Alright, so I'm writing this up because I've been told time and time again to get stuff out there while it's fresh. Let's just say this was no fantasy—real domination, real control, and real gas. I've been into femdom for a while, but fisting and flogging weren't cutting it anymore. I needed something raw, something I could *feel*. My sub, Kyle, had no clue what he was getting into when he agreed to sleepover at my place. He thought it was just a regular "chastity night." How wrong he was. I'd been prepping for this for days. The restraints, the blindfold (silky black, no frills), and a stash of sausages for later.
The kitchen was my first move. I made him kneel, hands cuffed in front, while I grilled a few bratwursts and some pork chops. The smell hit him first—rich, fatty, and that *hint* of sulfur. He gagged once, maybe twice, but I just patted his head. “Relax, baby. You didn’t think it’d be about the food, did you?” I knew he wanted to ask, but his collar had a vibration module. Any talking got me to buzz it harder. The moment the meat was done, I tossed the pork into my ass and left the sausages on his plate. He didn’t eat them. Smart move.
We moved to the basement. I’ve got a small rig down there—nothing fancy, just a bed, some chains, and a fan for air. I didn’t want to kill him, but I *did* want him to breathe deeply. I tied his wrists above his head with paracord, not tight enough to cut off circulation, and spread his legs wide. The blindfold went on next. He started squirming when he couldn’t see me. “Still think it’s just about the food?” I whispered, my hand snaking down his throat to pinch his Adam’s apple. His chest rose and fell, fast. “Breathe through your nose, Kyle. Slow. Steady.” I held my face an inch from his—no more. He could feel my lips, the damp warmth of my breath. Then I farted. It wasn’t even loud. It was soft, wet, and it poured into his mouth in thick waves. He tried to tilt his head, but I held him still. “Nope. You wanted a taste? Now you’ve got the whole menu.”
He started bucking. His throat worked, trying to gag, but I was already holding his jaw shut. My other hand squeezed his windpipe, just enough to make him aware of it. “Talk and I’ll make you choke,” I said. His eyes were wide under the blindfold. I leaned in again. This time the fart was longer. Rotten egg and rancid butter. I could see his nose flare, see the veins in his neck throb. He tried to turn his face, but the chains held him in place. “Good boy,” I said when it was done. “Try not to swallow too much. I don’t want my flavor in your belly yet.”
Next came the enema. I’d prepped a 400ml Fleet, warmed it up beforehand. Kyle knew it was coming—he had to drink a pint of prune juice earlier—but knowing didn’t help him. I knelt behind him, pushed the tip in, and held his legs up high. He was already tight. “Relax the sphincter, or I’ll hold this until we both pass out.” He whimpered. I let the water fill him slowly. Every time he tensed, I paused. The sound of the liquid sloshing inside him was music to my ears. Then I pulled out, wiped him off, and sat on his chest. My ass, still full from the pork, was right above his face. “Open up.” I pushed part of it out and let him smell. He gagged. “Try to think of this as a service you’re *honored* to provide,” I said through a smirk.
He couldn’t talk, but his eyes were pleading. I shifted, letting some of the meaty pressure drip down onto his lips. His tongue came out, barely, and I let him taste. Rotten meat and his own fear. “That’s right,” I said. “Suck like a good cockslut. I bet you’ve done it before.” His teeth brushed my skin, and I let out a fart—sharp, chemical, and dry. He coughed. I held him by the hair and forced my face down so he could breathe it in fully. His legs spasmed in the chains. The fan was still running, but I turned it off. The room grew warm, air thick with cum and rancid meat. I pushed my face into his collarbone, let a few more farts bubble up slowly into his neck, his chest, his ears. Every time he groaned, I bit him. His skin tasted like desperation.
After I was done gassing him out, I moved to my knees between his spread legs. His cock was soft, which only made his reactions more interesting. I pushed my tongue into his mouth, deep, and forced another fart through my nose. He tried to bite down, but I held his tongue in my mouth. “Good or bad?” I asked. He couldn’t answer. “You’re not allowed to hate it. Rules aren’t for me.” I moved lower, parting his ass cheeks. I knew he wasn’t a plug head or anything, but I didn’t care. My first fart into his asshole was like the others—fetid and loud. He tried to pull away, but the chains held him. I leaned in and whispered, “This is your punishment, Kyle. You get to stay here until I’m done or until you pass out.”
I alternated between his mouth, his ears, and his ass for an hour. Every time he thought I’d stopped, I’d let another fart out from his own trapped air. He was a sweating mess by the time the fan went on again, but the room still smelled like a butcher shop. I unchained him slowly. He couldn’t walk straight. “On your knees,” I told him. He fell forward, face in the carpet. I stepped on his back, letting a final fart echo into the ceiling. He cried but didn’t move. I left him like that for another half hour, just to be thorough.
If you’re curious about stories like this, check out the video section at Femdom Fetish—they’ve got some raw stuff that matches. Or if you want to see what I meant by "raw action," see the compilation at Fetish Porn. Real control isn’t about being nice. It’s about making your sub feel every breath you pass, every second of their helplessness. Kyle knows that now. And he’s begged to try it again—next time, I’m adding the enema farts. Let that sink in.
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