brackenousjunk:

Requested by @andyreworld

WARNING: SCAT AHEAD


Kyle liked going to the gym in the mid-morning–everyone who got a workout in before work had left, and everyone who came around lunchtime wasn’t there yet–it gave him a good hour and half with most of the weights to himself, to focus on lifting. He’d sure been working out long enough to learn patterns like this, he’d been a gym rat for years, and maintained a near flawless physique–low body fat and ripped with muscle. Still, he wasn’t a far of people–especially fags–staring at his body, unless he wanted them staring, so he preferred off-hours. Usually he had peace, but, today, some fat fuck was crowding his space.

He’d seen him around the gym before, but Kyle didn’t usually care about what other people were doing, and if he wanted to work out, good for him. But it seemed like every time he turned around, the guy was within five feet of him, lifting something, or on the next machine over–and then the first one came, loud enough that Kyle could hear it over his music, a massive, horrific fart that lasted at least five seconds.

He looked over at the pig, disgusted, but the guy just leered back at him–and then Kyle smelt it–it was horrific, one of the worst things he’d ever smelt in his life. It was so strong that it was almost like his mind and body blew a fuse–he couldn’t move, he couldn’t think–his eyes went glassy, his jaw gaping as the pig got up, pulled the headphones from his head, leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Finally got you. Come on, you’re gonna spot me today.”

Kyle did as he was told, even though he fought the compulsion as best he could, but his body wasn’t his anymore. The smell lingered in his nose, and just as he’d start shaking the pig’s control off, the fat fuck would nearly shit his pants again, and he’d…lose it all over again. The pig kept talking to him while he lifted, telling Kyle how much he loved the smell of him, how much he loved his farts, how much he loved submitting. Soon, as much as he hated himself for it, he started craving it, the smell, the filthy thoughts his master whispered in his ear. Finally, he couldn’t resist it anymore–his master was doing squats, and let a huge fart loose, and something in Kyle broke. Snorting and grunting, he got down behind him, shoved his head to the man’s ass and started crewing at his shorts, cum spewing in his jockstrap.

“That’s a good pig–I think you’re ready for your post-workout meal, don’t you?”

Kyle didn’t know what he meant, but he crawled after his master, who went into the locker room, commandeered the large stall, and sat backwards, his hole right in Kyle’s face. He fought as hard as he could, hesitating, but a wet fart pulled him in, lips locked to his master’s hole, tongue burrowing in, ready and eager for his first feeding.

Here’s an expansion requested a few times, and also incorporating this request.

Also, still really messy!


This close to the source, Kyle felt like his brain was literally melting away inside his skull, the wretched stench of his master’s farts stripping the paint from his soul. He sucked down as much of the filth as he could, and didn’t even realize when the shit started pouring out with the gas, his mouth devouring it, grunting and moaning, his master laughing and berating him as he fed him. It never seemed to end, his gut felt full and distended, his mouth coated in filth, but at last his master did finish, ordered Kyle to lick his crack clean, and then got up and left without another word, just the sound of laughter. 

Kyle just rolled over and slumped next to the toilet, trying to get his bearings on what had just happened to him, trying to grapple with what he’d just done. He looked down at himself, at his shit stained shirt bulging with a sudden gut full of shit–he belched, and the taste of it was disgusting, but also made his cock even harder. He couldn’t just stay here, though–but he also couldn’t leave. If people saw him like this, what would they even think of him? He had fresh street clothes in his locker though, maybe he could get out of this, somehow. He wiped his face and neck clean with water from the toilet bowl and toilet paper, took off his shirt, threw it in the trash, and then went to his locker–only to discover someone else had gotten there first. His normal clothes were gone, and in their place were the filthiest, most disgusting garments he’d ever seen. A white shirt crusted with stains he didn’t want think about, some briefs equally disgusting–crusty and crispy. Some jean shorts that felt so…disgusting in his hands, and the stench of his master on them, his master! He buried his face in the filthy fabric, snorting and grunting in front of everyone around him–he stripped off the rest of his gym clothes, pulled on the briefs, and immediately exploded–all the cum he’d build up in the last few hours pouring out of him in a sopping deluge. Then the shirt, then the cutoffs. A couple of tennis shoes without socks. He didn’t even notice the clothes should have been too big for his old, muscular body, but now they barely fit him, a sliver of hairy gut poking out under the shirt, cutoffs bursting around his thighs. 

He came back to his mind a bit, enough to know he needed to get out of there. However, he didn’t notice that he left a trail of piss as he left, oblivious to the stream running down his leg and into his shoe, leaking out onto the floor. He had to get home, he had to get away from here. He fled, got in his car and drove home as quickly as he could, belching up the stench of his master’s shit, gut bulging larger, and he kept ripping off the most horrid farts–in the enclosed car, the stench only made him horny, and by the time he got home he was pushing out longer and louder. In his parking spot, huffing and panting with need, he bore down, filling the back of his underwear and cutoffs with a huge load of shit, feeling it squelch out the legs and coat the car seat under him, while he rubbed his sopping wet crotch until he came with a squeal.

He recovered slowly, his mind exhausted–and looked around. This wasn’t his house–it wasn’t even close to where he lived. But he needed to be here, he knew that–this is where his master was. This is where he belonged.

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