By: Johntheexplorer
Part 1:
The house felt unnaturally still that Thursday afternoon. Their parents were gone for a four-day work conference, the kind that always left the place feeling too big and too empty. Jake had been trying to distract himself—sprawled on the living room couch, phone in hand, refreshing the same subreddit over and over like it might erase the last few months. The guilt was there, constant, but he kept telling himself he’d figure it out. Somehow.
The front door opened around 3:45. Emily walked in without a word, still in her cheer skirt and practice tank, ponytail half-falling out. She dropped her backpack by the door, kicked off her sneakers, and went straight to the fridge. Grabbed a sparkling water. Cracked it. Took a long sip.
Then she turned, leaned against the kitchen island, and looked at him.
“I know what you did.”
Jake’s thumb froze on the screen. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb.” She pulled her phone from her skirt pocket, swiped a few times, and held it up. The screen showed a screenshot: bank transfer history. His name. Their parents’ college savings account. Three thousand dollars gone in chunks over two weeks. Destination: a gambling app he’d deleted months ago but apparently not well enough.
His heart slammed against his ribs. “How did you—”
“Family cloud backup. You deleted the emails from your phone, but they’re still there on Mom’s laptop. I was looking for something else and… found them. All of it. The app receipts. The ‘deposit successful’ confirmations. Everything.”
Jake sat up slowly. “Emily, listen. It was stupid. I was going to pay it back. I swear. Just… don’t tell them. Please.”
She tilted her head. “Why shouldn’t I? You stole from them. From us. Mom’s been saving that money since we were kids. Dad would lose it if he knew.”
“I know. I know.” His voice cracked. “Just give me time. I’ll get a job. I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Keep lying?” She stepped closer, into the living room now. “I haven’t told them yet. But I could. One text. Group chat. Attachments. Done.”
He stared at her, throat tight. “What do you want?”
She studied him for a long moment. Then she walked over to the couch, sat down on the far end, stretched her legs out, and rested her socked feet on the coffee table.
“Get on the floor,” she said. “In front of me. Kneel.”
Jake blinked. “Why?”
“Because I said so.” She took another sip of her water. “And because if you don’t start listening right now, I send this folder to Mom and Dad. Simple.”
He looked at her feet, then back at her face. “This is… weird. What are you even doing?”
“I’m tired. Practice was brutal. My feet hurt. You’re going to help.”
“Help how?”
“Massage them.” She wiggled her toes inside the white ankle socks. “Come on. Kneel. Get your hands on them.”
Jake didn’t move. “Emily, come on. This is ridiculous. I’m not rubbing your feet like some… servant.”
Her expression didn’t change. “You stole three grand. You lied to our parents. You put our whole family in a bad spot. Rubbing my feet is the least you can do to start making it up. Or do you want me to text them right now? I can do it while you sit there staring.”
He swallowed hard. Looked at the door again, like there might be an escape. There wasn’t.
“Please,” he said quietly. “Don’t make me do this.”
“I’m not making you do anything. I’m giving you a choice. Massage my feet and keep your secret safe… or don’t, and watch everything blow up.”
Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He slid off the couch, knees hitting the carpet. Knelt in front of her.
“Good,” she said softly. “Now take my socks off.”
He hesitated. and reached for her socked foot.
"Wait!" Emily said, "actually use your teeth".
"My what? no way!"
"do i need to use my threat every 2 seconds? do you not understand the first time?"
"they are full of sweat"
"well then let's take them off to cool my feet off"
He reached forward slowly, teeth grabbing the top part of her her right sock. bite it down and pull hard. Her bare foot came free—small, high arch, toes painted pale pink, skin still warm and slightly damp from practice. The faint smell drifted up: warm sweat, a little sour, mixed with the rubbery trace of her sneakers
He pulled the other sock off. Both feet bare now, resting on the coffee table in front of him. he is disgusted.
“Massage,” she said. “Start at the heels. Thumbs. Deep pressure.”
Jake stared at her feet. “This feels wrong.”
“It feels wrong because you got caught. Now do it.”
He lifted his hands, wrapped them around her right heel. Pressed his thumbs in, kneading slowly. The skin was soft but slick. He worked up the arch, the ball of the foot. She sighed, leaned back, closed her eyes for a second.
“Harder,” she said. “You’re barely touching me.”
He pressed harder. Switched to the other foot. Minutes passed in silence except for the soft sound of his thumbs working her skin and her occasional small hum of approval.
After a while she spoke again. “Now sniff them.”
Jake froze. “What?”
“Lean in. Nose right against my toes. Take a deep breath. Tell me what they smell like.”
His stomach twisted. “No. That’s too much. I’m already doing the massage. Isn’t that enough?”
She opened her eyes, looked down at him. “It’s enough when I say it’s enough. You want to keep this between us? Then sniff. Describe. Or I open the group chat.”
Tears slipped down his cheeks. He leaned forward, pressed his nose against the arch of her right foot. Inhaled.
Sharp. Vinegary sweat. Warm skin. A faint locker-room staleness.
“Well?” she prompted.
“…Sweaty,” he muttered. “Sour. Like… gym socks. Salty.”
She smiled faintly. “Good. Do the other one.”
He repeated it. Described again. Each inhale made his face burn hotter.
She let him keep massaging. Every few minutes she’d lift one foot slightly, press her toes near his nose. “Again. Sniff.”
He did. No choice.
Eventually she stretched her legs, pointed her toes toward his face.
“Now kiss them.”
Jake pulled back. “Emily, please. No. The massage is one thing, but—”
“But what?” She sat up a little. “You think this is bad? Imagine Mom reading those emails. Imagine Dad’s face. Imagine them asking why you took their money. Kiss my feet. Start at the heel. Slow. And after each one, say ‘Thank you, Emily.’”
He shook his head, voice breaking. “This is humiliating. We’re brother and sister. You can’t seriously—”
“I can. And I am.” She held up her phone. “Last chance. Kiss them, or I send everything.”
Tears streamed freely now. He leaned in, pressed his lips to her heel. Soft. Warm. Salty taste on his mouth.
“Thank you, Emily,” he choked.
“Louder.”
“Thank you, Emily.”
He kissed higher. Along the arch. The ball of the foot. Each toe individually when she spread them. After every kiss, the same broken thank you.
She watched him the whole time, expression calm, almost bored.
When he finished both feet, she pulled them back, crossed her legs.
“You’re crying,” she observed. “That’s okay. You earned it.”
He stayed on his knees, head bowed, breathing uneven.
“This isn’t a one-time thing,” she said quietly. “Whenever my feet are sore—after practice, long days, whatever—I’ll tell you to come here. You’ll kneel. You’ll massage. You’ll sniff when I say. You’ll kiss them. You don’t argue. You don’t stall. You just do it. Because the alternative is worse.”
She stood up, stretched.
“I’m going upstairs to shower. You can stay down here and think about how you got yourself into this.”
She headed for the stairs, paused halfway up.
“And Jake?” She glanced back. “Don’t think about deleting anything or running. I have copies. Everywhere.”
She disappeared.
Jake stayed kneeling for a long time after that. Knees aching. Mouth still tasting faint salt. Mind reeling with shame and dread.
He told himself he’d find a way out. Beg her tomorrow. Offer to do extra chores instead. Something.
But deep down, the fear was already settling in.
He knew she’d call him again.
And he knew he’d kneel.
Part 2:
Friday afternoon arrived like a countdown Jake couldn’t stop. He’d spent the whole day in a fog—pacing the house, staring at his phone, half-convinced he could just leave before she got home. But the fear pinned him in place. Those screenshots. The transfer records. One tap from Emily and his parents would know everything. So he stayed. Curled on the couch with the TV on low, pretending normalcy.
The front door opened at 3:42. Emily walked in—cheer skirt, practice tank, ponytail loose and sweaty. Backpack hit the floor. She went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle, drank deeply, then turned toward the living room.
“Upstairs,” she said. “Your room.”
Jake sat up slowly. “Why my room?”
“Because I want privacy.” She wiped her mouth. “Move.”
He didn’t budge. “Emily… we don’t have to keep doing this. Yesterday was enough. I’ll do dishes for a month. I’ll clean your car. Anything. Just… let’s call it even for now.”
She stepped closer, phone already in her hand. “You think chores fix stealing three grand? You think that makes it okay?” She tapped the screen once—gallery preview flashed briefly. “Lie down on your bed. On your back. Or I start sending these one by one. Maybe to Dad first. He’ll be so disappointed.”
Jake’s throat tightened. “This is getting out of hand. We’re siblings. You can’t just—”
“I can. And I am.” Her voice stayed even. “Bed. Now.”
Tears of frustration burned behind his eyes. He stood, legs heavy, and climbed the stairs. Emily followed close behind.
In his room he stopped at the edge of the mattress. “Please. Tell me what you want first.”
“I want you flat on your back. Head on the pillow. That’s all for now.”
He searched her face for mercy. Found none. Slowly, he lay down. Stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him.
Emily kicked off her sneakers by the door. Climbed onto the bed. She positioned herself on his chest, facing his feet. Then she shuffled backward on her knees, scooting up to his face. She lowered herself carefully, skirt and cheer shorts settling directly over his nose and mouth. Her weight pressed down—warm, heavy, sealing his face beneath her.
Jake’s breath hitched. “Emily—get off. This is too much—”
“Shh.” She adjusted her position, settling more fully. Her thighs squeezed his ears, locking his head in place. “I’m just sitting. Relax.”
He tried to turn his head. The pressure made it impossible. Every inhale pulled in the trapped heat under her skirt—sweat from practice, faint musk, the intimate warmth of her body after hours of movement. His chest rose and fell rapidly, struggling for air.
Minutes dragged. Five. Eight. His neck strained at the awkward angle. His lungs ached.
Then—a low, wet gurgle from her stomach.
She shifted slightly, as if trying to hold it back.
A loud, ripping fart exploded directly onto his face—hot, wet, forceful. The stench slammed into him instantly: sulfur, rotten eggs, something meaty and sour. It filled his nostrils, coated his tongue through the thin fabric.
Jake gagged hard. His body jerked. He pushed upward with his shoulders, trying to lift her, trying to escape.
Emily’s weight shifted forward instinctively—pressing down harder, thighs clamping tighter.
“Stop—moving—” she snapped, then softer: “Sorry. That wasn’t on purpose. It just… slipped out.”
Jake kept struggling, muffled protests vibrating against her. His hands came up, pushing at her hips.
She rocked her weight, pinning him more firmly. “Hey. Calm down. It was an accident.”
She paused. Sniffed the air above her.
Nothing.
She sniffed again, deliberately—leaning forward a little.
Still nothing.
A slow, surprised smile curled her lips.
“Wait…” She rocked her hips experimentally, grinding down once. “I can’t smell it at all.”
Another small shift. She let out a test fart—shorter, sharper, dry. Hot air puffed against his nose. The smell hit him like a wave again, but upward—nothing reached her.
Her eyes widened. “Holy shit. It’s all staying right here.”
Jake whimpered, still trying to twist away. She pressed down harder, thighs like a vice.
“Hold still,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This is… incredible.”
She relaxed completely now, settling her full weight again. Then she started experimenting.
A long, bubbly one—wet and drawn out. Heat spread across his face. The stench thickened: gassy, faintly sweet-rot underneath. Jake’s stomach lurched; tears streamed sideways.
She checked the air again. Grinned wider.
Zero.
Another—silent but deadly. The warm puff lingered against his lips and nose. He tasted it through the fabric—bitter, acrid.
She did five more in quick succession. Loud. Quiet. Wet. Dry. Each one different, each one blasting straight down onto him with no escape upward. Every time she sniffed the room—nothing. Her delight grew with each test.
“Fuck,” she whispered, voice thick with excitement. “You’re breathing it all. Every bit. And I don’t smell a thing. Not even a trace.”
Jake was trembling by then. Chest heaving. Face slick with tears and sweat. The taste had soaked through—lingering on his tongue, in his throat.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she lifted off him. Not gracefully—just enough to swing her leg over and stand beside the bed.
He rolled onto his side immediately, coughing, gasping clean air. Wiped his streaming eyes and nose with his sleeve.
Emily looked down at him—flushed cheeks, red eyes, mouth open and panting.
“Look at you,” she said softly, almost impressed. “You took every single one.”
“Please…” His voice cracked, raw. “No more. I can’t do that again.”
She stretched her arms over her head, casual as if she’d just finished a yoga session.
“You can. And you will.” She walked toward the door. “This is way better than feet. No smell leaking into the room. No interruptions. I can just… sit. Chill. Whatever I want.”
She paused in the doorway, glanced back.
“We’re doing this again. Soon. Probably tomorrow. Maybe in my room next time. Longer.”
Jake curled tighter, still coughing faintly.
She smiled—sweet, cruel.
“And Jake? Don’t waste your breath begging. It’s not going to change the plan.”
She left, closing the door quietly behind her.
He lay there for a long time, staring at nothing. Tasting her on every ragged breath.
Terrified of what “tomorrow” would bring.
Part 3:
Saturday afternoon felt like a trap slowly tightening around Jake’s throat. He hadn’t left his bed since waking up at noon, curled fetal under the thin comforter, phone face-down on the nightstand so he wouldn’t see the screen light up. The room smelled faintly of toothpaste and mouthwash. He’d spent twenty minutes at the sink earlier, brushing until his gums bled pink into the foam, gargling salt water until his throat felt raw, then forcing down glass after glass like it could rinse yesterday away. It didn’t. The taste clung: sulfur, warm rot, the humiliating press of her body sealing his mouth shut. Every swallow brought it back sharper, a ghost that lived in his esophagus now.
He told himself he could end it today. Lock the bedroom door. Bury himself under blankets. Pretend to be asleep so deeply she’d give up and leave. Maybe she’d realize he wasn’t going to keep folding every time she snapped her fingers. Maybe the guilt would finally hit her. Maybe the blackmail folder would lose its power if he just stopped cooperating.
The phone buzzed at 2:38.
He lay still for a long minute, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles. The blades blurred. His heart hammered so hard he felt it in his fingertips.
Another buzz. He rolled over, lifted the phone just enough to see the screen.
“My room. Now.”
No emojis. No threats. Just the command. Clean. Certain.
He could delete it. Turn the phone off. Lock his door. But she had backups. She always had backups. And the thought of her walking downstairs, opening the group chat, attaching one screenshot while he hid under the covers made his stomach lurch worse than any taste ever could.
He set the phone down. Sat up slowly. The room tilted for a second. He pressed palms to eyes until stars burst behind the lids.
Then he stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.
Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last. Carpet muffled his footsteps but not the thudding in his chest. He passed the bathroom, considered locking himself in there instead. Imagined her knocking, calling his name, then walking away to text Mom. He kept walking.
Emily’s door was cracked, soft light spilling into the hall. He pushed it open wider.
She was already on her bed, propped against a pile of pillows, legs stretched out in front of her, wearing loose gray sweat shorts and a cropped white tank that rode up slightly when she shifted. Phone in one hand, scrolling slowly. Bare feet crossed at the ankles, toes flexing idly. The room smelled faintly of her vanilla body spray and the lingering warmth of her skin after whatever she’d been doing all day.
She didn’t look up right away.
“Close the door,” she said, voice calm, almost bored.
Jake hesitated in the doorway. The latch felt cold under his fingers. He clicked it shut. The sound echoed louder than it should have.
Emily finally glanced at him, green eyes flicking up, then back to her screen. “Lie down. On your back. Head on the pillow. Same as yesterday.”
He stayed rooted just inside the threshold. “Emily… please. Not again. I can’t. Yesterday was—” His voice cracked on the last word. “I can still taste it. My head hurts. My neck hurts. I’m begging you. Let’s just… stop. I’ll do anything else. Dishes for a month. Clean your car. Laundry. Whatever. Just not this.”
She sighed, small and theatrical, set the phone face-down on the comforter beside her hip. Sat up a little straighter, pillows shifting behind her back.
“You begged yesterday too,” she said softly. “Didn’t change anything then either.” She patted the mattress beside her legs. “Lie down. Or I open the group chat right now. Start with Mom, she’ll cry. Dad will yell. You know the script.”
Tears pricked immediately. Hot. Instant. “This is escalating. It was feet before. Then… sitting. Now it’s—” He swallowed. “It’s my face. Under you. For hours. It’s wrong. We’re brother and sister. You can’t keep doing this.”
“Exactly,” she replied, voice still gentle but edged now. “Which is why you’re going to do exactly what I say. Because if they find out you stole three grand from their savings, lied about it for months, they’ll never look at you the same. And I’ll make sure they know every detail. Lie. Down.”
His knees trembled. “Please. Just one more day. Give me one day without this. I’ll make it up. I swear.”
“No.” She leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, staring straight at him. “You don’t get to negotiate anymore. You lost that right when you took the money. Now. Or the first screenshot goes out in ten seconds. Nine… eight…”
Tears spilled over. He shook his head once, weak, defeated, then walked to the bed like his legs belonged to someone else. Climbed on slowly. Lay flat on his back. Head on the pillow. Stared up at the ceiling fan turning slow, lazy circles above him. The blades blurred into a gray disk.
Emily watched him settle. Smiled, small, satisfied. Stood up. Pushed her shorts down to mid-thigh, revealing thin white cotton panties. Climbed back onto the mattress.
She positioned herself at his feet first, facing toward them. Scooted backward on her knees along the length of his body, slow, deliberate, until her thighs framed his head from the sides. Paused there a moment, hovering just above his face, letting him feel the heat radiating down.
Jake’s breathing sped up. Shallow. Panicked. “Emily, don’t. Please. Not again.”
She lowered herself inch by inch. Panty-covered ass settled over his nose and mouth. Warm fabric pressed against his lips. Thighs squeezed his ears. Full weight sank down, forcing his head deeper into the pillow. The seal was immediate, soft cotton molding to the shape of his face, trapping every breath beneath her.
Jake’s chest heaved. Tried to turn his head. The clamp of her thighs made it impossible. Every inhale dragged in the trapped warmth, sweat from the day, faint vanilla, cotton, the intimate musk underneath. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Emily wiggled once, tiny adjustment to nestle in perfectly, then reached for her phone on the nightstand. Started scrolling Instagram again. Casual. Relaxed. Like he was just furniture.
Minutes dragged. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She laughed softly at a reel. Scrolled past another. Ignored the muffled whimpers vibrating up from beneath her.
Jake’s neck already ached, the angle brutal, muscles straining to hold the position. Lungs burned for deeper air. Every breath pulled more of her scent into him, warm, musky, faintly sweet from whatever lotion she used. His mind looped: This is it. This is every day now. Under her. Breathing her. No way out.
Her stomach gurgled, low, impatient.
She shifted slightly, small rock of her hips.
A loud, bubbly fart ripped out, hot, wet, straight through the thin cotton onto his face.
The smell slammed him: sulfur, fermented sweetness, lingering rot. Jake gagged hard, body jerking under her. Chest heaved. Tried to push up with his shoulders.
Emily laughed, light, surprised. “Oops. That one was juicy.”
He pushed harder, hands came to her hips, trying to lift, to breathe.
She rocked forward, more weight, thighs clamping tighter. “Hey. Stop squirming. It’s just gas. Chill out.”
Another one followed, longer, wetter. Heat bloomed across his nose and lips. Stench thickened, thick, heavy, coating everything.
She sniffed the air above her.
Frowned.
Sniffed again, deliberate this time.
A faint whiff drifted up, barely there, but enough to make her wrinkle her nose.
“Ugh,” she muttered, annoyed. “I can still smell it a little. That’s so irritating.”
Jake kept struggling weakly, muffled protests vibrating uselessly against the cotton. Hands pushing at her hips. Lungs screaming.
Emily thought for a second, tilted her head like she was solving a minor puzzle. Then reached back, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, and peeled them down slowly, deliberately, until they bunched at mid-thigh. Bare ass now directly against his face. Warm skin. Soft ring settling right over his lips and nose.
“Open your mouth,” she ordered. “Wider. Wrap your lips around it. Make a tight seal. I want nothing escaping upward.”
Jake panicked. Shook his head frantically, tiny, helpless jerks inside the thigh clamp. “No, no, Emily, don’t, please—”
“Do it.” Her voice sharpened, still calm, but steel underneath. “Lips sealed. Now. Or I sit here all night until you figure it out. I’ve got nowhere to be.”
Tears streamed hot down his temples. He kept his tongue pulled back as far as possible, flat against the floor of his mouth, rigid, desperate to avoid contact. But he had no leverage. No way to push her off. Slowly, shamefully, he parted his lips wider. Puckered them around her bare asshole, forming a trembling, airtight ring. Light suction to hold the position. The warmth of her skin pressed directly against his lips, soft, slightly tacky.
“Suck it lightly,” she added casually, like she was giving instructions for tying a shoe. “Just enough to keep the seal tight. I don’t want any farts leaking out the sides. Go on.”
His stomach flipped. The instruction made it worse, more intimate, more deliberate. He obeyed, drawing a faint, trembling suction—barely enough to hold his lips in place, but enough to lock the ring around her hole. The soft flesh yielded slightly under the gentle pull.
She tested it, small shift of her hips.
A silent fart puffed straight into his mouth. Warm air flooded his throat. Taste exploded, bitter, eggy, chemical, thick with rot. He whimpered, low, broken sound muffled against her.
Emily sniffed upward.
Nothing.
Her grin spread slow and wicked. “Yes. Perfect. No smell at all now.”
She settled fully, weight crushing down again. Phone back in hand. Scrolling resumed.
Then the real barrage began.
First, a loud, rumbling one. Long and forceful. Hot blast straight down his throat. He swallowed reflexively to keep from choking; taste coated everything, sulfur, rot, faint fermented sweetness.
She didn’t comment. Just kept scrolling.
Another, sharp, dry burst. Quick puff. Acrid tang lingered on his tongue.
A wet, sloppy one, bubbly and drawn out. Stench thickened inside his sealed mouth: fermented, sour, heavy. He whimpered again, body trembling.
Silent-but-deadly, slow leak of warm air. Taste crept in gradually, rotten, nauseating, inescapable.
She kept going. Ten more. Twelve. Fifteen. Varied lengths, intensities, textures. Some loud and proud. Some sneaky and quiet. Some wet enough to make him panic mid-swallow. Each one sealed perfectly downward, no whiff ever reached her nose. No wrinkling. No complaints. She relaxed completely, legs stretched out, back against the pillows, thumb flicking through reels, occasionally humming or giggling softly at her screen.
Jake was shaking violently now. Neck burning like fire. Stomach churning from swallowed gas, bloated, sloshing. Taste everywhere, overpowering, inescapable. His tongue stayed rigid at first, desperately avoiding her hole, but the constant pressure, every swallow, every tiny shift of her hips made contact inevitable. The tip brushed her ring again and again, warm, soft, tacky. Each touch sent fresh humiliation crashing through him. Hot tears pooled in his ears, soaked the pillow beneath his head.
After forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, she finally lifted off. Slow. Deliberate. Swung her leg over. Stood beside the bed.
Jake rolled immediately onto his side, coughing, gasping clean air in ragged bursts. Wiped his mouth frantically with his sleeve. Face flushed red, eyes bloodshot, nose running. Chest heaving like he’d run a marathon.
Emily pulled her panties and shorts back up, casual, unhurried. Looked down at him with that small, satisfied smile.
“See?” she said, almost cheerfully. “Way better. No smell in my room at all. You’re like my own personal filter. Keeps everything contained. Perfect.”
“Please…” His voice was wrecked, hoarse, trembling. “No more. I can’t, I can’t keep doing this.”
She tilted her head. “You can. And you will. Whenever I want to sit and scroll, or chill, or study… you’re going to be right here. Lips sealed. Taking every fart I give you. No more whiffs bothering me.”
She walked to her desk, sat in the rolling chair, spun it to face him.
“Tomorrow after school,” she said. “Same thing. Maybe longer.”
Jake curled tighter on the bed, still shaking, still tasting her on every ragged breath.
She turned back to her phone.
“And Jake?” She didn’t look at him. “Don’t waste energy fighting next time. It just drags it out.”
She started scrolling again.
He lay there, tasting her, feeling the ghost of her weight, knowing tomorrow would bring more.
Part 4:
Sunday afternoon arrived with the same suffocating weight Jake had come to dread. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two the night before. Every time he drifted off, the memory jolted him awake: the bare heat of her skin, the airtight seal of his lips, the relentless blasts of gas flooding his mouth while she scrolled like nothing was happening. The taste had faded to a ghost, but the humiliation hadn’t. It sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and immovable.
He stayed in his room as long as he could, door closed, lights off, phone on silent. Curled on his side, knees drawn up, staring at the wall where a crack ran from ceiling to floor like a scar. He replayed every second of yesterday in slow motion: the way her thighs clamped his ears, the way the cotton of her panties molded to his face, the way each fart punched through and filled his lungs with her. He told himself he could stop it today. He could refuse. He could walk out the front door and keep walking until the house was out of sight. But every time he pictured opening that door, he saw her phone in her hand, thumb hovering over send, and his stomach folded in on itself.
The phone buzzed at 2:55 PM. He didn’t need to look. He knew.
He lay still for three full minutes, counting his breaths, inhale, hold, exhale, trying to steady the shaking in his hands. Another buzz. He rolled over, lifted the phone just enough.
“My room. Now”
No emojis. No threats. Just the command. Clean. Certain.
He stared at the screen until it dimmed. Then stared at the dark glass reflecting his own pale face.
He could delete the message. Turn the phone off. Lock his door. Pretend to be asleep so deeply she’d give up and leave. Maybe she’d realize he wasn’t going to keep folding every time she snapped her fingers. Maybe the guilt would finally hit her. Maybe the blackmail folder would lose its power if he just stopped cooperating.
But she had backups. She always had backups. And the thought of her walking downstairs, opening the group chat, attaching one screenshot while he hid under the covers made his stomach lurch worse than any taste ever could.
He set the phone down. Sat up slowly. The room tilted for a second. He pressed palms to eyes until stars burst behind the lids.
Then he stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.
Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last. Carpet muffled his footsteps but not the thudding in his chest. He passed the bathroom, considered locking himself in there instead. Imagined her knocking, calling his name, then walking away to text Mom. He kept walking.
Emily’s door was open, soft light spilling into the hall. He paused on the threshold, one hand on the frame, knuckles white.
She sat in the pink rolling chair at her desk, laptop open, psych slides glowing on the screen. Wearing black leggings and an oversized hoodie. Textbook open beside her. She didn’t turn when he entered, just kept highlighting, the soft click of her pen the only sound.
“Close the door,” she said quietly.
He did. The click echoed.
“Sit on the floor this time,” she continued. “Ass down. Back facing the chair. Head tilted back so the back of your head rests on the cushion.”
Jake’s voice came out small from the doorway. “Emily… why the chair? Can’t we just… do it on the bed like yesterday? My neck can’t take that angle again. It still hurts from last time. Please. I’m here. I came. Isn’t that enough?”
She swiveled the chair slowly to face him. Expression calm, eyes steady.
“Yesterday was fine on the bed,” she said. “But I need to study properly today at my desk. No getting up. No distractions. The chair is better for that. Sit. Or I open the folder right now. Group chat. Attachments. Mom gets the first one. Dad the second. You know how fast they’ll be on the next flight home.”
Tears welled instantly. “This is different. It’s not even your bed anymore. It’s… a chair. For hours. While you study. That’s not fair. It’s cruel.”
“It’s convenient,” she corrected. “I need to focus. Psych stats aren’t going to review themselves. And you’re going to help me do that. No smell. No interruptions. Just you doing what you’re told. On the floor. Now.”
He shook his head, voice breaking. “I can’t. My neck will break. I’ll suffocate. Please, Emily, one day off. Just one. I’ll make it up. I swear.”
She stood up. Walked over to him. Close enough that he could smell the faint trace of her shampoo and the lingering warmth of her skin.
“Last warning,” she said softly. “five seconds. Four… three…”
Tears spilled. He sank to the carpet, ass planted, knees bent, back pressed against the base of the chair. Slowly tilted his head back. The cushion caught the back of his skull, forcing his neck into that painful, unnatural arch. Mouth level with the seat. Open. Vulnerable.
Emily stepped over him. Turned so she faced the desk (away from his face). Peeled her leggings and panties down in one motion, tossed them onto the bed. Naked from the waist down. She lowered herself carefully onto the chair, scooting forward until her bare cheeks spread wide over his upturned face. Ring settling directly onto his lips and nose. She locked the wheels with a click, scooted the chair another inch forward, full weight crushing down, sealing him completely. Thighs framing his head. No escape.
Jake’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. “Emily, please, lift, just a second—”
“Open wider,” she said calmly, already opening her laptop again. “Lips around it. Seal tight.”
He whimpered. Shook his head minutely. “No, I can’t—”
“Do it.” She shifted her weight, warning pressure. “Seal. Now. Or you know what happens.”
Tears streamed sideways toward his temples. He parted his lips wider. Puckered them around her bare asshole, forming the trembling ring. Light suction to hold it. Tongue pulled back as far as possible, rigid against the floor of his mouth, fighting any contact.
“Suck it lightly,” she added, casual as if commenting on the weather. “enough to keep the seal locked. I don’t want any leaks.”
His stomach flipped. The instruction made it worse, more intimate, more deliberate. He obeyed, drawing a faint, trembling suction, barely enough to hold his lips in place, but enough to lock the ring around her hole. The soft flesh yielded slightly under the gentle pull.
She tested it, small rock of her hips.
Satisfied, she settled in. Started typing notes. Highlighting. Completely relaxed.
Silence stretched. His neck muscles screamed, burning fire from the cramp. Every shallow breath pulled in her warmth, her musk, the deep intestinal pressure building.
Then the first gurgle, long, wet.
She sighed contentedly.
A loud, rumbling fart blasted straight into his sealed mouth. Hot. Forceful. Air flooded his throat; he swallowed reflexively to avoid choking. Taste detonated, sulfur, rotten eggs, lingering meat. Bitter film coated his tongue instantly.
Emily sniffed upward.
Nothing.
She smiled faintly. “Good. Keep it sealed.”
Another came later, sharper, drier. Quick burst. Acrid tang.
A wet, bubbly one followed soon after, sloppy and drawn out. Stench thickened inside his mouth: fermented, sour, heavy. “That one felt really wet,” she murmured, amused. “Bet it’s messy down there.”
He whimpered, body trembling.
Silent-but-deadly, slow, insidious leak. Taste crept in gradually, chemical, nauseating.
Eight more followed over the next hour. Varied. Relentless. Some loud and proud. Some sneaky and quiet. Some wet enough to make him panic mid-swallow. Each one sealed perfectly downward. No whiff escaped to bother her. She studied uninterrupted, clicking through slides, underlining, occasionally murmuring to herself about correlation coefficients.
Jake was breaking. Neck ablaze. Stomach churning from swallowed gas. Taste everywhere, overpowering, inescapable. His tongue stayed rigid at first, desperately avoiding her hole, but the constant pressure and swallows made tiny brushes inevitable. Each one sent fresh waves of shame crashing through him.
Then, the deeper shift.
A heavier gurgle. Wet. Urgent.
She bore down slightly, small grunt.
A big, wet shart erupted, no solid chunks, but a forceful spray of semi-liquid filth misted out. Warm droplets and sludge coated his tongue, the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat. Tangy. Sour. Pure, slimy rot.
Emily froze.
Then burst into bright, surprised laughter.
“Oh my god—” She rocked forward slightly, still seated. “That was almost shit! Haha, just a shart. Lucky it was only spray… and wow, that felt super wet. Bet you’re swimming down there.”
Jake gagged violently, body jerking under her. Muffled, frantic sounds. The taste was unbearable, gooey, acidic, coating every surface.
She giggled again. “Swallow it. Can’t leave it just sitting there. Go on.”
He shook his head, tiny, desperate jerks.
“Do it,” she said sweetly. “Or I push again and see what else is ready. Swallow. Now.”
Tears poured. He forced it down, slow, burning gulps. Stomach lurched hard. Nothing came back up. Residue clung, sticky film, tiny flecks.
“Good boy,” she murmured. “Now lick me clean. Keep the seal ready in case there’s more.”
He whimpered. Not wanting to do it.
“Look,” she said, voice dropping low and teasing, “I wouldn’t argue with me right now. My asshole is aimed at your throat and I just had a huge shart. Do you really want to test me on this?”
Broken, he extended it, slow, humiliated circles around her hole. Lapping away the tacky smears, the spray residue. Taste reignited, fresher, muskier, vile. He probed the folds, wiping every trace, keeping her spotless.
She shivered once, pleased.
“Mmm. That’s it. Nice and tidy.”
She settled back fully. Continued studying.
Three more farts followed over the next twenty minutes, sealed, swallowed, licked clean when she demanded. One long and wet (“Another juicy one, feel how it soaks in?”), one sharp and quick, one slow and silent that lingered.
When her phone timer finally beeped two hours later, she closed the laptop. Didn’t get up right away.
“I'm done,” she said casually. “But stay put a minute. Lips sealed. Tongue ready. Who knows? Might have one last little surprise.”
She wiggled her hips playfully, grinding once.
Jake, neck screaming, mouth coated in residue, stomach bloated with gas and shame, could only lie there.
Waiting.
Ruined.