No Name Girl Fart

No Name Girl Fart
What I'd Do to You
by No Name Girl
You know what? I could give a puffy, stinky fart how strong you are, what your last girlfriend could do to you, etc. You're not going anywhere in THIS TOTALLY BIZARRE fantasy of mine. I hope it scares you to death, and it makes you realize how weird I really am. This fantasy combines your total helplessness, public humiliation, and my gassy, farting pleasure.
Do you know why I don' care how strong you are? Because what I am doing is creating a custom fart torture mobile for ME. The first thing I'm doing is getting your chest/shoulder and neck measurements. Why, you may ask? I'm using those measurements to cut out a sillouhette at the bottom of the driver's seat in my new station wagon. Get the picture? In the privacy of my garage, I would force your body into the narrow confines of the cut out portion of my driver seat so you are FACE UP, arms by your side and constrained, the rest of your body flailing helplessly in the back seat. Doesn't matter, the windows are tinted impossibly dark. You wouldn't be getting help from anyone! In addition, I would make a block of wood about 2 feet wide to put in between your knees. (I just farted). Finally, I'm taking your ankles, and locking them to 150 lb. weights EACH. Good luck moving. In fact, please do try- I love the struggle, it will tickle my cunt hairs. All set? You are now stuck face up and face only in a place I commonly fart 5-10 times a day, namely the seat of my car. Poor seat. I wonder if they ever think of how many of us girls fart in those car seats when they design them? Ever see me driving on the freeway? I'm farting FEROCIOUS ones as I fly down the freeway, because who can smell except for me? And now, YOU. Change my expression as I fart and drive? Why? That would only give me away. But believe me, I'm farting. They don't stink to me. But oh, I forgot- you're closer to the source. Couldn' speak for you.
Well, I think we're ready to go. Let's open up the garage with the remote. I love remotes. It let's me stay seated on your mouth as I concentrate on the road. Let me back up. Oh, I have to turn that'll squirm my sloppy pussy on your mouth a little bit. Lick it. Not that you can see it, but there is a hill going down from my house. Uh oh, that's gonna mean a little more weight on your eyes and nose. You don't mind, do you? Oh, by the way, it would be a good idea for you to shut up if you ever want to get out of this. Hmm. A little too much pressure on your face. I don't want it to go numb, you need to be in top smelling condition for the inevitable. I think I'll sit on your lower neck/upper chest for a bit. Oh, what's this? A drive in? Burger King? Let's pull in. Lick my asshole while I order some fries and a cheeseburger. Should I have worn panties? Oops, my mistake. Oh, it's my friend Sherry working the window. I'll have a casual conversation with her. This magazine in my lap should cover my pussy and your face just fine for now. Got my food, let's go. I love burgers! Let me wolf and chomp and chow down! Oh, God, a little too much, I mean I did already eat that corn soup and Sprite about an hour ago. Uh oh. A bumpy road.
Here we BIP (bump) PUFF (bump) FRRRDDIP (bump) go! Dang, I can't help but go 60 even though this is a 35 mph. Windy road GRRRIPPPP too! I (bump) BRAP (bump) PLAAP (bump) WOOOSSHHHH! help this! A HA HA HA! Too funny! God damn, tell me what you smell the most! Ugh, the fries are kicking in, I better open up a window for my own benefit. That's enough. PUP-UP-FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFPH! Oh no. Another wave! BBLBLBLBLBBBLBLBLBPOOFFF! FFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRDDDDDDDDDDHuUUUUUUUUUU! PAP-AP-FLOOOOOO! Not burping too? Oh, well, as long as I keep my EYES on the road, I guess aiming my burps at your nose shouldn't cause any harm (to me, that is). Now lick my pussy before I fart in your face for the 7th or 8th time! Hmm. Stop sign, better reach beind the seat and put on some nipple clamps. Damn, twisting around to clamp your nipples has loosened some MORE gas. (MORE? Yup). BBBBRRRRFPFPFP. Shit, RIGHT in your face, now you tell me if you have any dignity left, because I love doing this bitch!

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My Boyfriend's Face
by No Name Girl
What I like best about farting in my boyfriend's face is that exact moment when, as he is (trying to) buck and squirm, I let a PUFF go. The smell hasn't hit him yet, and it definintely hasn't hit me, but he knows it is going to.
I wish he could see my face when that happens, but of course, his nose is stuck in my sometimes clean, sometimes not ass crack. If he COULD see the look on my face, it would be the most non chalant, "I could care less", "Don't bother me, I'm doing my nails" look you could imagine. I just look to the side after I let that fart shoot from my anus as if to say "Did I do that? Was that me? Oh well." That's when I add a wiggle to my hips to make sure the smell gets out. This whole thing started when I asked my friend if she thought my boyfriend really thought I was attractive. She said "Please- you could fart right in his face, sit there for 5 minutes, and then get off, and he would STILL think you were attractive." One day when my boyfriend and I were fooling around, I wound up sitting on his chest. When I saw he was having trouble breathing, and he really couldn't get up (I never thought I could hold him down), I totally got turned on, and moved my pussy up to his mouth. I let out a very small emission, but I could see that he could still breathe. This whole thing kind of got away, and the feeling of seeing him unable to get away from the stink, combined with the realization that he would never tell anyone what happened to him overtook me. I then figured that if I spun around, and planted my ASS on his nose, then he would have less air to breathe. So I did. His arms were flailing too much that time, so I pinned them down with my knees (but from then on, I tied them whenever I could).
The fart I ripped that first time was not as loud as I wanted. He hates it, believe me. As I've said in an earlier post (re: Girls, Girls, Girls) I try to tie him up anytime I can now. But he's getting smart, and he makes sure there are no make shift ropes around (i.e. belts, bathrobe ties, etc). Sometimes I've had to tie him up my shirt, whatever is around. One of the most exciting things for me, and the part he fears (which makes it so great) is that he doesn't know when I will try to overpower him. As I've said, once he is on his back, if I get his thumbs tied, it's all over. I've told my friend that I do this to him, but she won't believe me now, because the whole thing started off as a joke suggestion. I've even called her when I was sitting on his face, and just farted, but my boyfriend won't whine or scream then, because he is too embarrassed for anyone to know I do this to him. He loves me too much to make that much of a big deal out of my fetish, and that is what I've counted on. I also give him the kind of sex he likes, so I guess he figures it's the price he has to pay.

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Allow me to be all at once bold and competitive: I’ve got the worst gas of anyone you’ve ever met. If society was somehow different, and my … gift, let’s call it, was better valued, I would be your Queen of Farts. I would command attention, take down armies. I would redraw the lines of femininity. I would be worshiped and adored. None of this is likely to happen, though, is it? So here I am, in this world, in this society, in which (I dislike the words “gassy” and “farty”) a gastrointestinally-challenged woman has a tough row to hoe. Consider the sheer, exhausting effort that goes into covering up your scent. My plight: I’ve got an ass like a machine gun, people. And it’s on a mission to ruin my life.
As for The Why – why am I the way I am? – does it matter? Arguably not, but just for context’s sake, I’ll mention I think it’s the genes. I think my dad’s to blame. My mom’s normal enough – digging into a bowl of broccoli or brussels sprouts has its negative effects, but otherwise, she’s sitting pretty. But my dad and brother are beset in a manner similar to mine. Care for anecdotal proof? Not a problem: My dad and I did a father/daughter road trip two years back, and I can tell you – hand to God – we both farted so much over the course of the trip, that farting simultaneously became a more frequent occurrence than making a pit stop: It happened once every few hours. As for my brother, his wife’s favored accessory is the fashionable scarf. And that’s because he farts so much and so vilely, she needs a piece of fabric at the ready to cover her nose and mouth.
Thing is, though, that between my dad and my brother and me, I’m the only one shouldering the burden of being gastrointestinally-challenged and female. I’m supposed to shower daily, shave, smell of … if not roses, then at least something other than curdled milk and rotting fish. Here, I offer unto you the most common types of farts that e’re I have endured. Perhaps one of these has befallen you at some point. But take heed and give pity. For they’ve all befallen me in, like, a week … every week.
1. The Laughter Fart. I was in bed with a guy I’d been dating for a month or thereabouts, when he decided a tickle-fest might be an effective bit of foreplay. “DON’T TICKLE ME!” I shouted. “BAD IDEA!” He ignored me, however, and it was to his great detriment. I am highly ticklish, and so unable to control my sphincter when laughing hysterically, and so did I accidentally let fly a stink bomb. It brought tears to his eyes. “Don’t you feel like that brought us closer?” I asked. “NO!” he choked out. “That sit burns like you’re slicing onions down here!” This farting during laughing is a constant thing for me, and it’s a real tragedy. Laughing is supposed to be fun, you know? For me, though, it’s always being undercut (pun intended!) with a fear I’ll clear the room. And I’ve cleared rooms, believe me: A bar in San Francisco, a Starbucks on New York’s Upper West Side. Heed the warning anyone who dares make me laugh.
2. The Sex Fart. I was in bed with this same lucky gent mentioned above, and he went down on me and … actually, no: He was going down on me, and I ripped it. Loud. Loud enough to foster the illogical hope that maybe – just maybe! – he’d be momentarily confused and think some third party had snuck into my room and smashed her fist down on some massive piece of bubble wrap. Alas, this did not happen. In the short term: We both stopped what we were doing. In the long term: We found it hard to look each other in the eye. Which, of course, did not help us stay together. A variation on this theme has happened more times than I care to count. And in the broadest sense, the situation’s left me with the impression that I am but a Fart Cinderella seeking her Prince. “Where is he?” I ask. “The one who won’t mind?”
3. Silent And Not Smelly. The acronym, SANS, appropriately means “without” in French. Anyway, I luck out with these bad boys on occasion. Like once, I made the idiotic choice to grab a bite at Chipotle before heading to this experimental classical music concert of a friend of a friend of a friend. As an activity, I don’t recommend this; there’s a lot of dead air in which you’re challenged not to fall asleep or fart. Well, I might have made it through without falling asleep, but sure as the sun sets in the west, I would indeed be farting; it was only a matter of when. I had to work really hard to position my body such that I didn’t look like I was farting, and such that I didn’t make a sound. On this one lucky occasion, I did, in fact, succeed. However, my larger point is this: It could just as easily have proved dangerous. If you share in my struggles even the littlest bit, do NOT eat Chipotle pre-classical concert. Do not eat Chipotle at all, as a matter of fact, if you’re heading anywhere other than home.
4. Silent But Deadly. I was in bed with the same guy from before (a lucky guy indeed!), and there we were enjoying a post-coital tete-a-tete, when I felt a familiar cramping. I was now faced with a choice. I could either a) handle the pain, which, as it got worse, was visibly distending my stomach, or b) let it fly, and pray for SANS. I went with the latter option, but oh: It was not SANS; it was SBD, the oft-referenced Silent But Deadly. Deadly like a diabetic foot wrapped in week-old beef carpaccio is deadly. And so even though it was winter, I threw open the window, claiming, “I need some air.” And then: “Oh my god! It smells awful outside!” And then: “Oh my god! The awful outside smell seems somehow to have gotten in the bedroom! What in the gosh-darn world could smell so bad?!” Let me just say that the number of acting jobs of this variety I’ve performed over the years could win this gal an Oscar. My “What is that?”s and “Who, me?”s are simply not to be bested.
5. The Dance Floor Freedom March. I fart on a dance floor like I fart if I’m home alone in my apartment. What’s great is that there are usually a lot of people around, and they’re usually moving a lot. This is good for distribution. Distribution means you’re less likely to be pegged the culprit. So do I spend the better part of any wedding, bat/bar mitzvah, birthday party, anniversary party, wheeling around that slick-finished, freshly-waxed bit of heaven like my feet are on fire: I don’t particularly like the exercise or the attention. I’m just a half-hour out of eating a steak and, perchance, a bowl of ice cream, and I’m farting like a madwoman and I need to not be blamed. This, by the way, is why I’m such a swift RSVPer. It’s not that I’m excited by the event, it’s that I’m excited to fart happily, comfortably, blamelessly in public. These occasions are few and far between, and, as a result, they must be duly relished.
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