Just then, my husband says he has to go out to run some errands, so we’re left alone. You take advantage of the fact that we’re alone and confess to me that you have a fart fetish; you notice my discomfort, and I admit, embarrassed, that I do have a lot of gas and that I’m struggling not to fart all over the place. Then you ask me if I can fart in front of you, right in your face, since we’re having this special moment where we’re alone—which doesn’t happen very often.
At first, I flat-out refuse; then you offer to help me with the preparations and agree, but on the condition that we can NEVER talk about this again; I take you to the bedroom and shove my ass in your face, and you let yourself feel how that dish I was preparing is turning my stomach, and you let yourself experience the whole thing up close, first with my jeans on; then you convince me to fart on your face without panties; it all ends when we hear my husband coming back down the driveway, and you quickly pull my pants back up, and I tell you to “act normal,” and I remind you that this stays between us forever
