A fart in your face isn’t just air. It’s him leaving his mark on you.
Telling you, without words: you are mine for this.
No perfume, no shame, nothing to hide. Just his raw body, surrendered to your nose and your soul.
To smell it—even if it chokes you, even if it burns, even if it’s horrific... It’s not about the disgust.
It’s because, within that disgust, there is power.
It’s the feeling that he dominates you with the most intimate thing he possesses.
That he forces you to breathe it in, to stay right there beneath it, to accept everything that comes from him.
While the rest of the world wants to smell like flowers, you are there—trapped in his filthiest scent—and that turns it... into art!🙇🏻♀️
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