By: Ninjamasterbenja
"Eighty-seven," Mike whispered, counting the tiles on the cafeteria ceiling for the third time this week. His knees pressed into the cold linoleum, fingers twitching against his thighs. The smell of old lunch meat and something aggressively floral perfume?—clung to the air. Then came the sound: a low, wet pffft that made the back of his neck prickle.
"Say thank you," Lora growled, shifting her weight until the vinyl chair groaned beneath her. At eightteen, she was built like a freezer left unplugged for a decade—soft in all the wrong places, with a temper like a lit fuse. Her bare foot, still damp from gym class, hovered inches from Mike’s face. "Say it, stringbean."
Mike’s throat clicked. "Th-thank you."
The snickers around them were a familiar chorus. Lora’s latest hobby was atmospheric humiliation, as she called it. Last Tuesday, she’d pinned him against the lockers and let one rip straight into his open mouth. The week before, she’d made him press his lips to the sweaty imprint her ass left on the chair after third period. Today’s theme: gratitude.
"Louder," Lora demanded, wiggling her toes. The pink polish was chipped, one nail yellowed from fungus.
Mike’s lips trembled against the damp arch of Lora’s foot. The taste of salt and synthetic strawberry lotion coated his tongue. Behind him, someone muttered, "Dude just swallow it already," and the laughter prickled like static.
Lora exhaled through her nose a slow, theatrical sigh. "You’re welcome," she drawled, dragging her heel down his cheekbone, leaving a shiny smear. "For letting you breathe my air. For letting you exist near me."
Her stomach gurgled, low and ominous. Mike flinched.
Yesterday, she’d cornered him behind the bleachers, pressed her bare belly against his face, and let loose a wet, bubbling fart straight into his nostrils. The memory made his eyes water.
"Know what today’s lesson is?" Lora flexed her toes, nudging his chin upward. Her pinky toenail was half-peeled, the skin beneath raw. "Gratitude practice. You’re gonna thank me properly for every single fart I’ve ever blessed you with."
Mike’s pulse hammered in his throat. "There’s… there’s a lot."
Lora grinned. Her braces glinted under the fluorescents. "Then you better start counting, stringbean."
The chair creaked as she leaned back, fingers drumming her swollen stomach. Somewhere deep inside, something shifted. Mike closed his eyes.
The first pfffft was warm.
Lora arched an eyebrow, watching Mike’s Adam’s apple bob as her gas rolled over his tongue. "That’s one," she said, drumming her fingers against the curve of her belly. The fabric of her crop top strained against the swell, revealing a sliver of skin the color of spoiled milk. "Better savor it. Won’t get another one like that till Thursday."
Mike’s throat convulsed. "Th-thank"
"Properly," Lora snapped, kicking his ribs with her damp heel. A fleck of gym-sock lint landed on his lip. "Like you mean it."
He swallowed. "Thank you, Lora. Forfor the first one."
She smirked. "Good boy." Her stomach gurgled again, deeper this time, a slow digesting groan that vibrated against Mike’s kneecaps. She shifted, hiking one thigh over the armrest, and the cafeteria chair whined in protest. "Now. The one from homeroom. The squeaky one."
Mike’s fingers twitched. "You you want me to"
"Describe it," Lora purred, spreading her knees wider. The vinyl beneath her let out a wet peel where her thighs had been sweating. "In detail. Or I’ll make you wear my lunch tray as a hat."
Someone in the back snorted. Mike’s ears burned.
"It was… high. Kind of… whistly?" His voice cracked. "Like a—a balloon losing air, but… wetter."
Lora’s grin widened. Her canines were slightly crooked. "And?"
Mike’s pulse throbbed in his temples. "And… thank you, Lora. For the homeroom fart."
"Mm. Half credit." She flicked a glob of old gum at his forehead. It stuck, warm and stale. "Forgot the part where it made your eyes water." Leaning forward, she grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his face up until their noses almost touched. Her breath smelled like tuna and spearmint. "Try again."
Mike’s vision blurred. "Thank you, Lora," he whispered, "for the homeroom fart that made my eyes water."
Lora let go, letting his head snap back. "There we go." Her stomach gave a wet slosh. She patted it, twice, like a drum. "Now. The one from the bus. The bubbler."
Mike opened his mouth just as the bell rang.
Lora sighed. "Saved by the fucking bell." She stood, her sandals slapping against the linoleum, and hoisted her backpack onto one shoulder. It was covered in Sharpie doodlescrude hearts, skulls, the word "FART QUEEN" in bubble letters. "Meet me behind the dumpsters after school," she said, already walking away.
Mike stayed kneeling, his forehead still sticky with gum. Around him, the cafeteria emptied chairs screeching, sneakers squeaking but nobody looked at him. Nobody ever did.
Lora paused at the door, half-turning. Her shadow stretched long across the floor. "Bring a straw," she added. Then she was gone.
Mike exhaled. His tongue still tasted like her salt and lotion and something faintly metallic. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It came away damp.
The dumpsters behind East Halmer High weren’t technically dumpsters. They were compactors great steel jaws that chewed up milk cartons and pizza crusts twice a day. Lora liked to sit on them, legs swinging, while Mike knelt in the puddles of whatever leaked out the seams.
Today, she was waiting with her phone propped against a grease-stained wall, recording. "Took you long enough," she said, kicking her heels against the compactor’s side. Clang. Clang. "I already had to let two go. You owe me those."
Mike’s throat clicked. "S-sorry"
"Shut up." Lora tugged at the waistband of her skirt plaid, too tight, riding up her thighs. "You know the drill. Assume the position." She nodded at the ground between her feet. A used condom glistened near the curb. "And don’t blink this time. I wanna see your eyeballs get all wet."
Mike hesitated. Lora’s nostrils flared.
"Down."
The word wasn’t a command it was physics, gravity given teeth. Mike’s knees hit the pavement so hard his teeth clacked.
Lora exhaled through her nose, slow, deliberate, like a dragon deciding whether to char or swallow. Her sandal tapped his collarbone once, twice before pressing down just enough to crease his shirt. The sole was still faintly damp from gym class, leaving a faint imprint of tread marks on his skin.
"You breathe when I say," she murmured, tilting her head. The afternoon sun caught the grease smeared on her lower lip leftover from the stale nachos she’d demolished during fifth period. "Blink when I let you."
Her free hand yanked her skirt up higher, thighs spreading with a sticky peel from the vinyl compactor. Beneath the plaid hem, the fabric of her underwear was stretched thin pink gone grayish from too many washes, lace fraying at the edges. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband, paused, and arched an eyebrow at Mike’s trembling lower lip.
"Words, stringbean."
Mike’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Th-thank you, L—"
"Full sentence."
A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "Thank you for letting me watch, Lora."
Lora’s smile was a scythe. "Good."
She peeled the fabric down just enough to reveal the swell of her lower stomach pale, soft, marked by the faintest red lines where her waistband had dug in. A deep, liquid gurgle rolled through her gut, audible even over the distant screech of the school’s rusty HVAC system.
Mike flinched.
Lora’s grin widened. "That’s four you owe me." Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of her belly, kneading until another wet glorp echoed between the dumpsters. "Five."
She shifted, lifting one foot to press her sandal flat against Mike’s chest. The rubber was still warm from her skin.
"Recite them."
Mike’s voice cracked. "The the one behind the bleachers. The bus. The the library stack—"
"Volume."
"THE LIBRARY STACKS," Mike nearly shouted, throat raw.
Lora hummed, satisfied, and finally tugged her underwear down another inch. The sound that followed wasn’t a fart it was a statement, wet and thick, like a boot suctioned out of mud. The smell hit instantly: gym socks and spoiled lunch meat, with a metallic afterbite that made Mike’s eyes roll back.
Lora sighed, long and content, and twisted a finger in his hair. "Say it."
Mike gagged. "Thank y—"
"Louder."
"THANK YOU!"
Lora leaned back, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. "Again."
Mike’s vision swam. "Thank you, Lora. Thank you. Thank"
She cut him off with a finger to his lips. "Save the rest," she purred, "for the ride home."
Her sandal slid off his chest, leaving a perfect tread-mark bruise behind.
"Bus leaves in twenty. Don’t be late."
Lora hopped off the compactor, skirt swishing, and strode away without looking back. Mike stayed kneeling, lips still parted around unfinished gratitude, as the first fly landed on his sweat-damp collar.
Behind him, the compactor groaned a deep, hydraulic sigh and crushed an empty soda can flat