up, perspiring.
Some of my friends snickered and hooted.
No one was in the hallway but us.

"Yes?" I asked.

She suddenly brightened, oh thank God, and said, "In case you don't know, I'm Ms. Johnson. Mr. Gary is having trouble with the sudden influx of freshmen and needs to cut down on them. Based on your interests of studying, he suggested you to me instead. Would a first meeting tomorrow around two-thirty be ok? I know it's the end of school but it's really the only time I have."

-----------------------------------------

Two-thirty, next day I'm sitting in her office.
In her office, her fucking office.
Her incredible ass sat in that chair right across from me, the impression still deep and warm.
I made sure I looked good. Why? I didn't know. Not like I was gonna marry her or anything. Then again, she wasn't that old at all, she was very young. Her age was a mystery. She must have been fresh out of college. Maybe the playful girl in her was yet still inside, assuming she had that personae.
She came in. She said some things to me about my grades and my college opportunities in which I don't remember because all I could look at in that moment was her stomach.
It practically bulged from her skirt, begging to be free. Tight and taut. I imagined it with gas. A ticking time-bomb wanting to explode but not ready yet.

"I see you've applied yourself to Princeton, how do you feel about that?"

I was still gazing in space imaging the possibilities of her gaseousness. She seemed to press on me with a waiting look.

"Huh? Sorry. Heh, um, heh . . . Princeton. Yeah, I knew you were going to find that weird. It's just that my father is obsessed with wishing me there. I know I'm not going to have a chance so I'm not obsessed over it, but I did it anyway for him."

"I see, well you know the academy doesn't have a real tight relationship with Princeton, unlike these other schools."

Tight. Like her stomach. Like her ass. Like the blouse that she wore, buttons practically twitching. Like the black business jacket she had over it, probably unable to be buttoned at the center, probably why she had it open.

"Rutgers University I think you feel is a typical choice. Isn't? It's pretty renown althoughóurpóalthoughó"

I held my breath that very moment.
That slight guttural noise she produced just then and was it really what I thought it was? A strained effort to keep that beast inside? A painful, gaseous little burp, the ones everyday people dismiss during conversation with a quick grunt and placing of the hand over the mouth, and then it's over and back to the conversation as if nothing happened.
She had continued talking but I had not listened to a single word. I found myself dumbfounded when she left a question open.

"Sorry?"

She gave a face of concern, "Are you alright? I've noticed you haven't said much since we started."

"Sorry, I'm justólong day."

"Ah, really, classes hard? How's-uhóoh, right,--how's Calculus going for you? I know you've had some problems in the past with math butó"

"Yeahóno, it's fine. Just this week has been feeling uh. . pretty, pretty slow, you know?"

She smiled angelically. "Of course, especially now in the winter, weather gets people down and slow andóurpóexcuse meóyou know what's also been really slow? This lunch. Sometimes the lunchroom here can be really horrid."

My heart absolutely, irrevocably, stopped beating.

"Don't you agree?"

"Yes!" I half-barked.

She was taken aback somewhat.

I laughed awkwardly, very awkwardly. I wanted to slap myself. "Yes, the food is terrible, real terrible. Especially the stuffed shells. Yeah. They're not stuffedówell enough. Stuffed. Ahem. Theyóthey have them really watery and it's horrible. Absolutely horrible. Worst meal I can ever have here."

Ms. Johnson chuckled. "Well then, Jason, I didn't know you felt so strongly about it."

"Oh, yes," I said, taking a deep breath, staring at her own stuffed stomach, "very strongly indeed."

She went on about things I hardly could pay attention, and only agreed where it fit best. Alas, the meeting itself was winding down; there was not much else left to talk about. I awkwardly tried to think of something else to drag on.
It came to the point where I was seconds away from lifting myself up from that chair, when she said, "Thank God the day is over. I can finally do this. I hope you didn't mind while we were talking but I wasn't sure if it was rude or anything, but at least I held it in until now."
The button popped.
And the zipper came down.

"Haha, that's better. "

I sat staring again, that belly suddenly almost reached the size of a balloon now that it was free to roam.

She looked at me innocently. "Unless. . . is there something else you'd want to talk about?"

"Uh. . ."

"Like my gas?"

I widened my eyes. Immediately I shot up to my feet and backed away a bit.
She still looked at me innocently. It creeped me the fuck out. But if what was going on was really what was going on, I couldn't believe a second of it.

"Ms. . . Johnson?"

"Yes?"

"I. .. you . . ." I couldn't find the right words at all. I started to spazz out, gesturing with my hands to help me but with no avail.

She finally dropped that innocent look and smiled briefly. "Jason, you're a very interesting person. As a psychologist, I've always wanted to test and experiment up hand the mysteries of sexual desires with fetishes. Of course, Mr. Gary has no idea about this. Nor does anyone in the staff. For all Mr. Gary knows, he is still your adviser. "

"Holy . . ."

"Now I'm willing to secretly be open to you about these things. I believe you need a good, harmless outlet to express your fetish. I'm completely available to you, there's nothing to be ashamed of to talk about or experience, so long as you keep telling me how you feel and why you feel it. I know it's late and you should be getting home, but is there anything you wish to share with me quickly?"

I couldn't find the strength to stand, so I sat back down, still flabbergasted. She only responded with a warm smile. I finally said, "I'd uh. . . like to stay a while then. At least. . . until three-thirty?"

Ms. Johnson just sat there looking at me. Something was wrong.

"Ms. Johnson?ó"

"Sshh, wait," she snapped. She seemed to wait for something. Then when the time was right she leaned gently to one side, exposing that delicious rump of hers, and let one go.

By God, she truly let out bassy farts as I had predicted, and the force she let out with them too! She squinted and grunted, ripping a good, five-second blast.

She laughed out loud, and soon I did too. "So, Jason," she began, taking out a pen and pad, "how did this interest begin?"

By the middle of the following week, Ms. Johnson knew about my entire history with my fetishes. She listened with interest and asked me question after question. I found myself relatively comfortable, though somewhat tentative about embracing the situation with a twenty-five year old woman.
I told her about my earliest dreams as a boy, which included a lot of burping and farting from females I had seen in my life until that point. I also once thought that maybe it came from my mother, who would rip ass and belch like it was nobody's business. Therefore I might have subconsciously believed that all girls should be like that. I then gave my more recent theory on it, and I explained how the build-up, release and relief of gas is similar to a sexual build-up, orgasm and relief of having had an orgasm.

"I'm impressed, " she said afterward, "usually I figured someone else your age would just blindly go with it without questioning it."

"Well," I began, looking down at the floor, "I've often found myself alone in liking such things, and found out the hard way that I couldn't get some girls to be open about it. At some point I wanted it to change, wish I never had it."

"Do you think your fetish enriches your sex life?"

I shifted in my seat. I twiddled my thumbs. "Uh . . . I guess."

She saw right through me, "You've never had sex . . . have you?"

"No."

She scribbled that down, mumbling, "Interesting."

She stopped abruptly and stood up, "Very well then. Stay seated. Just relax."

"What are you going to do?"

She came over to me and in a flash she was sitting on my lap, legs spread out. I felt her ass gently press against my knees. Moreover, her breasts were directly in my face, one more inch leaned forward and they would have pressed against my cheeks.

"Um. . . "

"Tell me," she said calmly, "are you turned on?"

"Yes . . .well, somewhat."

"Only somewhat?"

"I'm not really a breast person."

"Why?"

"I . . . I don't know. I'm all for the ass."

She bit her lip, thinking. "Do you think that whenever you see a big butt you immediately associate it with the person able to do big farts?"

"Yes," I chimed, "actually."

"That's not necessarily true you know."

I shrugged.

"Very well then, grab my ass."

"What?" I half-shouted.

"Jason, as I've said, there's nothing to be afraid of. I'm merely experimenting with you here."

I inched across her thick thighs, feeling them in the process, until . . . dear Lord, her ass truly was firm, and yet soft enough for a good squeeze.

I sighed. "Do you work out?"

"Sometimes," she said with a shrug. "Now how do you feel?"

"A little more turned on."

She began to take off her jacket, and then after that unbutton her blouse, to which I immediately said, "Waitóstop. You don't need to do that."

"Oh?"

"I don't know . . . it's not like I hate seeing nude people, but I'm turned on less when the person is nude. It's like . . . there's no point in desiring it anymore because it's already there. You know? When it's covered just partially, that's what drives the desire. When you're wearing tight clothes or have cleavage and that's what makes a man have the drive in the first place. At least, that's how it is with me."

"You're a smart kid, you know that? Devilishly smart. Unfortunately for you I'm not feeling gassy today. But at our next meeting I promise I will be, just generally. Unless there's something specific you want me to do?"

"Ms. Johnson, if I may, I still hardly believe all of this. You honestly won't agree to anything I'd request. "

"What makes you think that?"

"Because. . . "

"Because?"

"Becauseóbecause! Thisóall of this so far has been so ludicrous, so unbelievable! I'm still paranoid that someone will find out."

"Jason, I assure you that no one knows about this but us. This is strictly for my own study, something I'll end up writing in the future. Now tell me, what is it you would like me to do for next meeting?"

"Are you lactose intolerant?" I snapped.

She thought, eyes roaming. "Depends. Not always but . . . yeah, sometimes I get a foul reaction when I have a lot of ice cream."

"Then forget about it."

"Jason, just tell me."

"Ok, fineó" I stammered, "goógo drink a gallon of milk."

"Consider it done." She smiled, got off of me and gathered her things to close up her office. I still sat there not believing her. "You're not going to really do it. . .are you?"

"Yes."

"I don't even think you can. Won't you get really sick?"

"I'm willing to risk it for the sake of psychological discovery."

"I still don't think you can do it. Not an entire gallon, you'd vomit before you finish." I began to laugh playfully and walk out the door.

"Trust me, Jason. When you step in my door next Tuesday afternoon, I would have finished a gallon of milk. The empty jug will be right on my desk."
__________________
I half-burst into the door the second the bell rang for dismissal. "Didja actually do it?"

"What do you expect?"

It took me time to digest the scene. Ms. Johnson slumped in her seat, rubbing what looked like almost a pregnant stomach. I couldn't believe it. The milk jug sat there on the table . . . empty. I still couldn't believe it and touched it with my bear hands, crumpling it. Every drop gone.

"I told you I could do it," she grunted.

"Youóyou already unbuckled your belt, andóyour jeans! Aw, I wanted to see you in the act of unbuckling and unbuttoning them."

She moaned once more. "Fuck, Jasonó" she was cut off suddenly by a massive, hideous, growling belch, but continued to speak anyway, "óI couldn't wait! I feel like I'm having a goddamn baby."

It was the first time I had heard her curse casually. She must have been in real pain then.
She sat up straight, only to grunt "oof" in discomfort. Her stomach was so taut that it didn't sag over her pants, only remained as one massive, motionless bulge. I sat down, gasping and chuckling in disbelieve. It was the most perfect, round shape I had ever seen, more perfect than the roundest ass. She even had to undo the first few buttons on her blouse to make room. It was believable and it was unbelievable at the same time.
"Keep in mind I had to eat too you know."

I hesitated. "CanÖCan I see you try to um. . .zip up again?"

She sighed, then grinned with a nod. She attempted to zip the pants. It took time and much effort, it wouldn't even bulge. She grunted more when she zipped it all the way. After that she paused, and then forced the button back to its hole. It wriggled under the weight. Then she attempted to pull the belt together, straining, pulling it back . . . until finally it buckled.

"Uh. . . can. . . I see you. . .stand up? Um, please?"

She lifted herself up with some difficulty. And here was the grand vision. I mouthed, "Oh . . . my. . .God."

The tightest, sexiest business suit I had ever seen. Her skirt practically shrunk since the morning. Her ass might have grown too, and the belly, that perfect sphere, bulged tightly underneath.

She said, "I had to hide this throughout most of the day. You can imagine some of the looks your friends gave me when I walked down the hall. "

"Heh. . .haha. . ."

She began to laugh too. Suddenly, something went wrong. She was so bloated that I heard her stomach churn. A deadly pang came across her abdomen and she lost her balance. I was terrified for a moment. I had heard that a human cannot take in a gallon, but then other sources saying we could hold up four liters and well more than a gallon. Still, that was the general maximum and everyone's body reacted differently.
I reached down, eventually sitting on the floor with her, holding her, supporting her. I reached for her stomach subconsciously; for that moment only it was to make sure it was alright but I soon realized I might have been breaking somewhat of a barrier.

In between small gasps, she said, "It's alright. I already told you, Jason, I'm completely available to you. You can do whatever you like. I'm observing this as an experiment."

I still hesitated to reach out, but once I felt the surface of that stomach I was under a spell - it really was as taut as I could imagine. I was practically feeling a basketball. I began to embrace every sense of her. I at last whiffed her perfume at its strongest source, a hint of Chanel. I could fully hear her stomach churning away and grunting at all it had to digest. I smelled the awful, yet appealing stench of food whenever she belched.

"Excuse me," she suddenly said, turning away, "didn't ask first if you'd like it in your face."

"Oh, noóno, it's fine. It is."

"I thought you said once you hated the smell."

"Not always with burping anyways, sometimes. It depends."

I reached for her belt and began to . . . unbuckle. . .it. . . very. . . slowly. . .

"Why are you doing it like that?" she asked. "Does that happen to turn you on?"

"In a way, yes."

"How so?"

"You're feeling better, right? As I'm unbuckling?"

"Yes."

"Ok. . .but when I do this. . ."

She grunted from the sharp pain her stomach gave as I jerked the belt tighter. "I feel discomfort. . . ow. . . ow. . ."

"Exactly, "I continued, "so it's like . . . the lust for gluttony. The way I see it. The desire to just . . . sit back and lounge freely. . . "

"I see," she said, intrigued.

After I unbuckled her, I nudged the button. She was so fucking bloated that it only took a single touch to let the button fly open, and she was also so big that the zipper suddenly unzipped by itself, her gut bulging over.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and asked, "Now what?"

"Now . . . it's just indulgence. Lounging. Basking in the relief of the gas you let loose, rubbing your stomach knowing you've satisfied yourself."
So for about a half an hour, the greatest half-hour of my sex life, she leaned on me sitting on the floor belching away when she needed to, sighing and letting me caress every part of her bloated, voluptuous self. None of her belches were soft or tiny and each burst forth robustly accompanied by a fresh stink of food. They were so loud that her eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets with her mouth wide open and her tongue lolling about like a cartoon character would. After each belch she said she felt better and better, but the bloat itself was nowhere to diminishing, in fact it somewhat felt bigger as time went by. It grew noisier, much noisier. About every five minutes or so she received a wave of pain, almost like that you see in television dramas when a pregnant woman is about to have her child. With each wave, her stomach literally moaned out loud.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" I eventually asked.

She was about to speak but instead grumbled a belch in reply. It was the sexiest, low-grumbling belch I had ever heard, lasting about seven seconds, seven heavenly seconds. After she sighed, she whispered, "It's alright. Trust me."

Her stomach seemed to rumble in protest. I thought it was going to be yet another wave of pain but it stopped abruptly.

Suddenly, Ms. Johnson sat up straight like a rocket.

"Jason. . . ?"

"What?"

She clutched her stomach. "I have the biggest fart coming on."

"Whó"

"No, seriously. I'm not going to fart and I'm going to rip ass."

"Is it really that bad?"

"FUCK yes, Jason, move."

"Why?"

"Because I have to lift my leg for this one. There's no way it's gonna come out freely if my ass is squished against the floor."

"Butó"

"Jason!"

"Waitócan you. . .see if you can hold it in?"

"What?" she almost screamed.

"That's another important part of the fetish for me and the desire to release. Let it build up. Tell me how it feels."

"I feel like . . . like something huge is squirming throughout my intestines."

I imagined it and a huge, elongated cloud of pure gas irritating everything on the inside, dying to be let out.

"Stand up," I said. She did so immediately.

"Don't tell me and you want me to do it in your face?"

I shrugged. "I feel neutral towards it, but hey I like a good view of your ass anyway."

"Ah, fuck, it's stuck. Jesus, this is gonna be huge."

She bent over in front of me, about to lift her left leg when she felt it coming only to put it down. She kept grunting and cursing and bending over in pain. "I feel like I can't breathe!"

At last she cried, "Holy fuck, here it comesó"

And so she lifts her leg and lets fly the longest fart I had ever heard. I wish I had recorded it and I wish I had so damn much.

It started off with a low murmur, gradually getting louder and louder until it stabilizes into a single loud roar of an engine. She had given out an atomic fart, and with glee too. The look on her face was so orgasmic, her eyes rolling as she ripped more and more. It ceased to be a murmur and became a dirty blast of air so forceful that her skirt rippled with the wind freely.
Such a windy bowel she had. She could have filled up a balloon with that one fart. It kept going . . . and kept fucking going! So long that I had time to reach for her ass and feel the air itself blow against my fingers. I tried so hard not to let anything embarrassing happen to me.
I couldn't help but think and if only every hot girl in the world could blow their asses like Ms. Johnson could. I imagined Kim Kardashian bending over to the media and letting fly that same beast with that even more delicious ass of hers. I imagined the girls back in middle school leaning to the side in their chairs and letting it go with utter satisfaction. Blonds, brunettes, red-heads--Who else, who else and oh, yes, Scarlett Johansen. Just imagine if these women had that same fart brewing, what would they think? They would have had to let it out, even the stingiest must stuck up girls I've met who said they've never done it must have to admit they would let this dirty, foul, utterly virulent creature fly and free their stomachs of its torment.

It still kept fucking going! It got to its bassiest tone, uttering a long musical note of pleasure, like a foghorn. Oh if only she could lift her leg and let fly that same bassy tone anytime like a captain of a tugboat and his foghorn. Her lying down, I would just lift her leg and the horn would blow and echo so loud.
Alas, oh alas, the fart winded down. It began to sputter back to a murmur. At times there would be another long strain but then it would cut short with another sputter. It was all so dry and bassy, not wet or juicy. Pure gas. Pure effects of lactose intolerance.

The relief. The utter . . . satisfying . . . relief. She sometimes grunted even more as a sudden force in tone came, and then it went back to its normal, constant hum. With the look on her face, I could just imagine her feeling every inch of her stomach feeling less and less pressurized, feeling the gas escape her bowels. She could rub her belly again without that wave of pain. After the last murmur had gone, she sat back on her desk and kept gasping, then scoffing in disbelief.

I glanced at my watch. It had to have been at least over a minute long.
I was there for at least two hours. I eventually had to create a story to my mother about coming back home late, something about hanging out with friends afterwards in town.
Ms. Johnson sat on my lap the entire time, lounging and ripping ass and belching. Although her farts were nothing like the gigantic, one-minute ripper, they were still powerful enough to give me a massive boner. She never released weak, squeaky, puny ones that you'd think girls would rip. No. Ms. Johnson let out a man's fart. They were boy farts, the farts a punk would let out during summer camp. And I gripped her stomach and felt it rumble each time she lifted her ass cheek to fart. I often times played with the button on her skirt, making her grunt each time I tightened it only to hear her sigh when I loosened it. She fell into a stupor like that of a drunkard, full and loaded, resting on me moaning from time to time as I rubbed her belly with my left hand and fondled her ass with my right.

"Pull my pinky," she suddenly began, "and then pull each finger after that ending with the thumb." She raised her hand, all fingers out. I wasn't sure what entirely this was, if it was a variation of "Pull my finger."

"Um. . ."

I pulled her pinky, and she let out a simple fart. I then proceeded to pull her ring finger, and she let out a deeper, bassier fart. As I pulled each one, she released another, louder, much satisfying fart. I pulled her thumb and she let off a great ten-second ass-rip, ending with a sigh.

"Fuck, that felt amazing," she muttered.

A little while later she straightened and said, "Oh God, here, do the same, only this time I'll have both hands up."

"Both."

"Yes! Now start with the pinky, quickly."

I grinned, reaching for her pinky but then stopped.

"What are you doing? Pull it!" she half-cried out.

"How does it feel?"

"Like I'm going to burst. Please, Jason, pull my pinky. I'm dying here."

"It turns me on when you beg. I want to see how long you can hold it."

She glared at me, then couldn't glare any longer because her stomach lurched. "Jason . . . I really have to fart. Fuck! It's tearing up my stomach!"

"Ah. . . you can hold in a little longer."

"Fuck you, Jason! Pull it now! If I end up suppressing it, it's really going to hurt me!"

It was the sexiest game of "Pull My Finger" I had ever played. She created a beautiful, symphonic-fart-crescendo; it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. She had amazing control of her sphincter, probably from those amazing ass muscles she got at the gym. When I pulled her second thumb, she gave off a twenty-second fart, the only fart that day to rival the one-minute one.

"You know Jason," she began, before letting off a grunt-like belch, "I'm starting to understand how this is a great fetish."

I responded with a, "Hrm."

"It just feels so . . . " She wriggled in her tight skirt. "fucking good."

"I'm glad."

"So this must be the perfect display of your fetish, no?"

I paused. She recognized it immediately. "Um. . . well. . ."

"What is it?"

"You aren't burpy enough. You look like you've got great gas going there but I'd want to see the best you can do from it."

"Hm." She stared into space for a minute. "Well, what I remember from my younger days is that I'd be much more burpier at parties with beer and all."

I immediately brightened. She probably felt my dick rise at least two more inches against her butt. She responded seriously, "Jason, I can't get drunk on the job."

Total turn-off. She had said it in such a stern voice, almost as stern as when she was a bitch to the boys in the hallway. I hoped to God I didn't step into something awkward.

Ms. Johnson then smirked, belched into my face and said, "But that doesn't mean we can't do it off-campus."
_________________
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. I had been in the car for over ten minutes already. I was deathly nervous. It was around ten on a Friday night, and I had told my mother that I would be going to a party and would return late. Everything had been set up for me to spend all the time in the world at my adviser's place.

And yet I was fucking scared. I didn't know what was wrong. I felt horny as hell just thinking about what would happen once I knocked on that door and went through. I remembered her smile and her carefree nature. She was such a wonderful person to have stumbled upon. I still was in shock over the past few months about our secret "experiments for the sake of psychology." I started to wonder how far she would go with it. There were times, like when she drank that gallon of milk, when I wanted to be inside her, gripping her delicious rump and stroking her breasts. I felt devastated for some reason thinking about it. I didn't know what the boundaries were anymore.
I went to the door finally, and waited.
The house was homely, not one of those mass-produced monstrosities you always see in the suburbs nowadays. It had two floors. I tried to focus my thoughts on the scenery, but that failed miserably once she opened the door.
She wore a silk, pink bathrobe.
And nothing else.
Cleavage unlike any other stared right at me. Like I said, I was never really a boob-guy, but at that moment I could have been turned. I had to admit, her breasts were voluptuous and plenty.

"I. . . Did I come too early?"

"No, you're right on time."

"Then how. . . I mean. . . youó"

"I realized you never told me specifically what to wear; I know you're particular. So I just put this one so that once you make up your mind, I'll quickly change into it."

I continued to stare.

"Come, come in. I'm almost done making dinner."

She turned to head for the kitchen, and I couldn't control myself. Her ass swayed like a pendulum and something about the silky bathrobe made it so unbelievably. . . sexy. By then I was used to what she had said about personal space, that it was all open so long as I told her how I felt and why.
So I approached her from behind and felt her up, pressing my crotch against her puffed-up butt cheeks. I rested my chin on her shoulder and rubbed my head against her soft hair, breathing in her perfume. With my left hand I squeezed her ass, and the other I felt across her stomach, which seemed bigger due to the months of binging, but her constant workouts put it down to that perfect size. She would always quickly burn that fat, knowing I get turned off at a certain weight. God, what a woman.

"I thought you didn't like it when I was naked. Or. . well, nearly."

"I don't know," I began, feeling the silk of the bathrobe, "this is different. True, if you were naked I wouldn't be as horny as I am now. You remind me of a princess, or. . . like you were from Greek or Roman times. A time that was more sexual. I've taken history classes, and heard of symposiums."

"Hm, yes, I know what they were. Drinking parties. Men and women getting drunk off their asses while performing rather naughty acts."

"The silk helps too, and the fact that it's a robe. It's like. . . the robe is taunting me. Something so skimpy and yet. . . able to cover up so much. It makes the desire much more. . . desirable."

"Interesting." She put my hands aside and said, "But we must eat. This is nothing without the gas, right? We could have our little symposium right here."

I went into the kitchen and gasped for a moment, for it truly was like a Greek symposium. Booze was lined up beautifully on the counters. The table was filled to the brim with foods of all kinds; bread and beans, chicken and pork, vegetables and fruitsóeverything.
I sat and waited for her to get something from the fridge. With a smile, she placed the last item on the table and a gallon of milk.

She shrugged. "For old time's sake?"

And so she sat too and we began what was to be the greatest fantasy of my life. The dinner was slow. She gradually got stuffed, but not stuffed enough. She just began with a simple engorging of beans and meats. To my surprise we had a lot to talk about, and she truly was a smart person. She promised me that by the end of the night, she would have drank an entire twelve-pack of beer, or more.
The gas didn't come for a while. Then somewhere around the third beer she began to belch here and there. They were deep and rumbled, lasting for about four seconds or so. Sometimes she drank too fast and the beer sloshed in her belly, making her uncomfortable. She squirmed in her chair and grunted "Oof," rubbing her stomach.

"Stuck?" I said.

"Yeah. Ah, fuck. It's building up."

Her stomach made a loud noise and she released a ten-second roar. Most girl burps I heard start out low and end high. Others are high-pitched and end up high-pitched ; those were the ones that really turned me off and those weird, throaty burps that sound almost like someone is scratching nails on a chalkboard.
But Ms. Johnson belched low and it stayed low all throughout. She was a stuffed up bear, moaning with gas. She was an absolute slob, but a beautiful slob. With that bathrobe on, she literally was a princess, unashamed to be unladylike.
"Sit on me," I breathed.
I almost had an orgasm when her ass pressed on my lap. She rubbed her stomach and said, "I'm getting full. . .but there's still a lot to work on."

She brought up another beer and chugged it right there. It was the most lustful thing I had ever witnessed. A breast-bouncing beauty sitting on my lap, with one arm around me and the other downing alcohol and best night ever.
With each beer, her belches became manlier and gassier. To my amazement she finished the entire pack then and there. I felt her stomach, and it was taut with rumbling carbonation. She tried to speak but had to belch at least five times; it was as if she was talking to me with her belches. When the last eruption faded, she said, "See? Told you I could do it."

"You don't feel full?"

"Somewhat. But Jason, I can hold my liquor. I can go for much, much more." She immediately belched after finishing, a short and sweet one.

"I'd uh. . . I'd like you to put on some new clothes now."

"Like?"

"Something tight now. Like your business suit."

"With the skirt?"

"No. Wait, screw the business suit idea. Wear jeans. The tightest ones you got. And wear whatever you want on top. But make sure the jeans are really tight, ok? With a belt on."

She nodded and got up.

"Wait," I said once more.

She stopped where she was. I rubbed her ass with both hands. I almost laughed out loud; it was like playing a game with balloons. I cushioned my head on it as if it were a pillow, and then kissed it.

"Jason, you are so strange, but silly."

"Ok, go."

"I won't be long."

She came back downstairs wearing the sexiest pair of jeans I had ever seen. The greatest thing about them was that they were those kinds of jeans that didn't have any back pockets and it was just a pair of smooth, blue spheres ready for squeezing. On top she wore a white blouse with buttons, and a great-looking bra. She was about to sit down but then thought otherwise, and instead bent over slightly to put her ass in my face.

"Squeeze it," she said.

I did, and she let off a nice blast of a fart.

I laughed and said, "Is that the new Pull-My-Finger?"

"I guess. Squeeze it again."

I did, and she ripped a longer one.

"Those pork and beans are starting to get to me."

"Wait, do you have a lot of gas in you this moment?"

"Uh. . .kinda."

"Waitówaitóum . . .each time I squeeze your cheeks, rip a fart. But if I squeeze it longer, then you have to fart longer until I let go."

"Ok . . . I'll try." I reached out but then she told me to wait. She massaged her stomach, and I imagined the gas forming into a big, noxious cloud inside. "Ok . . . try it." I squeeze for about three seconds, and she farted for that long. I squeezed her other cheek for a second, and she let out a short blast. We started laughing and she said to keep going. So I kept squeezing her cheeks for different times until she ran out of gas.

"I need to refuel," she said, and burst into laughter. Without even me asking, she sat down on my lap and hugged me. Hugged me. It was the sole, non-sexual thing she had done that made me feel warm inside. She continued to laugh and say how fun this really was to her, and rambled on some more but I wasn't paying attention because of a gradual revelation that crept in the back of my mind.
So she continued to stuff herself. I had my fill for the night and just let her release her gas on me. I felt her breasts every now and then, starting to realize how much fun they were too like her ass. She almost drank an entire bottle of rum and I said, "Christ, Ms. Johnson. Are you even tipsy?"

She swayed a bit. Her response was delayed. "Um, a bit. ButóI mean. . .I never really tried this before. I don't know when all of this is going to hit me."

"What you mean?"

"Well, from what I remember from my experiences, which weren't as wild as you'd like to think they were, I just got drunk as I drank. I never really downed everything at once and waited to see how it felt like."

"There's a first time for everything." She raised her bottle, belched with agreement, and said, "Rightly so!" And she downed the remainder of the bottle, smacking it with pride on the table.

She wobbled a bit on my lap, but it was only to raise her butt-cheek and let a nice, dirty fart fly. She would do so with a squirming face, sighing afterwards. With the table, she created a battlefield of empty plates and left-over bones from chicken wings. She really began to be bloated, and her stomach was begging for her to unbuckle the belt and make room. Yet she somehow knew I wished to see her reach a limit and refused to do anything about it.
After she cleared away the pot of beans, the milk gallon stood there. We both exchanged a glance, hers more wobbly and drunken than mine.

"I wonder what happens if you mixed that with all the beer in you," I murmured.

"Exxxxxxxplosion!" she cried out, then giggling.

"You're pretty drunk, arentcha . . ."
"No," she suddenly said with a straight face. "I'm just entering that loose stage. That stage where I don't care if I have a boob slip or not. You know?" She jiggled her breasts and kissed them. I squished them twice for good-luck.

So she went on to drink some milk, slowly, one cup at a time. She also was crazy enough to mix it with a few chugged beers and some shots. I couldn't even imagine what a deadly mix would produce. She was using her own stomach as a boiling, gassy cauldron, adding in magical elements.
It was midnight, and she had already drank half a gallon. At that point her stomach gave an incredible lurch. I had thought she was going to throw up. The painful grumble subsided and she put down her glass of milk.

"Oh. . . ok. . . ok, Jason. . .I uh. . ."

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just starting to get really painful now. I need to stop. "

"Ok, yes, sorryóuhóyesóby all means stop."

The thought of her vomiting already started to turn me off.

"I could do more later, after I've had my share of peeing and just letting it settle, but for nowó"

"No, yes, I understand. I do. Stop."

I looked at her last cup of milk. I pursed my lips, the demand was tempting. She looked at me and already knew what I was thinking. Her stomach was beyond bloated and it was swollen to the max. Her belly showed no matter how hard she tried to pull down her blouse.

"Jason, I know what you're thinking, and. . .I really couldn'tó"

"Try? Please?" I gave an innocent grin. "Just one more drink. Surely you can squeeze some more, and think of it this way, it will all pass away with much more relief."

She moaned. I pressed the glass to her lips.

"C'mon, you can do it."

"Jason . . . ."

"Just once more. . ." She gave up and her lips parted, and she slowly drank all the milk with her eyes shut. When she was done, she gave another moan and said, "Can I finally---"

But I already knew what she was going to ask, and so I said, "Yes. You can do it for me." I rubbed her belly; it was tight beyond belief. It wasn't soft anymore, but hard as a rock. I pushed and she snarled a curse at me.

"Fuck, Jason, that hurts so much. Just undo it." I gulped. I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol that made her angry. So I quickly undid the belt, she sighed, and the button actually fucking popped open. I laughed, and so did she, but a much more sexual, pleasurable laugh. I had never thought something like that could actually happen. The button snapped off, broken, and the zipper zipped down immediately. Her gut bulged out almost twice its size. She gave a lazy grin, belching softly but still manly.
And so, it was a little over midnight; she had eaten about two main entrees, almost two twelve-packs of beer, a bottle of rum, some wine, half a gallon of milk and some shots of tequila to top it off.

"Let's go sit on the couch. I want to lie down."

She wobbled off of me again and barely stood up straight, looking pregnant. I made my way to the living room but stopped to watch her try and walk; it turned me on again immensely. So I helped her and indulged in her gradual drunkenness, feeling her ass along the way.
I sat first, telling her to sit on me and then lie down. She moaned with discomfort as she bent to lower herself onto the couch. I grunted when her big ass squished me, but then she straightened herself and laid down.
So, I had her ass on my lap, with her legs stretched out to my left and her bloated belly on my right; not even a dream could have done this.
I rubbed her stomach, appeasing to her desire to feel comfort. She did not belch or fart for the longest time. She said not to worry, it was only digesting and forming, but it was a good idea to massage as much as I could to press it out.
Suddenly she lifted her right leg, such a sexy motion, and blasted the messiest fart I had ever heard. Now when I mean messy, I mean it was loud as fuck, but not only that and it sounded as if a cacophony of instruments clashed and it was also bubbly, but also airy, and hideously nasty in smell. It sadly wasn't that long, but it was so fucking loud it sounded like a shotgun blast, and it was relieving as hell from her gasping sigh. That fart held the deep bass of the milk, the scent of the beans, the escaping air of the veggies and so many chemicals mixed together to form a diabolical monster.
She ripped these "messy" farts so many times. I had never heard a person rip so many in a row. The longest was about seven seconds, and even though it wasn't as long as the infamous minute-lasting-fart, this was even better. The sheer monstrosity of its loudness and she laughed and said she swore her rectum had exploded. If she could go even longer, I couldn't even imagine the relief she'd have.
She had gasped out and sighed so many times that she sat up, looked at me with her happy, drunken eyes and said, "Jason, I think I'm actually getting turned on by this. It feels so fucking good to let go. See, watch . . ."
She gripped her stomach and grumbled a belch.
It was amazing.
And yet I didn't really know how to react to that either. Had I forced my interests into her? I didn't know. I started to turn off again, and I cursed for thinking too much into it.
What was I doing to Ms. Johnson?
More importantly, what was she doing to me?
She took several bathroom breaks, and eventually said she could drink some more. She was drunk enough to try out a new drink and milk and beer. The idea sounded horrible, yet I didn't say anything as she mixed the two and took a sip.

"How is it?" I asked.
"Fucking horrible," she said with a giggle.
I started to laugh too; the whole experience started to get so absurd, yet so enjoyable. I really didn't know what to make of it, other than realizing this was a night for sheer absurdity in fetishes, one long and dirty night to indulge in anything we desired.
She wanted to get stoned. I was speechless. She argued that she was still young and still smoked some pot here and there. I asked if she was ever drunk and stoned at the same time.

She spat at me, "Pffft, no. But wouldn't it be fucking fun as hell?"

I had never really witnessed someone getting high before, and I found it somewhat disturbing, but after all being high was also in my list of turn ons for its ability to make one inebriated.
She was starting to get totally fucked, and I mean and TOTALLY FUCKED. It all actually happened in a matter of seconds. All the beer, rum and tequila finally started to hammer her brain into complete mush, and the pot was making it even worse. She spazzed out for a moment on my lap, about to fall . . . but sober enough and just by a string and to pull herself up again.

"Fuck . . . it's just . . ." she giggled hard, "hitting me more and more . . . like I. . .oh fuck. . . I can't even sit up straight."

She started to break wind so loud, but she was so out of it she hardly even realized it. She only noticed after smelling something horrible, and then cackling out loud that she had farted.
Ms. Johnson started to grip onto that bit of soberness and leaned on me, pleased with a smile. "I know I'm going to feel like fuck tomorrow . . . but I feel so fucking goooooood."
She wrapped her arms around me. "I haven't had so much naughty fun before. Thank you, Jason." She held on tightly. God, I thought I would explode in my pants just feeling her bloated self against mine. She finally let go and just sat there wobbling, her eyes dropped and her expression stoned.

"I haven't. . . been this fucked. . . "

I grinned with mischief. "You know. . . technically if you are aware of the fact that you are fucked, you aren't really fucked."

Ms. Johnson swayed her head at me. "This is true. . ." We both smiled, and then she shouted out of nowhere, "HIT ME AGAIN, SAM! Bring me another round! I'm gonna chug until I fall flat on my ass and my gut is as high as Mount Everest!"

And so I handed her another twelve-pack. She hardly got through it, but she did get through enough to fall flat on her ass and have a stuffed gut pretty high, although not as high as Mt. Everest.
She became truly, irrevocably, insanely, smashed.
Ms. Johnson failed to respond, yet moved about and released a fury of farts and belches. She said things, incoherent things. I propped her up and just let her be, playing with her belly seeing if I could coax a response by tightening her jeans.
The only recognition I could see that she was still aware of what was going on was after her tremendous farts. She wouldn't say anything, but she sure as hell would smile with wasted glee.
I kinda fell asleep. It was very late. Already three in the morning.
I dozed off into one of those naps where you weren't sure how long you were napping until something suddenly woke you up fully.

This time it was Ms. Johnson. She had received an ounce of soberness back in her, but still very much fucked up. Still, she was able to turn and whisper in my ear, "Jason, I want to make love to you."

Hokay, Jason, that's enough. I think it's time for you to go.

I froze then and there. She still stared at me waiting for a response, sober enough to be calm about it. I thought about things, many things. I thought about . . . well. . . I guess it was more a feeling. I couldn't describe it. I wanted it, yes, and I didn't at the same time. I felt I was in denial of something so much that I failed to recognize clearly what it was.
I looked into her eyes, they were soft and brown. I felt my heartbeat rush with excitement, not for sex but for something more. I saw her face and all I could feel was joy. She wasn't just someone to my awkward, clumsy adolescence to; she was someone I could talk to about anything in general.
Did I love Ms. Johnson?
I knew for sure I would never tire of her. I knew that every time I walked into her office she was happy with me and never expressed any contempt or awkwardness. Things had gone fast, yes, but also smooth. We responded to each other without needing to say anything.
And that scared me.
As I suspected, Ms. Johnson realized how much it bothered me. She looked away ashamed, almost as if what she had said was not her. At that moment she looked like a shy, little girl. She told me sometimes about her childhood, regular and typical, yet lonesome. Like she was waiting for something, something that had never happened then and happened now, with me.
She was about to apologize but I said, "Waitóno. . . I mean yes. I do too. A lot. Believe me. I've had these other fantasies about making love to you too, and not just sex, not banging, no. Making love. There's a difference."

"Then. . .you want toó"

"Yes," I breathed, stroking her face. "Yes, very much so. Let's just do it, do it now before we think too much about it."

"I'd want to fondle first, just a little. I would rather . . . slip into something more comfortable . . ." She broke a drunken grin. "But I'm so fucked up to walk the stairs."

"Do it anyway. Try. It will turn me on immensely."

She giggled. "Ok. It'll be fun actually."

She shot up to her feet and stumbled, hitting her knee on a nearby table. She cursed but laughed it away. She seemed very happy, and I could distinguish it from the drunkenness and the pure happiness, I could. She eventually fell and started to crawl towards the stairs, her ass facing me. She gave a devilish grin, and I grinned back. We both laughed and she continued crawling to the stairs, sober enough to use the railing as help and get to the top.
Ms. Johnson returned in that silky pink bathrobe. By then, I was waiting patiently at the couch with my shirt off. She walked slowly, trying not to fall. She let off a messy fart and burst into insane laughter, but composed herself and continued until she finally fell on top of me. We made out, she occasionally belched in my face, and I felt her rump as she let off a couple more messy farts.
I embraced every square inch of her voluptuous, firm body. I moved my hands against her meaty, strong thighs. The touch transitioned from the smooth silk to the soft skin, and then back again. I slapped her ass a couple times and she giggled, then plunged back to continue kissing me. She began to moan with a rhythm as I massaged her breasts, then her nipples. I suddenly had a last minute idea before our intercourse. She cursed loudly from the interruption, but I said, "Trust me, c'mon, quickly. Let's pull up a chair."
I jumped on one and she practically roared with desire as she sat on me, legs apart. And so we began to rock back and forth. Her sighs heightened. I heightened it even more as I rubbed both her breasts, I just kept doing what I was able to do to give her maximum pleasure and comfort. We rocked harder, and harder. The chair kept lifting and banging on the floor. She screamed and we fell over onto the floor, she burst into ecstatic laughter, gasping and laughing. I don't think I had ever seen anyone so happy in his or her life. I started to get a little soft, but got hard again after she broke gusty wind. We rolled across the floor, crawling together. We were in the kitchen and she reached over the counter for a fresh bottle of vodka. She began chugging it as we continued to rock. It was the single sexiest thing I had ever witnessed. She drank so much that some of it trickled down her throat. She stopped only to give out shrieks of pleasure, flinging the bottle around as if she were on a ride in Six Flags. She belched so loudly, chugging and chugging.
"Room, room, my room," was all she could wail out, trying to tell me to go up to her bedroom but was so overcome by ecstasy she couldn't say anything more.
We humped our way up the stairs. I mustered the strength to stand up and carry her, holding gripping her bottom. The excitement must have let all the gas in her loose, for she ripped the messiest farts I had ever heard, loud and obnoxious. I pictured of the many times to come. I pictured her bloated and in a tight dress at the bar, leaning over to discreetly rip a fart but failing miserably. I pictured the random times she came to me in the hallway, when it was silent, and stick her butt out at me and rip one, giggling.
But now, oh now was the sweetest love making ever. We tangled up on the bed and continued rocking, rocking for hours on end. Time meant nothing anymore; neither did all the cares in the world. Even after she had long exhausted her gas, her tight rump and plump breasts were enough to keep me going, and even beyond that, it was ultimately herself as a person, as a soul, a soul I so desperately wanted to conjoin with.

It was ten in the morning.
The sun shine crept lazily through the curtains. I opened my eyes to a cold room, with a nice spring breeze coming through. I recollected the night and smiled, smiled so widely.
I then remembered the day and leaped to my feet.
Reality came to me.
It hit me hard.
What we had done, why we had done it. . .
And then I had to be home. It was a miracle my mother didn't call me.
I flopped out of the bed, stirring Ms. Johnson. She lay on her stomach with her hair disheveled, and she tightened the covers. Suddenly she too remembered and shot up. She caught me as I was dressing, and we both stared at each other, not knowing what to say.
And so it was silent for a while. She stared off into space as I dressed.

"You have to go, don't you . . ." was all she could say.

"I guess. Yes."

"But. . ."

I stopped.

"What?"

"Your mother works on Saturday, right? Today?"

"Yes."

"And your parents are divorced so your father isn't even home. . ."

I sat beside her. "Listen, Ms. Johnson, what happened last night. . .it was out of impulse. IóI meanó"

"I still remember, Jason."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. I was fucked up, yes, but I really meant it. I remember it all so clearly."

She seemed to cringe with the sunlight, and she made a weird look. "Although. . .to be honest . . . I'm still a little drunk." She had said it with a cute whisper and a look of naughtiness.

I stroked her hair, and then had her lean on me. "So. . . .what does this mean now?"

"Isn't obvious?" She nudged her head deeper. "We're in love."

"Heh. . .obvious," I muttered.

"Oh dear. . ." Ms. Johnson sighed.

"I never knew this would happen."

"Neither did I. But I felt compelled."

Ms. Johnson suddenly became a teenager again. I looked at her and she seemed to have lost all her adulthood. I had completely forgotten that she was like five years older than I was. She cuddled with her blankets and snuggled with me.

"Do you think this could work?" I asked.

"We could try." She bit my ear playfully. "Do you. . .really. . .have to go?"

I smiled. "No . . . now that I think about it. At least not until seven or so tonight."

I undressed quickly and leaped into bed. She giggled and was all over me in seconds, then fell silent.

"I've never gotten so drunk that I was still somewhat drunk the next morning."

"How does it feel?"

"Mmmm. . . quite liberating."

I felt her breathe. Seconds later she stopped, and then a loud and muffled fart rumbled underneath the sheets.

She sighed. "That was quite liberating too."

"Sexy as well."

"I'm still so gassy, you know. But not as before. This is a different kind of gassy. The kind of slow, morning gas you get after eating or drinking heavily the night before. They're like slow bubbles rising up and then popping, or rather exploding."

The sheets vibrated a couple more times, ending with her grunts.

"You want to do it again?" she whispered. Her hand slithered down to my crotch. I found mine slithering down hers.

We did do it again, several times actually. It wasn't as intense as the first time obviously, but it was sure as hell smooth and comforting, the kind of morning sex to ease the morning wood. We did it softer this time, more flowing and more experimental in our approaches. I found that we didn't even need to talk; she responded physically to everything I wanted to try, and me to her. Eventually we stopped to go downstairs and eat, get the usual daily stuff out of the way. Along the way she stumbled, giving me a boost of a drive, and so I dry humped her from behind, slapped her butt and then walked along, hearing her giggle. Then she would seduce me at my seat and we'd be at it again, like raving rabbits. We didn't do anything more with her gas, for she very much still had leftovers from the night before. Her farts were the greatest they had ever been, it was strange to describe. She ripped ass like a wild beast, like a dirty elephant or rhinoceros would and insanely loud and messy. She had the kind of farts that tore up her intestines and swelled a storm. I heard them from anywhere in the house. If she went off to get something in her room, I heard a blast of wind and a laugh. Same thing with her belches, she belched so loud that I heard it anywhere. She strolled into the bedroom once with a pompous stride, acting like a medieval princess and said, "Excuse me, sire, but I have the windiest bowels today." And so she lifted her leg in that robe of hers and broke another gust of wind, strong and relieving.

It was a slow day overall, the kind of day where you knew you did nothing productive except make love to your girl ever couple of hours.

It was hard to part her mid-day. I said I was leaving around four, and we were rocking on the couch again at five. Alas I got myself to get dressed and actually step outside the door. She told me to wait, for she had wind to break. She lifted her leg and her robe fluttered with her farts. She knew how much I loved it when she did that like a princess, lifting up her robe and letting it fly. I came closer to her, inched my fingers to her crotch and fingered her. I did so enough to make her sigh with ecstasy. She farted several times more. I gripped that ass of hers, remembering its firm touch.

We kissed.

And alas, I left.

-------------------------------------------------------------

School was coming to a close.

I had decided to stick with Rutgers University after my senior year of high school finished. I hadn't put much thought into what I wanted to do yet, then again everything was wrapping up quickly and the pressure was being put off.

In the weeks that followed, Ms. Johnson and I shared a passionate, secret relationship. If we passed by each other in the empty hallways, I'd snatch a grab at her ass, which she responded to with a giggle and grabbed my crotch. There were days when nothing seemed to be going on, just hot summer days, and she would look wrought with stress about all the students she had to take care of before the semester ended. Sometimes she would look very tense, and her bitchy side seemed to come out in front of others. Even thought it was scary, it was rather desirable to watch.

I zoned out to the Internet in the Computer Room during free periods, and sometimes she would hurry over to me and whisper in my ear, "I need a good fuck right about now."

There's something enticingly . . . dirty about banging a chick doggy style with both of you still somewhat having your clothes on, especially when you've got a tight ass in a skirt to stare at. We had to be really discreet about it. I would always have to grip her mouth tightly to muffle her ecstatic cries. Alas, they were meant to be quickies for about forty-five minutes until the period was over. I once took the heat from my professor coming to class late. But that day it was for a very good fuck. She ripped ass in my face as I banged her yet again doggy style. The bell rang and I said, "Shit, I gotta goó" to which she replied in moans, "Five more minutes. Please, Jason. Fuck me for five more minutes."

I couldn't resist, especially after I felt the hot, steamy gas of another fart escape her skirt and onto my face.

I rushed into the middle of a lecture with my shirt somewhat untucked, hair disheveled, and more embarrassingly my zipper half-undone.

Those quickies were forty-five minutes of heaven for the both of us though. If one of us were irritated during the morning, whether it was just PMS or bad weather or a bad grade, the sex was like a painkiller that made the rest of the day go by in bliss. One morning, Ms. Johnson had been PMSing. I noticed it easily by the tight hair bun, the way she walked and the fact that she closed all the button of her business jacket. After we played missionary in the chemistry lab, something we always wanted to experiment with (no pun intended), she let her hair loose for the rest of the day, walked a smoother pace, and loosened the buttons on her jacket to reveal cleavage.

Despite my misgivings on the tryst and its questionable morality, I simply felt at ease and it was nice to have someone to please you, and for you to please them.

Once we didn't even end up having sex. She just jumped on me in her chair and we made out for forty-minutes. It was good to feel someone up, and have someone feel you up. She rubbed her breasts in my face, messing my hair up, and I rubbed her thighs underneath her skirt.

The five-minute warning bell rang and we paused, realizing that neither of us actually unbuttoned anything to start having sex.

She gave up with a seemingly despairing sigh and latched onto me.

"I don't know. . ." she said.

"About what?"

"About this."

"We could stop if you're having second thoughts."

"Thanks. You're understanding, that's one thing I love about you. But there's . . . a lot we really don't know about each other. And yet we do. It's strange, very strange." She gave me a few more smooches around my face. "I move into another position and you respond so quickly, knowing exactly how I'd like it. We can read each other's faces. There's no ounce of miscommunication. And yet I don't know if you're a nerd or a jock or what . . . then again I don't care to know because it doesn't matter either way."

She finally stopped and stared me in the eyes. "Is that what love is then? This started out as an experiment, it really did. I know and can tell you wondered if I had the fetish too, but I didn't. And then I developed it, and then I ask myself if we'd be doing this even if I never had the fetish at all. If you never gave me that letter, being the weird but silly creep you are, and we just went about our lives passing by each other just not knowing."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I don't think even I myself know what to call what we are. Ironic, because I'm the adviser. But the thing is, we accepted each other so quickly. Unafraid. Whereas others would have put us in asylums by now."

I responded by unbuttoning her jacket, moving aside her bra and massing her breasts with my lips. We had three or two minutes left. She tried to speak but closed her eyes at the pleasure.

Finally, our time was up.

We let go of each other slowly. I gave a farewell tap to her ass, got up and adjusted myself to make sure I looked formal.

I didn't know that she sat there still attending to her bra behind me.

I opened the door and the principal stood before us.