My Boyfriend and His Stepdad

My Farting Boyfriend and his Stepdad (a 90% true story)

My boyfriend had always had severe attacks of flatulence, known as ‘fartguy’ among his schoolmates, he frequently produced consternation and hilarity in class with his silent-but-deadly gas-clouds and gathered small crowds in the playground for his much-requested one-man exhibitions of loud and long explosions.

At home his farts were either ignored and tolerated or greeted with jocularity, his parents having decided his flatulence was a real, basically untreatable, physiological condition and therefore not to be condemned.

As a result of all this he considered himself a sort of amiable freak. He was therefore fundamentally happy with himself (he was tallish, well-built and good-looking, and relatively good at schoolwork), but he privately feared it would never be easy to find a girlfriend or a boyfriend, as no one really wanted to go out alone with him, for fear of being teased about how much of his intestinal gas they’d had to suffer.

I met him at university – his reputation had actually travelled there with him (via other people from his same school), so I hoped that I could befriend him (the more so the moment I set eyes on him: he had large thighs and a bulging bum – just the sort of man I found most physically attractive).

You see, it had always been my dream to have a boyfriend who farted – the sound and smell of male farts had always turned me on tremendously (the result of having heard my own father farting around the house at just the time my pubescent sexual interests were developing).

I did manage to meet him, and befriend him, and we even had sex several times without any farting being done, or even mentioned.

But the first time I actually experienced him farting up close coincided with the first time we ever crawled into my bed together (the other fucks we’d had had been on top of the bed or on the carpet). As the bed was narrow, I got under the bedclothes first and he slid in after me, my stiff throbbing cock just waiting for his big arse to draw level with it and slide into him. Just when he was drawing himself down alongside me, he craned his head round and announced, ‘a tiny smell on its way!’.

I hoped I’d understood rightly, because I’d been waiting for the first experience of actually savouring his famous farts, but didn’t want to confront him about it – I was hoping he’d be the first to bring up the question, ask permission or ask if I minded, etc., or just fart directly in my presence.

Little did I suspect the first fart of his I’d actually experience was to be in my own bed – and what an experience!

It began with a distinctly strong fart smell (anything but ‘tiny’!) – so strong and pungent I was actually embarrassed, as the gas billowed out from under the bedclothes as he wriggled his bum closer to my cock. But I breathed it all in, beginning to be excited at finally savouring a full fart from my new boyfriend’s arse.

But what happened next went beyond anything I’d ever imagined or experienced: the smell (instead of diminishing, as I’d expected) began to get stronger and stronger, my nose, throat and lungs began to feel sort of choked by a sensation I associated with what a powerful drug would have (not that I’d ever had any experiences with drugs) and I felt myself quivering and as if drowning in this incredibly thick, cloying stink.

Eventually it did die away, and we fucked as normal (his well-oiled arsehole always seemed to draw my cock magnetically towards the right spot and suck it in – there was never any pushing or forcing).

Later, thinking about what happened, I concluded he had felt a fart coming and knowing he was unlikely to be able to contain it, had announced it to forewarn me; then, having let it go, and not having had any protest from me, had maybe felt secretly ‘accepted’ for his flatulence – maybe even for the first time in his life – and had consequently let his whole gutful of gas go with a feeling of intense release (and, I think, intense love, too – because I think this moment marked the beginning of a period of strong, unspoken mutual communion, understanding and acceptance).

The second time I got to experience his farting directly was on our first picnic together.

It was an Easter Monday, and we’d decided to drive into the mountains, seeing some sights and scenery on the way. We’d just come out of an historic old church and got into the car and were driving off when I became aware of a fart smell filling the car. It got so strong, he wound down the window – but of course it took some time before the stink dissipated, so I was breathing it in, embarrassed and at the same time aroused, all the time going on chatting as if nothing had happened. I presume he had felt a gas build-up in the church, hadn’t wanted to let it out inside the church and had instead let it out outside, on the way to the car, not calculating that of course a good part of the gas would remain trapped in his underpants and jeans until he sat down in the car, squashing it out!

The same thing happened after we’d had our picnic and were getting into the car again. This time, however, he lingered just outside the car door for quite a few seconds, no doubt hoping the fart would waft away. It did in fact waft away – but also into the car, filling it again with a distinctive warm stink.

It’s curious that, at that time, we never alluded directly to his farts. I was a pretty serious-minded youth at the time, and I think he thought I might react badly to any discussion of flatulence or farts, far less any joking about it. We valued each other’s friendship and easy casual sex too much to jeopardize it, I think – I hadn’t yet met his family and we had no close friends in common who might have brought the subject of his farting up. I myself was only secretly turned on by farting – I had never confided this to anyone, and certainly not to him: I didn’t want him to think I was attracted to him only, or primarily, because of his farting. And he himself had found, I think, a real close companion who seemed to appreciate him for what he was, in spite of (or maybe he suspected because of) his flatulence, and who seemed free of any teasing or embarrassment (remember I hid my embarrassment behind a show of easy-going normality).

The third time I felt the full force of his stinking farts was the first time we took a train journey together – he wanted to attend a conference in a far-off town and asked if I’d like to go with him, taking the night train there, so as to arrive in the early morning. We had climbed onto the train and were making our way down the corridor (those were the times when trains had compartments and a corridor going down the side of the carriage) in the dim light, all the compartment doors shut and blinds down to give sleeping travellers peace – just the two of us in the corridor. We sat down on pull-down seats in the empty corridor, and at once I became aware of a ferociously pungent stink enveloping us both, which could only logically have come from his arsehole (since it hadn’t come from mine – and we were the only ones in the corridor). This time I dared to look him in the eye, and he looked at me, and sheepishly grinned. Nothing had been said, but for the first time a fart he had let off had been explicitly acknowledged.

When we got off the train in the early hours of the morning and were making our way along the empty platform towards the exit, I myself felt a good build-up of gas in my own gut, which I decided would be a good idea to let out, in his presence – in the hope he would come to accept that copious farting in each other’s company was natural (I had, on occasion, while having sex, farted briefly myself – but I’d never had a huge build-up of gas to match his own, until now!). So I let out a very long, fairly loud, rip, and was delighted to hear him comment, ‘Windy day today!’.

The ice had been broken! Indeed, some time later, coming down the stairs from my flat one night, after having sex, he actually let off his first loud fart in my presence – a slow phut,phut building up to an increasingly more rapid ripping blast, which went on for a good few seconds, ringing out all too clearly on the empty stairway (but which I was certain would be heard by other occupants behind the closed doors!).


All this was before the days of ‘coming out’ – we had never admitted publicly to having sex together, nor had ever openly discussed his farting, either between ourselves or with anyone else.

This all began to change the first time he introduced me to his stepdad (his mum had recently remarried). This man, my boyfriend suspected, was bi, having teamed up with his mum mainly for business and financial reasons, and was a beer drinker (unlike us, who were wine and water drinkers) and a pub and club frequenter (again, unlike us, who were quiet, stay-at-home types).

We once dropped in on him when he was on his own at home, and before long we were drinking away, the easy chat and the laughter increasing with every glassful. At one point (he’d had goodness knows how many pints of beer) he let off a huge, loud, spluttering beer-fart, and I decided the moment had come to be openly explicit. I congratulated him on his fart, and asked if he often farted in public, like his stepson, my boyfriend.

I had done it – I had openly made mention of the fact that we were sexual partners, and that my boyfriend was a notorious farter! And as I suspected, the man met my frankness with equal frankness of his own, confessing not only to being a farter, but to enjoying it, and to being always on the lookout for other guys to fart with, and have sex with!

Even my boyfriend was taken aback – having suspected his stepdad was a bi, but never that he might come out explicitly about his preferences, and with us! But he was up to the game, and after a long drunken exploratory chat about how much, how often, where and when we all farted, or liked to fart, or wished to fart, we decided to stage a farting contest, between the two copious farters – my boyfriend and his stepdad – with me being the judge.

There wasn’t time to stage it there and then – it was getting late, and my boyfriend’s mum would be back soon, but we made plans to meet at my flat the following Friday night, and in the meantime to work out a set of criteria by which to assess the farts and so judge the winner.

I myself worked this out and got the other two to agree to it, by email, then printed out the rules and the assessment charts. The idea was basically to award from 0 to 3 points for each aspect of a fart – its length, its loudness and its smell, each contestant getting to fart up to 3 times, and the farters had to be bare-arsed and fart in my face under a blanket so the smell could be trapped and assessed, my assessment was to as honest and objective as I could possibly be, and to be based entirely on my immediate impression. The points would then be totalled up.

I was as randy as fuck when Friday night came round, not being able to believe my luck at having my boyfriend and his stepdad fart right in my face!

In the end, it was a fair contest – my boyfriend of course would win on the stink, and his stepdad on the volume, and each was proficient at producing some quite lengthy ones, my boyfriend’s being generally low-sounding, almost silent rushes, while his stepdad’s would be sometimes deafening, causing me to recoil, almost in shock, at such close quarters! We worked out that it was my boyfriend who had won that first time, but only just, because of his smells. His stepdad swore vengeance, and we agreed to hold another contest the following Friday.

It actually became a regular Friday night feature, for a while, sometimes with variations (once I had to be blindfolded and had to guess, with my face under a blanket and an arse stuck in under it too, whose arse it was, the two contestants having agreed to try their best to deceive me with my boyfriend farting loudly sometimes and his stepdad silently – though I could usually distinguish my boyfriend’s smell, which I was well used to, and his stepdad’s lewd beer-farts!)

We never actually had sex together – I suspect my boyfriend was a bit shy of being disloyal both to me and to his mum – but we did agree once for my boyfriend and myself to have sex together while his stepdad watched, with him hotting up proceedings by farting as he jerked off, and actually sticking his arse in my face both while I was fucking my boyfriend’s arse and later when my boyfriend was fucking mine!

Maybe one day my boyfriend might have suggested we both fuck his stepdad (or get him to fuck us both – we didn’t really know what his preferences might be, although he did make a show of being on the macho, active side – but of course you never know!).

We drifted apart before we ever came to anything of the sort – I got hooked on the Internet and more or less substituted porn for actual sex, and eventually teamed up with an older man and settled into a stable marriage; I lost touch with my boyfriend as he gradually became more and more convinced he should team up with the church and become celibate. I last saw him officiating at a Christmas Day cathedral ceremony with the bishop, but I heard he was having intestinal problems (no doubt connected with his flatulence).

Our intense, though casual, days of close friendship, sex and farting are long gone – but the hot memories remain.

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