Fart-Slave to a Goddess Mom
As I kneel at her feet, my eyes fixate on the plump, ripe buttocks presented before me. A sight that sends shivers of anticipation down my spine. She's wearing a tight dress that hugs her curves, teasing me with every subtle movement of her hips. It's clear she holds all the power in this situation.
"Get ready, bitch," she hisses, her voice dripping with venom. "It's time for you to earn your keep."
Without warning, a thick, putrid fart escapes from her ass, filling the room with its noxious stench. My mind reels as I struggle to breathe through the overwhelming smell. This is my punishment for disobeying her commands—to inhale every last bit of her farts like the pathetic fart-slave that I am.
"That's it, bitch," she taunts me, her face contorted into a mocking sneer. "Don't you dare try to escape. No matter how much it hurts, you'll take every single one of them."
And take them I do, each and every fart that leaves her body. I can feel them coating my tongue, filling my lungs until they threaten to burst. It's a depraved ritual we share, one that leaves me both repulsed and aroused.
As the farts keep coming, my mind wanders to the first time she made me her fart-slave. It was after catching me masturbating to her photos online. She came to my house, dressed in nothing but a skimpy bikini, and sat on my face until I couldn't breathe anymore. It was both humiliating and exhilarating.
Despite the disgusting taste and smell, there's something about worshipping her farts that turns me on. Maybe it's the power she holds over me, or the taboo nature of our relationship. Whatever it is, I can't seem to escape its grasp.
I'll continue to be her fart-slave, enduring her stinky attacks and begging for more, as long as she allows it. It's a twisted form of devotion, but it's all I know how to give.
