After a grueling day of beach volleyball and an intense gym session, my body was drenched in sweat, and I reveled in using it to dominate my submissive once again. Strapped securely into the smother bench, he was completely immobilized, his face trapped beneath my ass, helpless and entirely at my mercy—which I had none of. “Take a deep breath, bitch,” I commanded, spreading my lips and forcing his nose deep into my pussy, creating a perfect seal. I kept him teetering on the edge, allowing only fleeting gasps of air before slamming back down, his face flushing crimson as he struggled to breathe. Each smother grew longer, pushing him closer to his limit as I turned to play on his Xbox, his nose still buried in my crack, inhaling nothing but the scent of my sweat. His panicked breaths fueled my enjoyment, especially since he’d been testing my patience lately. About 13 minutes into his ordeal, I decided to escalate things. Earlier, I’d indulged in milk and ice cream—knowing full well my lactose intolerance would guarantee more than just gas brewing. I felt it building, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. Without warning, I unleashed a hot, wet fart straight into his nostrils, his panic only fueling my amusement. “Open your mouth,” I ordered, continuing to play as if he weren’t even there, releasing one foul burst after another directly into his lips. His muffled groans only spurred me on, and I silenced him with duct tape, ensuring nothing escaped. Now, his nose was the sole focus, pressed tightly against my hole as I delivered repeated, wet, searing blasts of gas, each one echoing through his nostrils and into his throat. His suffering was palpable, and I relished every moment of it. “Good little bitch,” I taunted, “smell, taste, smother, and suffer.”
