The Frat Couch (Commission)

(Contains: M/M, face-sitting, face-farting, rimming, body odour, kidnapping, unaware, human furniture, use of slurs, humiliation and non-consent.) 

I wake up to a chipped, white ceiling. I can’t even tell what kind of room I’m in, nor can I move to check. My whole body is constricted—tied up, if the pressure across my chest and calves is anything to go by—but the worst is my face. Something soft is encircling my head from under my chin around to my scalp, making moving my head impossible. The last thing I remember was meeting up with a guy—some frat boy closet case I found on a dating app. He seemed nice, if a little repressed. He offered to pick me up. I guess that seemingly sweet gesture turned out to be a warning sign, because getting into that car is the last thing I remember.

‘Well, well, well, look who’s decided to join us,’ a deep voice booms from just out of sight. ‘Have a nice nap?’

I try to speak, to ask where the hell I am, but my mouth won’t open.

A laugh, then a familiar face is peering down at me. Nick. Tanned, muscular, self-proclaimed football legend Nick. The guy who sent me a ‘good morning’ at the same time each day for nearly a week, and seriously overused the tongue emoji. My date. He looks upside-down, meaning whatever position I’m stuck in has the top of my head facing him, but I can still recognise the look of unadulterated glee on his face. ‘I don’t suppose you can answer me, can you? That’s good. If you could, it would mean I’d wasted tape.’

Tape. That explains it. I’m tied up with my mouth taped shut, and my face trapped inside something—a chair, maybe? It feels like a smaller version of the hole on a massage table. As far as dates go, this is already in my bottom three. I take a deep breath through my nose and try to stay calm. I knew something like this would happen eventually. Online dating already comes with risks, but they’re even greater when you’re gay and your type is dumb jocks. Hopefully he’ll just molest me, or beat me up, maybe send some humiliating photos to his friends, and then let me go. As long as I come out of this alive, it’ll be fine. It'll be a learning experience. Something I can tell the other young gays about so they know to actually vet their dates before getting into their car.

‘You’re looking pretty chill down there—have a thing for bondage?’ he pauses, as if he expects me to answer. ‘Well, that’s no fun. Not for me, at least. What’s the point in teaching an arrogant little fag his place if he enjoys it? You’ll wanna keep playing up.’

I glare at him. He matched with me, I want to remind him. I may be short and gangly with pale skin and a babyface, but he wasn’t the first nor will he be the last (assuming I make it out of this mess) handsome jock to contact me. He sent the first message, he suggested we meet up—guys like this always do.

He smirks. ‘What, you thought I actually wanted to fuck you? It’s time faggots like you learn that there’s only one way you should be underneath a man. Lucky for you, you were out for nearly a full day. I’ve just gotten back from football practice and had a nice, big protein shake. I’m sure this lesson is going to stick with you for a long time.’

Before I have a chance to process what that could mean, he’s standing up straight and turning away. I can see now that his lower half is only covered by a pair of wedgying briefs. This sight sends a jolt of arousal through my gut that dies the instant I remember where I am. His firm, well-sculpted ass is coming closer and closer, and once the cheeks begin to part around the thin strip of fabric, the rank stench of sweat and old farts hits me like a truck. I try to turn my head away, but it’s still futile, and I can do nothing but scream as the sweat-damped cheeks touch my face, moulding around them as he rests his full weight on me. His asshole is pressed to my nose, and I have just enough space to suck in air around it, though I try not to. I take one revolting, old-shit-smelling breath, only so I have the air to keep screaming.

‘Shut up,’ he snaps. ‘My frat brothers are upstairs, and I put a lot of work into rigging up this couch. I even pulled the wood off the old fireplace so I’d have somewhere to stick the rest of your pathetic little body. Don’t ruin it by giving yourself away—I’d hate to have to share.’ I can hear the smirk in his voice at those last words, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

He shifts around a bit, grinding my nose further into his hole and dragging his balls along my forehead. I can see nothing but the yellowy-white fabric and glimpses of light brown skin. I try to hold my breath, not wanting to smell any more of that rancid odour than I have to, but I’d made a mistake by screaming, and now my lungs were burning, begging for a few deep gulps of air.

Nick’s stomach gurgles, and he pats it with a laugh. ‘Oh yeah, something’s moving. It won’t be long now.’

My ears start to ring and black spots appear in my vision. I brace myself and take a deep breath. Nick must have felt it, because just as I started sucking in air, he bares down and pushes out a long, bubbly, airy fart. I want to stop breathing right there, but my lungs won’t allow it, so I’m forced to suck the toxic stink up. It’s warm and thick, enveloping my face both inside and out with a stench like boiling eggs and rotten meat. My nose, throat and chest burn. My body revolts and I find myself coughing my guts up into the gag. Unfortunately, because life just isn’t fair, coughing means losing air, so I’m forced to keep gasping down more. Every breath makes my throat burn, and every cough makes me need another breath.

‘Be quiet,’ he snaps, ‘or someone else will want a turn.’

The reminder/threat sends a shiver up my spine. Nick shifts again before re-positioning himself, and I hear a laugh. More specifically—a laugh track. He’s turned on the TV. So, I guess this isn’t ending any time soon.

After a minute or so, his muscles tense up and a silent, scorching stream air seeps into my nose, the heat making it feel as though my nose has been dipped in boiling water. I try not to sniff it, but I was already due for another breath, and the few seconds I can hold off for are not enough for the stench to dissipate. A rotten, spicy smell assaults my nose and lungs. It hurts. The smell hurts, the moisture coating my face—borne from both of our sweat—amplifies the feeling of suffocation; and both the restraints on my body and the voices in the other room make it so I can’t even struggle. I can’t do anything to combat the pain.

He releases a harsh, booming fart, and I fight to hold back tears. I don’t want to know what will happen if my nose gets stuffed up.

After an ungodly amount of time (though it’s probably less than half an hour), he does a particularly noxious fart that is too much for me to handle, even with the warning, and has me hacking my guts up. I’m so preoccupied trying to reeling in my spasming lungs that I almost miss the way his ass tenses, and his pelvis rolls against my face as he straightens.

‘Fuck, I gotta go to the bathroom.’ He stands up, and I’m treated to the sight of his face again—which I now find much less attractive. ‘Not. A. Sound. Or you’ll regret it.’ He gives me a patronising pat on the forehead, then it’s just me and the cracks in the ceiling.

Nick’s voice echoes unintelligibly from the hallway, alongside another, and a set of heavy footsteps get closer.

‘I wouldn’t go in there,’ Nick says, still in the hall, but loud enough now for me to hear, ‘I’ve been gassing the fuck out of it.’

‘Gross, man. I guess I’ll open a window then.’

A pause, then a sigh and a resigned ‘suit yourself.’

The slap of bare feet on hardwood floors gets louder as the second man enters the room. There’s creak and a scrapping as he presumably makes good on his word and opens a window. A beefy frame comes into vision, an impossibly muscular body leading up to a square jaw and messy brown hair. He’s a beautiful specimen—but also a heavy-looking one. I try to hold as still as possible, barely even breathing, and hope to blend in with the rest of the couch. The man is red-faced and glistening with sweat, obviously fresh from an intense work-out. He’s standing right in front of the couch, but looking somewhere behind it, towards where the door must be. His white shirt is grey with sweat, and he peels it off over his head. It is now inside out, and I can smell the rank body odour even from down here. That’s always been my biggest gripe with dating supposed Alpha males—the lack of deodorant. How can you work out often enough and hard enough to look like a sculpture, yet still not know you stink?

The man lifts up one arm, revealing a bush of coarse brown hair, thick droplets of moisture cling to them, and scrubs it with his shirt. Then he dries the other pit. The tank-top is now basically soaked. He glances at it with disgust before dropping it onto the couch. Right onto my face.

The rapidly cooling fabric lands with a splat, the liquid making it heavy. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Holding my breath is a no-brainer, since even if the material didn’t smell like it’d been soaking in the juice of rotten onions, it’s so wet I’d basically be waterboarded. I try to distract myself from the rapidly-growing pain in my chest by praying—though I don’t know whom to—that Nick will be back soon and he’ll kick his gross roommate and his disgusting shirt out of here.

In a twist that surprises no-one, my prayer goes ignored. The small amount of light that had been showing through the white shirt disappears, and a mix of heat and pressure engulf my face. Why the hell would he want to sit on his gross, wet shirt?!

The pressure is crushing. As I’d expected, he’s heavier than Nick, and his ass-cheeks are much firmer. More toned. No doubt they’d be nice to look at, but being underneath them is hell on earth. He may as well have dropped an ass-shaped boulder onto my face. He grinds down, and I sink further in with a wet squelch. The buckets-worth of sweat make a marvellous lubricant. Soon, my nose is inches-deep between his muscular mounds, his hole pressed to my nose. I can’t fathom how he doesn’t feel it. Does he just think it’s a pointy clump of bunched fabric?

Between the weight and the lack of oxygen, I’m going into a panic. The urge to struggle is mounting. I groan, but it quickly becomes clear that any sounds I make are muffled by his absolute behemoth of an ass, leaving my just as trapped but with less breath now. I have no choice but to start sniffing, trying to pull down any air that I can. At first, all it does is suck up sweat from the shirt suctioned to my face, pulling the moisture into my nose and overwhelming it with salt and onions. I didn’t think it was possible to smell without breathing, but I guess I was wrong. What air is left leaves my lungs as I choke on the rancid odour. The source of my pain changes when the hole twitches and a stream of thick, rancid gas forces its way up my nose, and I have no choice but to huff it. I suck down the fumes as they’re coming out, sniffing extra-hard to get through the wet barrier. It smells like spoiled eggs and sewage, with something sour on top that clings to my nostrils like condensation.

The sweaty titan leans back, inadvertently angling his hole so that it’s aimed straight up my nose, and releases another noxious burst. The flow of air seems unending as I lay there, inhaling nothing but sweat and toxins, my nose burning like I’ve snorted vinegar. Tears are flowing freely, not from humiliation or pain (maybe a bit from pain), but from the sting of B.O hitting my eyes.

‘Dude, you’re in my spot.’

Oh, thank fuck. Nick’s back. I never thought I’d sink so low as to be relieved to hear the voice of someone who kidnapped me, but he really is the better option. I’d take his gassy ass over this mammoth’s any day.

The giant laughs. ‘Too bad, I’m comfy.’

‘If that’s how you’re gonna be, fine.’ The sound of a wet bubbly fart meets my ears but, blessedly, not my nose.

‘Dude, what the fuck?!’ The weight leaves my face and thundering footsteps fade from earshot.

The sweaty shirt is slowly peeled from my face, and I’m greeted with Nick’s amused smile. He’s leaning over me, a hand braced on the arm of the couch and the wet garment dangling from between his forefinger and thumb. ‘You did better than I thought you would. I’m genuinely impressed.’

I’m unsure how to feel about his words. I can’t detect any malice, but at the same time, I am tied up in his lounge room, so their must be a catch. Still, a benign sense of pride washes over me, not exactly for having stayed quiet, but for having pleased my tormentor. Maybe he’ll go easy on me now.

‘After that, I’m sure what I have planned for you will be a piece of cake. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it!’ He winks at me, his smile turning dark in a way that betrays his faux-flirtations.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He reaches out and I flinch, expecting him to hit me, but he instead rips the tape from my mouth. I gasp.

‘Not a word,’ he snaps. ‘Now, open your mouth and keep it open. Do what I say or I’ll jam Dylan’s gym socks down your throat. You think his shirt was bad? You haven’t smelt nothing yet.’

I shudder and open my mouth.

He straightens up and pulls down his briefs. I had a feeling he was planning to fart in my mouth, but this is much worse than I was expecting. He lowers his ass to my face, slowly, forcing me to watch as his cheeks part and a slightly swollen pink hole, surrounded my coarse hair, is revealed. I’m not opposed to asses—on the contrary, I’m known to rim the occasional pretty, tight asshole—but they have to be clean, and well groomed, and clean. Even with his shorts on I could smell the shit he’d just taken, and the fart he’d just ripped, and now it was overpowering.  He settled down with his hole pressed between my lips and I can taste it. Even without my tongue having touched it, the rancid, sewage taste radiated off the flesh.

He bares down, anus pushing further into my mouth, and silent, airy fart blows against my tongue and scorches it, leaving it tingly and sore. The taste can only be described as toxic. I can’t help it—I groan.

‘Aw, and you were doing so well,’ he coos, a smirk evident in his voice. ‘If you can’t handle the taste of my farts, how’re you going to take cleaning my ass? I just took a monster shit, and I need you to lick my hole clean inside and out.’

I try to shake my head, to yell, to do anything to show him that even for a kidnapper he’s crossed a line. I can’t do that. He can’t make me do that.

‘Uh uh uh,’ he tuts, ‘the socks, remember?’

I sigh through my nose, and prepare my tongue. This is disgusting, and filthy, and wrong, but it’s also the lesser of two evils. The smell of Dylan’s shirt alone nearly knocked me out. I won’t taste his socks.

I touch my tongue to the quivering muscles. It tastes like hot, pulsating shit. I hold it there for a moment, adjusting to the flavour so I won’t throw up, then drag it upwards.

‘Good little fag,’ he mutters. ‘You’re finally learning your place.’