I am Alessandra, Shanghai’s unyielding Femdomme, a mistress of dark desires. I’ve sculpted a depraved eproctophilia fantasy for a Canadian fart fetishist, a man whose deepest arousal sparked by the mere whisper of flatulence.
I sat enthroned in my sleek studio, locking his gaze with mine. Slowly, I reclined, arms draped casually over the chair’s rests, my head tilting with a faint, icy smirk. My body softened, a deliberate signal of what was to come. The latex stretched tight across my curves gleamed under the low light, amplifying my dominance.
Then it began—a soft, simmering hiss of hot air slipped from my perfectly sculpted ass, muted by the clinging latex. His eyes flared wide, pupils dilating as the first wave of scent struck. His nostrils twitched, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips, betraying his hunger.
“You crave it, don’t you?” I taunted, my voice a blade of disdain slicing through the silence, watching him draw it in with frantic devotion.
I shifted, hiking my skirt higher, exposing the altar of his obsession. Rising with feline grace, I prowled to the bed and mounted it on all fours, my ass an offering and a weapon. “Come closer. Smell me,” I commanded, my tone brooking no defiance.
He scrambled forward on his knees, face hovering near my curves. I arched my spine, teasing him with every sway, then unleashed a wet, deliberate pfft—a warm gust that bathed his skin. His moan shattered the air, raw and reverent, a sound of utter collapse.
But I wasn’t done. He didn’t yet know the secret I’d harbored: my constipation had brewed something far fouler than he’d dreamed—farts so dense, so acrid, they lingered like a curse. A wicked grin curled my lips as I reached for my tool: a thin, flexible plastic pipe, my instrument of torment.
I bent low, gloved fingers seizing his chin, forcing his eager, glassy eyes to meet mine. “You want to worship me fully? I’ll make it unforgettable.”
With surgical precision, I wedged one end of the pipe into his left nostril, securing it tight. The other I slid deep between my cheeks, pressing it flush against my pulsing hole—an airtight conduit for his descent. “Breathe,” I hissed, venom and amusement lacing the word.
Bracing my hands on the bedframe, I leaned forward and pushed. A thick, molten brrrrp surged through the tube, a concentrated blast of my festering stench slamming into him. His body jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as the rancid tide overwhelmed him—heavy, unyielding, a gift from my backed-up depths.
I laughed, a cruel, lilting sound, as tears welled in his eyes. “Too much for my little pet?” I cooed, dripping with false pity.
Yet he didn’t recoil. His hands clawed at my thighs, anchoring himself, his muffled moans vibrating through the pipe. He was nothing now but a vessel for my scent, lost in the primal act of consuming me—my filth, my power, my will.