A luxurious restaurant went through construction in a completely deserted town in the city of ST, well hidden, and under Stercomaster's growing power.
The restaurant was large-sized with the Brown Banquet Hall as the main dining hall, able to hold 30 tables and there are 2 bars on each side of the hall: the TurdTavern offering varieties of shitty piss drinks and NumberTwoNook with fresh turd directly from asses. Several special rooms were designed as well for exclusive service, MuckMunchery, OdiferousDelight, OdorOmnivore, StoolStation and WasteBuffetRoom, each offering farting, feet licking, piss, etc. Take-out now was scheduled to be delivered freely to handsome men singled out by Stercomaster by his special delivery guys, who would satisfy these men more than they expected.
Getting everything ready, it's also time to attract more investment for the restaurant. As a cunning successful businessmen, Stercomaster has a broad range of connections. He has been lusting for some of his handsome rich business partners for a long time. Now it's time for them to taste something new.
Stercomaster sent out invitations of dining to 20 hot business partners he dealt with. 12 gave instant response. The rest 8 were either out of town or busy with something else, but that doesn't bother Stercomaster. He would make sure the 8 won't lose any of the fun the 12 would have enjoyed.
Now invited by Stercomaster, 12 men, 5 bankers, 1 Turkish actor, 1 Arabic oil tycoon and 2 hot daddy type investors, 2 hot bodybuilders who established a successful business of gym equipment and 1 Northern European military official, arrived at the restaurant. They were surprised by the restaurant's location, but each somehow figured that the restaurant is used by Stercomaster to deal with some underground business.
For these rich wealthy bastards, Stercomaster has always seemed to be a mysterious figure even after years of collaboration. They only knew he was referenced to as Master S and always has the ability to get business done.
They figured this invitation indicated their mysterious business partner's welcome to their participation in deeper collaboration, maybe for some profitable underground business. As greedy yet intelligent successful businessmen, they were more than willing to get into some tax-free dirty business. Of course, they will soon see and experience Stercomaster's idea of being dirty.
Stercomaster welcomed his 12 rich business partners who just stepped out of their luxurious cars: "Welcome, gentlemen Just come in. I already got some appetizers set for you, and after that, we can talk about some serious business."
"I would hope so, you know how picky I'm towards food." Brant joked, he is a famous banker, a heartthrob with beautiful blue eyes and sharp face. He noticed sharply that Stercomaster was wearing a lot cologne.
"I'm sure you'll enjoy it, all of you." Stercomaster led the 12 to StoolStation, one of the private dining rooms. On the way, the 12 couldn't help but look at Stercomaster's huge bulging ass that wobbled like gelatin with every step.
The whole room was obviously perfumed heavily with the same cologne worn by Stercomaster. But these businessmen keenly noticed there's another smell under the cologne that's growing stronger as the cologne in the room and from Stercomaster's body wore off gradually. It's familiar to them, light, stinky yet pleasing. Whatever that it, it smelt delicious.
The dining room was already set up well when Stercomaster led his guests into their seats. In front of each man was a plate capped by steel cloches. Under the plates were the investment contracts that, according to the invitation from Stercomaster, are going to be signed by the end of the day.
Stercomaster randomly chatted with the 12 gentlemen as the cologne gradually dissipated in several minutes, replaced by sharpening shit stench, which, however, seemed to be oblivious to the businessmen, some of whom even subconsciously took deep breaths more often than they did.
The military high official Stian talked with Lawson about the invitation list, as he saw on the list that 20 men were invited, yet only 12 came. He wondered whether the other 8 had some negative thoughts on the whole investment thing.
Stercomaster properly explained:" Don't worry, the other 8 gentlemen will also join you in the next meals soon. Their new invitation has already be planned. But today, it's all about your meal. Today, you will have Scat-Appétit, which is the name for the whole set of specialties so far."
In the rising stench, Stercomaster's weird wording didn't cause any of the 12's suspicion. These men were completely incognizant of the tendrils of stink, pruning their subconsciousness from within.
With a hand gesture from Stercomaster, the 12 muscular guards serving aside quickly lifted the cover lids. A blast of foul stench instantly hit the noses of the 12. Unconsciously, they all took a deep breath of the delicious smell and looked down. They saw in front a bowl of thick brown porridge in delicate porcelain. The porridge looked pretty thick with a layer of light yellow liquid giving out tempting smell.
"Porridge, this is something new." They thought as the dense enticing smell of the porridge started to fill the room. The twisting smell easily invaded their minds and warped their realities as the men sank deeper into the trance that the stink provided.
"Now please excuse me for the preparation of your coming meal. Meanwhile, enjoy the first appetizer on the table." Stercomaster said with a perfect smile and left the room.
At first, the twelve men chatted idly, their polished manners keeping them from touching the mysterious appetizer laid before them. The clink of silverware against porcelain, the murmur of business talk—it was all a facade, a thin veneer of civility stretched over the growing smell in the room. The air itself seemed to thicken, the cologne’s crisp veneer dissolving as the underlying stench swelled, curling into their nostrils. It was a smell both repulsive and hypnotic, with a sour tang that made their salivary glands prickle.
Then, the banker Kevin, with his mouth watering in a way he never felt hovered his spoon for only a second before dipping into the porridge’s golden-tinged surface, collecting a shimmering spoonful of the thin, shit-colored broth. The moment it touched his lips, his eyes fluttered shut. A beat of silence. Then—
"Guys... this tastes really nice." His voice was low, almost reverent. The others watched, transfixed, as he swallowed, his throat working around the thick, viscous liquid. Something in his expression shifted—his usual sharp-edged banker’s poise softened into something slack, hungry.
The rest proceeded to eating curiously. They were all feeling really hungry anyway. Spoons clattered as they dug in, their initial hesitation drowned beneath a sudden, ravenous urgency. The first sip was a revelation. The flavor was strange and hard to describe. The acidic smell and the earthy reeking taste of the porridge made it the best appetizer they have ever ate. They could feel their tongues responding to the food in ways they had never experienced before. All swallowed immediately in hunger.
The thin broth above was just the beginning; beneath it lay the true prize—a huge sludge of thick, chunky turd, studded with half-digested corn kernels and fibrous beans that burst between their teeth. They chewed greedily, moans slipping out unbidden as the textures melted across their tongues, the flavors blooming in ways no gourmet dish ever had.
Andrea, usually so composed, let out a shameless groan, his lips glistening with brown streaks. "Fuck," he muttered around a mouthful, his cock twitching. The porridge coated his throat as he swallowed, the putrid aftertaste lingering. It should have disgusted him. What the hell is this disgusting taste? Instead, his fingers tightened around the spoon, his next bite even larger.
Around the table, the men hunched over their bowls, their movements growing frantic. They slurped the liquid layer first, then scraped up the denser sludge beneath, their tongues lapping at every last smear. Some abandoned spoons entirely, lifting the bowls to their mouths to gulp directly, their chins dripping. The room filled with wet, obscene sounds—gulps, sighs, the slick slide of tongues over porcelain. With every swallow, the heir hunger only deepened.
To savor more, all 12 kept the porridge in their mouths, slowly chewed and savored for a long while, enjoying the sticky and concentrated content being swallowed down their throats. Their mouths were coated brown. The stench in the room was getting stronger as they rest on the chairs enjoying the aftertaste in their mouth. None of them noticed their dicks were gradually erecting in their pants.
"That's the definition of yummy!" Yaman, the Turkish actor, said with enticement on his face.
"How the fuck they made such a tasty porridge!" Stian, a high military official from an Northern European country, said while he sniffed greedily the bowl for more of the enticing stinks. His dick was pulsing harder as more stinking sniffed in.
Only one out of the 12 frowned who's kind of regretful because the smell reminded him of shit, but his conscious mind couldn't believe he should eat shit so greedily and enjoy the foul smell. Chad, the acute businessman opened his mouth with puzzlement: "Guys, did you find the smell weirdly similar to..."
Just before he said anything more, the door was swung open. The Italian guard Gianluca walked in with a tray on his hand. "Sorry to interrupt you Sir, my Master will join you soon. Here is another specialty appetizer of the Restaurant."
The 12 didn't answer, as their eyesight was taken by what Gianluca held on his hand. On the tray were 12 3-inch long "merdeguette". They are shit logs freshly dumped by a group of truckers with three sauce dishes, light yellowish soft shit sauce, sperm and green sticky snot.
The 12 swallowed hard at the enticing scene. The merdeguette gleamed obscenely under the light, each log a unique evacuation to its trucker creator’s diet and gut chemistry. Some were knobbly, twisted like gnarled roots, their surfaces cragged with undigested bits of corn and fibrous strands that clung to the teeth. Others were smoother, tapered at the ends like cigars, their outer crust glistening with a faint sheen of intestinal mucus. Colors ranged from deep umber to swampy green-black, the darkest ones flecked with streaks of bile like rancid marbling. The stench was a like fist punch to their sinuses.
Gianluca served the merdeguette and the sauces to each of the 12. That's when the 12 noticed how stinking and hairy Gianluca himself smelt. Each gentleman took extra bonus sniff from Gianluca's masculine body as put the plates of shit logs in front of each.
Then, they wasted no time pushing the hot logs into their mouths. The moment the logs hit their tongues, the twelve groaned. The taste was completely different from the shit porridge. The textures erupted in their mouths: crumbly yet dense, like turd fudge left to rot for days, the drier varieties coating the palate in a gritty paste. The moister ones squelched, releasing bursts of hot, gamey brine that oozed down their throats. A few of the bankers choked as they forced particularly stubborn logs past their gag reflexes, the shit grinding against their molars like peat. Others sucked greedily at the tapered ends, hollowing their cheeks to draw out the foul juices, letting the waste dissolve on their tongues like putrid candy.
Then came the sauces. The yellowish shit-slurry was lukewarm and velvety, clumping in the mouth like congealed gravy. The sperm added a salty-sour slickness, its viscosity thinning the thicker logs into something slurpable. But it was the green snot that made the businessmen shudder—stretching in glutinous strands between lips and tray, its rot clinging to the back of the throat like their own phlegm.
Some were beyond patience and fucked their own faces with the logs, ramming them in and out like big cocks, gagging as the shit smeared their uvulas, their tonsils, the backs of their sinuses. Their lips glistened with streaks of brown, smeared from frantic fucking, sucking, biting. Every choke sent ropes of spit and brown sludge dripping down their chins, their chests, their trembling hands.
Zac and Brant, lost to the frenzy, fucked their own mouths too hard and the whole logs were pushed deep down their throat. Their throats gaped as they devoured thick, slimy logs whole, the weight of the waste dragging down their gullets in obscene, gluttonous swallows. The sensation of the huge warm turd log sliding made their cocks twitch, precum leaking onto their thighs.
The third appetizer arrived in shallow ceramic bowls, its light yellow curry glistening under the light—a deceptively delicate hue, like pale honey streaked with milky opalescence. The surface rippled with oily swirls, its consistency neither fully liquid nor solid, clinging to the spoons in viscous strands. The aroma was fermented and musky, a heady blend of multiple enticing odors. Beneath that, a hot, brassy tang lingered, the unmistakable edge of fresh semen, still warm from the throbbing cocks of the twenty construction workers who’d donated it moments prior.
The businessmen didn’t hesitate. Their hunger was a ravenous, gnawing void, far beyond mere appetite—it was a deviant craving, a need to consume filth as if it were ambrosia. They raised the bowls to their lips, gulping down the thick, lukewarm slurry, their tongues lapping at the slippery, gelatinous chunks suspended in the curry. The taste was bittersweet, a clash of acrid bile and the creamy aftertaste of spent seed, each swallow coating their throats in a slimy, clinging film. They scraped the bowls clean, fingers dragging through the residue, sucking them dry with obscene, wet noises.
Then, the door crashed open. Stercomaster stood framed in the doorway, his presence an assault before he even spoke. The air curdled around him, a putrid, eye-watering stench of fermented sewage now rolling off his body in visible greasy waves. The twelve gasped and inhaled involuntarily deep as their cocks twitched.
Unseen beneath his tailored, onyx-black suit, Stercomaster’s skin was sheathed in a crackling layer of excrement—dark brown and streaked with greenish-black, the texture ranging from crusted, flaking patches to glistening, freshly smeared streaks. It oozed between his collar and cuffs, the heat of his body keeping the feces of tens of men fermenting, the stink deepening with every calculated step he took toward them.
"I’m delighted to see my appetizer met your approval, gentlemen." Stercomaster walked to his seat, smiling as he caught sight of large wet spots of precum around each man's crotch.
"This is truly tasty! We're just wondering how you made such delicacy! " Andrea appraised as he and others involuntarily leaned towards Stercomaster to sniff more stench from him. Their flared, their starved, perverse hunger surging anew. Saliva flooded their mouths. They wanted to taste him, to bury their faces in the filth he wore like a second skin.
"Well, you'll soon find out in the main course, which will be far more memorable!" Stercomaster said and snapped, "But now, I have just one more amuse-bouche prepared for you!"
12 guards walked in. Their entrance was a wall of sweat-drenched khaki and coiled muscle, their uniforms straining against biceps thick as the shit they carried. Every inch of their bodies were packed with muscles. Their pheromones hit first—a cocktail of leather and the ripe, sunbaked stench of men who wore their dominance like a second skin, their unhindered thick manly odor invading the 12's noses.
They each were holding a plate of middle-sized three-layer shit cake. Each one was a grotesque masterpiece. The base layer glistened, a slab of felony-grade shit so dark it was nearly black, its surface pocked with the fibrous remnants of prison rations, compacted into a dense, chewy mass. The middle layer coiled like a serpent, a ropey brown log studded with undigested kernels, its musk earthy and sour, the signature reek of Stercomaster’s elite soldiers. Crowning it all, the "butter"—a quivering mound of guards’ shit, light yellow as spoiled cream, its texture whipped into deceptive lightness. The entire structure swam under a deluge of Stercomaster’s offerings: viscous yellow diarrhea, still warm, oozing between the layers, mingling with ropes of cum that pooled in the crevices, their briny stench cutting through the thicker odors.
The cloying and rotten stink punched down the throats of the 12 drooling men. Their nostrils flared in involuntary hunger.
A flicker of doubt crossed Stian’s face, his Nordic blue eyes widening at the obscenity before him until the guard presented the cake right under his nose. The smell exploded and his hesitation shattered.
"As you gentlemen could tell by the smell, the cakes were just freshly made by me, with the help of some of my special crew that you'll soon meet."
The businessmen's mouths were producing dripping drools as the muscular guards placed the cake in front of them one by one. Two of them, The hot Turkish actor Yaman and the hot daddy Chad, couldn't wait and immediately sucked the top layer into their mouths and chewed even before the cakes were put on the table. They were grinding their teeth into the top layer, the soft yellow shit collapsing like mousse, Stercomaster's sperm’s slickness making it slide down their throats with filthy ease. Moans tore from them both, guttural and shameless.
Yaman was after something far harder. As the mousse-like top layer of soft shit quickly melted across his tongue, his teeth ached to sink into what lay beneath: the dense, compacted underbelly of the cake, the real feast. These weren’t just any turds; they’d been squeezed tight by the iron-clad bowels of maximum-security convicts, men who lived on starch and rage, their shit baked into stubborn, knotted logs by years of prison slop and withheld relief. The kind of turd that resisted, that made the Turkish heartthrob's jaw strain as he gnawed through the crusted exterior to reach the rancid marrow within.
His nostrils flared as he hit paydirt—a thick, gnarled chunk, its musk so pungent it burned his sinuses. The guards had seasoned it, too, letting it ferment in sweat-laced boxer briefs, the kind crusted with the filth of men who hadn’t showered in weeks. Yaman’s cock twitched against his slacks as he worked his tongue along the ridges, tasting rancid tang of the hard turd. This was violence made tangible, shit that had stewed in the guts of criminals, and now it was his, grinding between his molars like a sacrament. Yaman's hips jerking forward as if he could fuck the hard pile of turd. With every chew, the way the turd’s core gave just slightly under pressure before splitting, releasing a burst of rot so potent his eyes watered. Perfect. He’d swallow every last splinter of it, let it sit heavy in his belly like a trophy.
The others followed, their resolve crumbling faster than the cakes’ diarrhea-sodden bases. What was unthinkable before the meal now seemed inevitable, the stench rewiring their brains between one gag and the next. Drool slicked their chins.
Kevin and Zac, the sharp-suited bankers, ate with deep guttural moans. Kevin’s eyes fogged as he shoved a spoonful into his mouth, his lips glistening with streaks of brown and yellow, strings of saliva-diluted shit clinging to his chin. He chewed with his mouth wide open, groaning around the mush—“Fuck, it’s so fucking tasty—”—before gagging and swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Zac, ever the competitor, lapped at the diarrhea-soaked sponge like a starved pig, his tongue flicking out to catch drips before they fell. The taste was a punch of fermented shit, and his cock strained against his tailored slacks, precum soaking through the fabric in sticky blotches.
Hot Daddy Lawson took his time, his thick fingers peeling apart the cake’s layers with obscene precision. He licked a long stripe up the side, gathering a mix of crumbling crust and watery filth on his tongue, then held it in his mouth, rolling the flavor like fine wine. He rumbled, his hips jerked forward involuntarily with his large erection. A chunk of half-chewed cake tumbled from his lips as he moaned.
Josep and Patrik, the hulking bodybuilders, were already tearing into their portions like animals, their fingers sinking into the cake’s rancid layers, feeling the unique texture of compacted shit. Josep used both hands to cram fistfuls into his gaping maw, his biceps bulging as he worked his jaw, shit oozing between his fingers. “Ghh—!” he grunted, but his tongue darted out to catch the drips running down his wrist. Patrik, meanwhile, leaned over the table, his thick neck corded as he gulped down whole chunks, his throat convulsing with each wet glrk of hungry swallowing. A splatter of diarrhea burst from the corner of his mouth, landing on his pumped-up quads, but he only groaned louder, his cock visibly twitching in his tight shorts.
Brant, the muscular investor, didn’t bother with finesse. He gripped the cake in both hands and bit, his teeth shearing through the soggy mass, shit-streaked cream smearing across his stubble. He moaned around the mouthful, his nostrils flaring at the stench, his pecs flexing as he shuddered before swallowing audibly. Strings of brown mucus stretched between his lips and the cake as he pulled back for air, his sweat-slicked chest heaving.
“Fucking perfect,” he slurred, his lips shining with spermy shit, his free hand palming his erection through his soaked trousers.
The champagne flutes arrived to help the gentlemen to wash down the delicious hard turd, their contents cloudy and pungent, the stale tang of piss barely masking the underlying bitterness. The men drank greedily, throats bobbing as they chased the cloying aftertaste of the cake. Some threw their heads back as they drained their glasses, piss trickling down their throats, their abs clenching as they panted. Their lips were glistening with greasy remnants of shit.
Precum glistened in thick, uneven blotches across their trousers, their cocks jerking against the strained fabric of their briefs from the perverse thrill.
Stercomaster observed them like a connoisseur, his own monstrous cake resting before him—a grotesque masterpiece, its exterior slathered in fetid brown creams, the crust cracked to reveal a dense, stubborn core. He brought a crumbling piece to his lips, inhaling deeply before letting his teeth sink in. The texture was foulness incarnate: gritty yet slick, dissolving into a putrid paste on his tongue. His chewed the foulness, savoring the decadent rot, his gaze flickering between each of his twitching, debased guests.
It took an eternity for the twelve to finish. Plates were scraped clean, forks dragged over porcelain with desperate, grating whines. Tongues lapped at stray crumbs, fingers swiping through streaks of filth before being sucked clean. The flutes were tipped back, last drops of golden-tinged piss clinging to their lips as they panted, bellies full of shit, piss and sperm yet aching for more. The room hummed with their hungry moaning for more.
Stercomaster was finishing his shit cake as well, chewing the solid logs from soldiers and smiled at his invitees, showing his teeth coated in brown, some firm shit residues wedged between his teeth: "Ah, gentlemen, I observe that my meal has been thoroughly relished."
Stercomaster's words woke them gradually from their shitty trance. They were gleefully savoring the aftertaste of the mingled shit cake as their reason returned. Chad, the hot daddy type of businessman, was still licking his cake plate. There was a piece of dark brown turd stuck firmly on the bottom of the plate that was swept through numerous times by Chad's greedy tongue.
"The cake was absolutely delightful!" The Banker Denis answered, trying to top the last drop of piss into his mouth.
"No hiding it, your cooking is better than any restaurant I’ve been to!" Mostafa, the hairy muscular Arabic daddy, was licking his lips. The plate and even the inside of the champagne flute were licked completely clean by him. He is a truly hunk of defined muscles, huge with his muscles bulging under his suits. Suddenly, "Brrrrrrr" Mostafa let out a loud fart, interrupting the momentary silence. "Euhh Fuck" He mumbled, felt embarrassed, and face flushed red, "Sorry guys." He never farted so loudly ever, let alone in the dining room with the presence of other men. Mostafa himself smelt his own fart first, and he could swear it’s the most stinking fart he even let out. Normally he would be disgusted by it, but now he just felt a weird sensation of pride that he farts stank so heavily.
"Farts happen all the time, right? Nothing special." Stercomaster smiled, seeing Chad and Yaman, the two men sitting next to Mostafa leaning towards Mostafa's direction instinctively to inhale the hot fart the moment they heard Mostafa farting. Yaman's dick sprung to its circumcised hardness that it never reached before when sniffing his friend's stinky fart, he noticed his burning crotch already, but there's no time to take care of that as he felt gas brewing in his intestines and was about to rush out of his asshole as well.
" Yeah, that's pretty normal." The bodybuilder Josep said, also trying to use the talk to disguise his hissing fart. He and Patrik are the two bodybuilders invited by Stercomaster, both men are huge, with muscles budging from their suits while they budged uneasily to find the best angle to silently release their long waited fart.
The rest 10 were also fidgeting abashedly in the seats, feeling the fart about to burst out of their assholes and trying to find the optimal seat angle for noiseless emission. The pressure building at their asslips was unbearable, a molten tension that throbbed in time with their quickening pulses. For the twelve, the struggle to contain their gas had become something else entirely, and only themselves knew how much strength they used to contain the farts beneath their poised exteriors.
Some succeeded in releasing quiet ones. The hot daddy Lawson and Andrea, another banker with sexy tattoos on his arm, have let out tens of farts silents, clouding themselves and the guests next to them in their hot fart bubbles. Lawson’s jaw clenched as another silent one escaped, his thighs pressing together just shy of desperation. Andrea bit hislip, the dampness between hislegs as undeniable as the stench curling around him. They kept shifting subtly in their seat to allow for discreet flatulence, but both felt the increasing pressure of the flatus at their asslips. Each stifled fart sent a jolt through them, the heat pooling low in their guts, the vibrations teasing nerves already strung too tight.
"I've got to say, I'm super curious about how you made these mouthwatering dishes!" Brant asked, to divert from the awkwardness. On the corner of his mouth was a line of drools. The 12 were tacit in not mentioning their ongoing awkward collective farting, but just seconds after their presumed total release of the gas, they again felt the gas brewing in their filled stomach, and low hissing sound of farts escaped again from the asses of some.
"You're going to find out soon in the main course. " Stercomaster's words were interrupted again by loud farts from some other businessmen.
Unlike the more silent farters, 3 hunks, Zac, Stian and Denis couldn't contain the bubbling fizzing sensations and jet out high-pitched cracklings through their assholes, adding hot fart smell to the stinky air. Denis held to the table, his muscles protruding under his suits as he tried to awkwardly hold the flatulence, but to no avail. Both him and Stian blushed in embarrassment as they continued their long and loud emission of flatus. Still flushed from their loud outbursts, exchanged glances as the scent of each other’s farts hit them in waves. They couldn't deny the smell of fart from their hot friends sent a jolt of heat straight to their groins, their dicks twitched hard.
The dining room quickly became a cacophony of raucous flatulence as another several businessmen let loose in unison. The air thickened with the pungent, musky heat of their combined emissions, a heavy fog of masculine gas that clung to their bodies and filled their nostrils. What began as embarrassment soon twisted into deeper arousal.
Brant, who successfully let out tens of silent eruptions, was also not so concealing this time. Squishy watery farts erupted out of his asshole and echoed in the whole dining room. Other men caught the chances to evacuate the the excessive gas in lower noises, but instead of sneaky hisses, jets of squelching farts exploded from many asses. The room was filled with the loud fart from the 12. The more they breathed in the foul air, the harder they got, each rancid whiff stoking the lust in their groins. Farts overlapped, sounds and smells blending into one obscene symphony.
The cacophony of farts lasted for minutes till the whole the fart smell significantly overrode the shit stink in the dining room. Each businessman's nose was attacked by various fart smell, yet they couldn't start. Their dicks throbbing harder as more gas burst out of their assholes loudly. The 12's thighs squeezed together as they shuddered, their pants soaked through, their mind blank except for the need to inhale deeper.
Stercomaster sipped his flute of piss gently, enjoying the blows of farts that erupted into his nose. He took a few long drags and joined the fating party, loudly releasing his gas into the already thick air. His revolting fart thickened the air with shitty droplets and fecal particles almost visible now.
The stink of Stercomaster’s potent fart rolled through the dining room like a tidal wave, slithering into their nostrils, their mouths, even the pores of their skin. The stink of Stercomaster's fart was overriding all other foul smells.
It was a writhing reek beyond decay. The twelve gasped in unison, their bodies jerking as if electrocuted by the sheer vileness of it. Their eyes rolled back as their tongues lolled out, lapping at the air like starved animals, chasing the taste of Stercomaster’s flatulence. The rancid flavor made their saliva pool.
The hips of the gentlemen bucked involuntarily, their tailored pants straining as their cocks pulsed against the fabric as Stercomaster's farts exploded louder and stronger. Then, a guttural cry first tore from Kevin's throat as his orgasm ripped through him, his cum spattering hot and thick in his crotch. Kevin's orgasmic moaning was overlapped by Stian's louder scream. Stian's back arched, his asshole clenching as he came with a scream, his juices dripping down his thighs. The others followed—choked sobs, broken whimpers, the slick sounds of flesh frantically pumping as the room filled with the staccato rhythm of their climaxes. The 12's noses flared, sucking in Stercomaster’s fart like it was oxygen, their bodies convulsing with each new wave of putrid air.
As the last tremors of their orgasms faded, they slumped in their seats, dazed and dripping, their chests heaving while they sucked in stink in deeper hunger. The air was still thick, still alive with the aftermath of Stercomaster’s filthy gift.
