Cathrein Zeta Jones story

[danastell]

It had been a particularly hard day for Catherine. The pregnant movie star
clearly had better things to do than attend a court hearing that week, so she
was hardly in the best of moods. She saw her husband, Mike, at the door of
their bedroom.
“Honey, I’ve had one hell of a crappy day, so you know what I want now,” she
said bluntly, as she stormed past him.
“Why, yes I do,” said Mike, as he undid his top button and tie.
“No, not that!” shouted Catherine.
“Oh, please, darling, no…” whined Mike as Catherine stared him down.
“Oh, honey, please…do it for your Catty…” she said, seductively. Mike, dejected
as ever, slumped down on the bed. Catherine pushed him onto his back, as Mike
struggled to overpower his baby-carrying partner. Catherine punched Mike in
his groin, which put a stop to all his moaning, as the stunningly-gorgeous CZJ
sat on his chest, all her weight on his lungs. She looked over at her fallen
husband, as she parted a slit in the back of her dress that allowed her to bare
her arse in front of him.
“You know, that court food really is terrible – but I guess I don’t have to
tell you that,” she said, giggling, while her husband struggled on. She slid
her arse over his face, almost enclosing it in a cell of flesh…and worse.

CZJ was sitting on her husband’s face, waiting to do the dirty work. She had
been cross-examined by a barrister who had got her particularly annoyed, and
now she had to vent her frustrations; right into her husband’s nose.
“Can you hear me, Mikey?” she asked patronisingly. “I don’t think that you
can, but you should be able to hear this –” BBBBRRRRRPPPPPPPPTTTTTT!! “Ah,
that was sooooo gooooood for me. What about my little Mikey? Be a good boy,
and sniff it all up, now,” she ordered, while gently stroking his head. She
had had a penchant for breaking wind since she was a little girl – after all,
it was encouraged in Wales. Just because she was a Hollywood movie star didn’t
mean she couldn’t blow off anymore. She was still dressed in her glamorous
black dress, and still decked in lavish jewellery, making her a usually-irresistible
sight for any man. Her pregnancy had given her extra fuel in this respect,
and she was able to ‘taint the air’ better than ever before. “Can you breathe,
Mikey?” she asked, in an almost considerate tone, “cos I’ve got plenty of air
for you!” she said, this time laughing quietly. “But to get it, you gotta…pull…myâ₠¬Â¦finger…”
Mike cleverly refrained from doing what his demonic wife was suggesting, but
she replied to this strike of actions: “Michael, if you don’t, I swear I will
sit here until you suffocate” in the most serious tone she had used all day.


Mike gingerly raised his hand, in search of his ‘prize’, when Catherine stretched
it out to him. As he touched one of her fingers, she said, “That’s it, Mike,
just a little bit more…” and as Mike grasped onto her index finger, she said,
“Hooray, you got the prize! You deserve a cheer…a Bronx cheer, anyway! Pull
my finger! Tug!” Mike reluctantly pulled his wife’s index finger, and as he
did, he felt this force pounding down on his head: BBBBBRRRRRUMMMMMMMPPPPPPP!
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” squealed Catherine, delighted with her efforts. “Come
on, Mike! You can’t say that you didn’t like that!” In truth, Mike, a 65-year-old
movie star, had had enough. He tried to move his wife off his face, but he
didn’t have the strength to do it, so he tried to make himself pass out. Catherine
noticed what he was doing, and so she climbed off him. She went over to her
cabinet and pulled out something labelled ‘Pep Pills’. She walked back over
to her husband, and squeezed open his mouth, proceeding to pour the pills down
his throat. Mike had no option other than to swallow the pills, which would
mean that it would be so much harder to pass out at this stage. Catherine emptied
the whole bottle into Mike’s mouth, before discarding it onto the floor and
climbing back on Mike’s face. As soon as she had, Mike’s nose burnt again with
those stenches of cabbage, fries and poorly-cooked burgers that only his wife
could produce. It was truly an unholy reek, and the only reason that Catherine
could put up with it was because she had grown up around it. Mike was seriously
close to throwing up last week’s food at this rate, unless he could do something
about it. Catherine removed her hair band, letting her luscious black hair
free.
“Oh yes,” she said, regarding her spouse. “I almost forgot about you.” She
took hold of her husband’s ears, and pulled them towards her, forcing his face
up her backside. Mike was left staring at darkness, smelling the foulest of
foul odours, when he felt her cheeks clench. “Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got
a nice one cooked up, and it’s right on time.” PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSS!!!
Oh God, thought Mike, an SBD – the worst of CZJ’s repertoire. She had got
the SBD down to an art-form of brutal proportions, which was only bad news for
anyone on the wrong end of it. She leant forward slightly, and rubbed her wonderfully
clean crack slowly with her right hand, before drawing it to her face. She
took a deep, long breath, after which she remarked: “Ooooooooohhhhhhh God, that’s
smelly…although I’ve dropped worse.”

Catherine started to bounce on her husband’s face, to improve her position,
but she realised she was enjoying herself quite a lot. She was pummelling her
husband’s face, and burying his head deeper and deeper into the mattress, until
she finally got tired of it. By now, her awesome rump was level with the top
of the mattress, and Michael’s head was far beneath it.
“Y’know what, Mike? I tried some of that Steak Laisse today – wanna smell?”
Michael tried to wriggle his head in a fashion that might be reminiscent of
a ‘no’, but Catherine said to him: “I thought you might.” Underneath that creamy
butt of Catherine’s, you could see a grown man crying his eyes out, all because
of her flatulence. “Right,” she commented, “just let me get ready…and…here
we go…any second now…” Michael prepared himself for the force of what he was
going to have fired in his face – Catherine lifted a cheek, and cut the cheese,
right on her husband’s nose. The smell wafted right up Mike’s nostrils, where
it let its power wreak havoc on his senses. “Right, Michael,” she said firmly.
“For my next trick, you will have to breathe in the air I give so deeply that
your breaths should last about four seconds each. Failure to do so may result
in punishments, so be a good boy.” She manoeuvred her bum so that Mike’s nose
was up her butthole, at the closest possible range for her gas. She arched
her back quickly, before reverting back and stating, “Remember Mike, I’m farting
for two now.” She arched back again, and PHURT! Another shockingly-potent
SBD worked its way out of Catherine’s lavish butt and into her husband’s weary
head. This seemed to spur her on even more than she had been before, as she
put her right hand to her butt and lifted the smell to her nose again. She
declared, “Oooh, there’s something kicking inside. This might be it -” PPPPPPRPPPPP!
She took a deep breath herself this time, stating, “Mmmm, vintage fart, straight
from the valleys of Wales!” This bare-arse farting was knocking Mike for six
by now: his head was spinning in a sea of methane, provided by his very own
wife, Catherine.

End of Part 1

Their Night In – Part 2

It was the morning after the facefart incident in the Catherine-Mike household, and CZJ was getting ready to go to court again. She was sitting in front of her bedroom dresser, brushing her hair, when she felt some pressure in her intestines. She tilted her right cheek up: ppppPPPPPPSSSsssssssssssssssssssss.
“Michael! Get up here!” she demanded, and her husband, fresh from his usual morning run, entered their room. “Hun, come here for a sec, would you?” Mike got closer to his wife. “Darling, I farted.” It was then that the smell hit Mike, and he, in turn, was hit for six. Clearly, Catherine had lost none of her potency overnight. She got up, gave her husband a kiss on the forehead, and left for the courts.

She arrived and met up with her barrister, Quentin Olsen QC, before heading into the courtroom. She sat in the dock, as normal, while the proceedings went on. The prosecution (ie. her barrister) called up numerous witnesses, but CZJ was getting bored, and her child-to-be was wreaking havoc with her systems. She had to release some of the tension in her body, and it didn’t involve stretching her arms! She looked around, made sure that no-one was paying any attention to her, and let out an SBD: pppprrrrrrrpppppssssssssss…and good God, did it ever reek. That stench of cabbage, uncooked burgers and now eggs worked its way across the courtroom, attacking the nostrils of all those who dared smell it. Catherine noted the reactions of those in the room with more than a little glee and pride. I did that, she thought to herself. She thought that it was quite funny to subject other people, especially members of the press, to her vile odours. She wanted to do it again, and she hadn’t run out of gas by a long way, but she needed the right moment. A minute or two later, she got it: a new witness was taking the stand, so there was a degree of moving and shuffling about in the court, and that gave her the chance – she leaned ever so slightly to the left, and then: ffffffrrrrrppppppppssssssss…yet again, that disgusting odour was released from down below, and so it travelled menacingly around the room, prompting the usual reactions by people to a fart: shuffling around, pinching of the nose, covering of the mouth and nose, the usual stuff, and it was this that made Catherine feel so pleased with herself.

But she needed to take bigger risks to satisfy herself. And so she set her heart on letting one fly in ultimate silence in this court of law. She waited for when the next witness had taken the stand, and had taken the oath. There wasn’t a single sound, so Cat prepared herself: BBBRRRPPPT! Oh no, she thought. Now the whole room was focused on her. The judge peered over his stand:
“Mrs. Zeta-Jones, what is the meaning of this?” Catherine immediately took exception to this.
“What, so I can’t FART?” she asked, putting emphasis on that final word. “What do you mean ‘What is the meaning of this?’? What business is it of yours if I fart or not, exactly? You the butt police, or something?” she inquired, with venom. The judge was somewhat stunned with this return, and so her told the court to carry on with the proceedings. It was then that it dawned on Catherine that she had free reign over how loudly she could break wind. It was almost expected of her by now. Well, she thought, I’ve never been one to deny a crowd a performance. So she looked in the eyes of the judge, moved and shuffled on her bum a bit, pulled herself harder onto the wooden bench in the dock, and pushed hard: BBBRRRRRRPPPPPTTTT!!
“Oh, Your Honour, I do apologise, but I have gas today.” The loud echo had attracted the attention of the entire courtroom once again. “Oh, sorry, for anyone who didn’t hear me, I’ve farted and it may smell,” she kindly informed the court. The judge shook his head and ordered the court to proceed as planned. Catherine enjoyed this attention she was getting now, and was determined to get some more.

She looked around again, and spotted the press once more. She needed a way to get their attention without disrupting the court, so she tapped on the wooden bench a few times, which brought the eyes of the journalists and photographers onto her. Great, she thought, and she quickly figured out her next task – she smiled slyly to herself, and looked in the eyes of one particularly young photographer (he seemed to be about 17 years old). The photographer instantly locked onto her, as she held three fingers on her left hand up towards him…two…one – she pulled down her left arm with force – fffFFRRRRRRPPPPPT! The courtroom shuffled about in disarray once more, and the judge was not finding this at all amusing.
“Ms. Zeta-Jones, if you do not ceasing these inappropriate acts, you will be forced to leave the court!” he scolded. Catherine just smirked at the young photographer again.

It was then time for lunch, and so Catherine progressed to the lunch hall, where she quickly amassed a large amount of rather gassy foods, such as the notoriously under-done burgers, cabbage, baked beans and even some poorly-cooked Mexican food. She had all this on a tray when she noticed the 17 year-old photographer walk into the men’s bathroom. She looked around to make sure no-one was watching her (but of course they were not) and quickly paced into that same room, hoping there was no-one else there.

It just so happened that the young boy was the only one who was with her in the men’s room, so she placed her tray full of food on a nearby sink, and blocked the door with a bucket of water and some cleaning instruments. The photographer emerged from his stall to find Catherine gorging on dry cheeseburgers in front of a mirror.
“Ms. Zeta-Jones, what are you doing in here?” he asked, with a broken voice.
“Women’s room’s closed,” she replied, as quick as a flash. “So, what does being a photographer mean?”
“It…er… means that, erm, I take photographs, ma’am.” CZJ nodded her head in fake interest, while starting on a burrito. The photographer shuffled around anxiously, when Catherine lifted her left leg…bbBBRRRPPPT!
“Jeez, that took a bit to come out!” she remarked. She peered over her shoulder and quickly sniffed the air – “Oh God! That’s awful! Quick, come and smell!” she said, laughing. She grabbed the scrawny boy’s right arm and pulled him into her blast radius, where the methane mixture rushed up his nose. He was completely knocked back by it all, in the same fashion that many were by Catherine’s farting. “Not as bad as some I did in court, though,” she told him. “Did you smell any of them?” He nodded slightly. “Well come on, what did you think of them?” He didn’t answer. “Did they smell, according to you?” He nodded again. “Badly?” He nodded once, more, though a little more vigorously this time. “Well, honey,” she said, pushing him back towards the wall, “you are gonna love what I’ve got cooked up for you!” The photographer looked concerned.
“What are you going to do?” he asked meekly. She smiled in between mouthfuls of burrito, and finally got him up against the wall. She opened her mouth, as if she were to speak, but quickly turned around and pressed her buttcrack up against his left leg – PPRRRPPT!
“Ooh, that felt nice, did that,” she commented, her mouth packed with burrito. The photographer looked somewhat disgusted, and this in turn angered Catherine. She looked at him dead in the eye, and put her knee into his groin, sending him to the floor. As he was writhing in pain on the tiled floor of the bathroom, she got her tray of food and placed it on the photographer’s stomach. “Do NOT let this topple over, ya hear?” she demanded. She then stood over him, hiked up her skirt, revealing she was wearing no underwear, and nestled her bum cosily on his face, trapping his arms with her knees. The man was now blinded by butt, and the experience wasn’t about to get any better for him. With a wide range of gas-producing foods in front of her, Catherine was definitely spoilt for choice. “Y’know, since I’ve become pregnant again, it takes a hell of a lot less time for my guts to empty themselves, if you know what I mean.” It couldn’t have meant anything else.

Cat took a few spoonfuls of baked beans, and then began on the cabbage. After only a couple of mouthfuls of the green stuff, her insides began to churn.
“Eurgh…I know Mike would love this, perhaps I should save it for him…no, he’ll never know of this little meeting, will he now?” She seemed to be taunting him in any way possible, before gearing up and hitting the big one – BBRRPPLLAAT! A hot, wet fart spluttered out of her cavernous arse and into his face, reeking of rotting baked beans. She shuffled around on her butt a little more to get the right position while the poor young guy squirmed to try and get himself out of the nightmare situation: I meet Catherine Zeta-Jones, a totally gorgeous babe, and she farts in my face, he thought to himself. The pressure of a grown, pregnant woman was almost too much in itself, without the gas raining down on him as well. He could only breathe through his nose, and that brought in clouds of poisonous methane gas. While he was struggling for his life, Catherine was feasting on the banquet in front of her, finishing off the baked beans, and starting on some tacos. “Oh, I tell you, once these start to kick in, you’ll know, whoo-hoo!” She started on another one, but already the first was ready for launch: “Wait a second, wait a second…five, four, three,” she began counting, as she had before, “two…one – ALL SYSTEMS GO!” BBPPRRRPPTTT! BBRRPTT! PPPRRPPPP! PPPRRRRPPTT! A shocking range of farts came into the guy’s face, each of which brought a new foul wind – rotten eggs, cabbage, baked beans and a Hispanic flavour as well. “Whoo, what a blast!” she exclaimed. The photographer couldn’t breathe anymore – the methane was too much for him. He tried to cough, but he couldn’t. He tried to open his mouth, but he couldn’t. He tried to escape from underneath the pregnant mother, but he couldn’t. He was going to asphyxiate any second soon, but Catherine realised this and, wanting her prey to stay alive, she grabbed the man’s mouth, forced it open, and broke wind inside his mouth. That was it; the man suffocated into unconsciousness.

Catherine emerged from the men’s bathroom warily, but made it out before anyone noticed she had been in there. She was relieved not to have been caught, but she was still packed with gas, and needed it out of her body. She wondered what to do, and then she whipped out her mobile, and rang a number:
“Hello? Yeah, er, the case finished, erm, early, yeah. So I’m coming home…Michael.”

To be concluded…

Their Night In – The Conclusion

Catherine opened the car door and started the engine. She quickly put on her
seat-belt and revved up the motor.
“Boy, am I gonna love tonight,” she muttered to herself, as the car roared
away.

Michael was in his car by now, heading back from an audition that he knew he
flunked. It was so simple, he thought before, he was just going to roll up,
step out of the car, and they would realise who he was, and then they’d give
him the job. But it didn’t happen like that, so he was on his way home to go
tell Catherine the bad news.

Michael pulled up outside their mansion and paced slowly to the door, but then
realised that Catherine’s car was not on the driveway, so he quickly went inside
to steady his nerves with a drink.

Catherine stopped the car inches away from her husband’s and got out, as her
stomach started to growl loudly.
“Don’t worry, little fella,” she said, patting her torso. “It’ll all be out
soon.” She walked through the front door, to find Michael coming down the stairs
to welcome her.
“Hi, honey, how was your day?” asked Michael, trying to avoid being asked about
his failure to land the part in the film.
“It wasn’t bad,” she replied, remembering the fact that she had disturbed court
and left a boy out cold in the toilets in court. “How was yours?” she asked.
Fear shot through Michael’s body.
“Er, er…” he stammered, trying to think of a believable lie. CZJ looked questioningly
at him. “I…I, er…I…didnâ€⠄¢t get the part, Catty,” he admitted.
“Now, Michael,” she started, warmly, “there’s no need to get worried. Let’s
just go up to the bedroom-”
“No! Please, Catherine, not the bedroom!” He pleaded with her not to go to
the bedroom, because he knew what would happen.
“No, Michael, it’ll all be all right soon…”
“No, please, please, PLEASE not the bedroom!” He was weeping by this time,
as Catherine forced him along.
“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble, now, are you?” she said coolly, while
twisting his right arm and forcing the hand into her butt. As they both walked
up the stairs, she started to fart violently on the hand: BBBRRRRPPT! PPPPPRRRRRPPPPTT!
PPPRRRRRRPPPPP! vvVVFFFRRRRPPT! “Ooh, see, you’re not in trouble, are you
Mikey?” she asked patronisingly, as they entered the bedroom. She grunted loudly,
before producing an emission that an animal could be proud of: PPPRRRRRMMMPPPTT!
Michael’s right hand was now fully contaminated with CZJ’s butt odours, as
she slung him onto the bed.

Michael barely knew where he was by now, as he was in real pain after Catherine
had twisted his arm so badly, and tears of pain and fear had built up in his
eyes, completely blurring his vision. Catherine was about to confuse him a
whole lot more now, as she crawled across the bed and 69’ed her husband. Michael’s
screams were muffled by Catherine expansive weight – she was 8 months pregnant,
and at the worst stage of her pregnancy-induced gas.
“The more I think about it, Michael, the more I enjoyed today. I mean, I not
only facefarted a poor young lad until he was out cold, I also disrupted the
court proceedings by breaking wind real loudly. So yeah, my day was great,
really.” She remained on Michael’s face for about 3 minutes, restricting his
breathing. “I don’t know, Mike, can you still catch a whiff of my business
today?” Unfortunately, Michael could still easily smell the stench left on
Catherine’s clothes from her actions taken during that day. She shuffled her
ass around slightly until she felt as though she was in a better position, and
Michael now knew that his fate was sealed. He could not see or hear anything
at this point, and he could only smell Catherine’s leftovers. “Now look ‘ere,
boyo, make sure you breathe nice and strongly, okay, we don’t want any of this
getting out, right?” Michael could not really respond at all, so Catherine
decided to clench her buttocks together, and release a foul-smelling, silent
and fairly short gust of wind into his face. She knew when it had hit.
“Uuunnngghhhh!” whined Michael, trapped in that prison of gassy flesh. Even
so, he breathed heavily, just as she had commanded him to.
“Good, you’re ready,” she said, as she shuffled her arse around a bit more,
reaching to the bedside cabinet to pick up the phone. She dialled downstairs
to the kitchen, and spoke to her head chef. “Cheffy dear, I need you to do
something for me. I need you to bring up a bottle of water for me, along with
a small serving of one of Michael’s favourite meals – you decide. Okay? Thanks,”
she said as she hung up, and started to dial another number, this time calling
the beautician. “Honey, I need you to really do me up for a big gala tonight.”
Catherine leaned to one side slightly, grunted a little, and floated a huge
air biscuit: BBPPRRRRRPPPP! “Yeah, that’s great. Yeah- what? Yes, I cracked
one off. No, I do not want perfume!” She immediately hung up on the beautician,
and started to call someone else, as she punched Michael hard in the chest to
stop him squirming and to get him to breathe harder. She called up the maid,
and asked her to bring the equipment needed to change the beds, as well as a
team of five other maids. She then asked the butler to come up with a silver
platter, and asked the pool cleaner to prepare the swimming pool for use. Finally,
she rang up the kitchen again, and asked for a finger buffet to be brought up
of cabbage, beans, burritos and eggs, arranged in as many different ways as
possible. “This is going to be real fun, honey,” she promised him, followed
by her tugging her third finger: PPPPRRRMMPPPTT! “Mmm, breathe that one up,”
she said half-heartedly, gazing out of the window, waiting for her team of servants
to arrive. She got up off Michael’s face and walked to the window.

After about fifteen minutes, the chef arrived with the bottle of water, a finger
buffet, and a meal of caviar on smoked salmon, one of Michael’s favourite dishes.
Catherine thanked the chef, before telling him not to leave the room. He said
he wouldn’t, although he was starting to notice the smells Catherine had been
generating. Soon after the chef had arrived, the maid and her team came along.
Catherine told them that they too, had to stay, and that she didn’t want the
bed changed just yet. All the maids were fairly young and attractive, and so
made no bones about mentioning the odour in the room to the chef. After about
5 minutes, the butler, a young chap who was new, entered the room with the empty
silver platter. Catherine looked at them all, before talking to Michael.
“Michael, look, chef’s prepared your favourite meal,” she said to him, pointing
at the plate with the caviar and smoked salmon. She walked over to the meal,
and asked, “Do you want to eat it?” Michael nodded tiredly, and began to get
off the bed, but stopped when he saw Catherine’s next move.
She had turned her back to Michael, knelt down and positioned her butt over
the meal, smiling at her staff. She then put on a face of pure concentration
and tensed her entire body. The result was better than she had hoped for: GGGRRRRPPPPTT!
She clenched her teeth in desperation to get the next one out: FFFRRROORRRPP!
She relaxed quickly, trying to catch her breath, but then tensed up again,
pushing hard on her thighs and sitting straight up: vvVVRRRRPPPPTTT! She relaxed
completely after this one, with a look of pride on her face, eyeing her staff.
The servants looked worriedly at each other, before the chef started to clap
slowly, followed up by the rest of the staff there. Catherine was very pleased
with her performance, and was delighted to get the adulation that she was.
She smiled while she looked behind her to Michael, who was completely mystified.
“Well, Michael, aren’t you going to eat this meal that chef kindly cooked for
you? You said that you would.” Michael gulped and climbed off the bed, kneeled
down and began to take the plate away from CZJ’s butt. “NO!” she commanded.
“You put that right back where it was, and eat it there!” Michael did what
he was told to do, and started to eat the disgusting meal.
“Does it taste good?” asked the chef. Catherine smiled at him, before grabbing
Michael’s gray hair.
“Catty’s gotta fart-” BBBRRRRRPPPPTT! “That better?” she asked, pushing down
his head, before quickly pulling it up again: “Ooh, again-” FFFRRRPPPTT! “That’s
great – oh go on, one more time, then-” PPPPPRRRRPPPP! This was the cue for
a round of rapturous applause from the servants, accompanied by some whistling
from the maids. The rotten egg and cabbage stenches emanated from the food
at this point, but Michael had to eat it. Catherine pushed his head back down
to the food, and stood up, strutting towards the chef. “Can I have my bottle
now, please?” she requested. The chef handed it over to Catherine, who then
told him to kneel down beside her. Catherine removed the lid of the bottle,
and handed it to the chef. “I want you to screw this on the bottle when I tell
you, okay?” The chef knelt down beside her and said that he would. Catherine,
to the bemusement of all around her, positioned the bottleneck in between her
cheeks, right up her butthole. She buckled her knees a little, and held out
her little finger. “Chef, pull my finger.” He stared at the finger, before
pulling it strongly: BBBBBRRRRPPPPPP… Catherine was away; the water inside the
bottle was bubbling up, almost into a froth… PPPPRRRRPPPPP… and it seemed as
though Catherine could go for hours…FFFRRRPPPPP… everyone in the room, except
for Michael, was watching her… VVVRRRRRPPPPPPTTTTT… there was no end to the
gas, as Catherine was straining so hard, and this pregnancy had given her more
than she could take… RRRRPPPPPPTTT!!! “Now!” she shouted, as the chef grabbed
the bottle and slammed the bottle-cap on. “Take that downstairs, store it in
as warm a place as you can find, and then come back up here,” she demanded.
As the chef left, she helped herself to the finger buffet, which would considerably
up her gas potential. Michael ate the last of his meal, and was then hauled
onto the bed by CZJ.

The chef returned to see Catherine being pampered and waited on by her beautician,
while Catherine was sitting on Michael’s face. This was all started to get
a bit too weird for him.
“So, where are you off to tonight, Catherine?” asked Mary, the beautician.

“A gala down the seafront, actually,” said Catherine, while struggling to stop
Michael squirming and moving erratically. The beautician made up Catherine’s
face, and then asked for her finger-nails. “Sure, babe,” replied CZJ, holding
out her right hand at a distance that she knew would be too far from the beautician.
The beautician grasped one of Catherine’s fingers, and pulled on it- BBBBBRRRRMMMPPPTTT!
“Ooh,” said Catherine, feigning shock, “pardon me.” Michael squirmed even
more now that another load of eggy gas had been heaped on him. His world was
now one of darkness – cabbagey, eggy, boiling darkness. His breathing was now
so hard that every breath was about a couple of seconds long, each one inhaling
more and more of his wife’s disgusting butt odour. Catherine started to move
her right hand around slightly, so that the beautician could not concentrate.

“Catherine, please let me concentrate,” she asked, again pulling on Catherine’s
finger- PPPPPPPRRRRRRPPPPTTT! A dry, airy and veggie-like blow off erupted
from Catherine’s bum, to a host of applause.
“Was that ME?” she asked, comically, leaning backwards to catch a whiff of
the business behind her. “Gosh, I wish that wasn’t me!” she replied, waving
her left hand behind her. Every one of the staff laughed, except for the beautician,
who was trying to concentrate still.
“Now Catherine, are you sure you don’t want any perfume?” she questioned.
“What are you trying to say? That I smell? That I STINK?”
“Well, Catherine, er, um…er, well, ye- ye-, erm, well…. there is a little bit
of a pong-”
“Good! I like it when I stink. If others don’t like my butt fragrance, they
can fuck off!” The whole room laughed again at this, although Catherine was
being quite serious. She was known not to wash her ass for months on end if
she could help it, to preserve the stench of her methane and sulphuric gas.
She had a quick glance at her watch. “Right, that should be long enough.
Reeves, once chef tells you where the bottle of water is, I want you to bring
it up on that platter, okay? Oh, but first, present the silver platter just
here,” and she pointed to a spot on the bed. Reeves, her butler, held the platter
on a certain spot on the bed, when Catherine raised herself off Michael’s face
and sat gently on the platter, before tugging her third finger again- BBBRRRPPPpppppPPPRRTT!
She got off the platter, revealing a dent in the platter from where she was
passed her gas, setting off a huge amount of clapping and cheering, especially
from the maids, whom it appeared were farting fans themselves. “That will be
all,” she said to Reeves, who quickly left. “Chef, maid, come here a minute,”
she commanded. They came over to her, and she said, “Get Michael so he’s on
his knees, okay, and then shove him up my arse!” Catherine got on her hands
and knees on the bed, as Michael’s dreary body was hauled up by the maid and
the chef. “All right?” she asked to the chef and the maid, to which they responded:

“All systems go, CZJ.” She then got in her position, and nodded to them to
start pushing. They thrust Michael’s face into Catherine’s butt, and then pulled
him out, pushed him in again, and pulled him out. Catherine’s echoed these
movements, so that Michael was continuously in her asscheeks. Catherine went
along with this for about 30 seconds, until she let rip: FFFFRRRRPPPTTT! The
maid and the chef stopped pushing Michael, and started to loudly applaud Catherine.
She accepted the applause gleefully, and stood up on the floor, off the bed.
At that precise moment, Reeves re-entered the room with the bottle of tainted
water on the dented platter. “Perfect timing,” she said to Reeves, before swiftly
kicking him in the balls and shoving his face into her crack: KKKRRRRPPPPTT!
She threw him to the ground, and then said: “Chef, take Michael down to the
pool, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Chef hauled Michael’s body onto his
shoulder, and went down to the pool.

Catherine entered the pool conservatory, as the chef looked at her in awe.
She was wearing a yellow bathing suit that covered her stomach completely, and
revealed her butt to the world, as there were straps across the thighs that
kept on the swimsuit. Even for a pregnant woman, she was stunning.
“Don’t put Michael in the water yet, chef, I’m going to do a few lengths,”
she told him. She lightly tiptoed down the steps into the pool, and as soon
as her bottom was submerged, bubbles poured out. “I’m sorry,” she said seductively,
shaking her head in fake shame, “I don’t know what’s come over me today.” She
swam the breaststroke up to the other end of the pool, with the bubbles following
her as she went. Her butt looked so delicious, so creamy, so smooth to the
chef, even with the noxious methane flowing out of it. She did another length,
then some widths at either end, before completing two diagonals across the pool,
to make sure she’d swam through all the water. “Right, chef, before you throw
Michael in, get me my two trainers, and tell them to be ready to swim.” The
chef did this, and then threw Michael into the pool. Catherine stayed a distance
away from her husband, who couldn’t swim, and awaited the trainers.

Two minutes later, Catherine heard footsteps, and then saw the twin trainers
emerge: two sexy blonde-haired 21 year-olds. They were in their swimsuits,
as requested, and awaited Catherine’s orders.
“Girls, I want you to hold my husband Michael underwater, simple as that, okay?”
They nodded, dived quickly into the pool, and clutched at Michael. Catherine
joined them and then told them how to go about their orders. “Just hold his
face directly over my bum,” she said. They grabbed and arm each, and then both
grabbed his hair, forcing his face underwater. He wriggled frantically, but
could do nothing to escape their grasp. Catherine waited for about ten seconds,
and then turned around, started to tread the water, pushed her ass up, and broke
wind. The bubbles rushed up and hit Michael in the face as he screamed for
her to stop. She just laughed evilly, though, as her disgusting belly air continued
to smack Michael in the face. She signalled for the trainers to bring Michael’s
face back up, and they did so. Michael was gasping for air, at which point
Catherine had another masterstroke of an idea. She told the girls, and they
carried it out: they held Michael completely underwater. Catherine soon joined
her husband, as did the trainers, under the water. Catherine again put her
butt under her husband’s face, but not directly, and then she farted again.
Michael was desperate for air by now, and Catherine knew this: she pointed
to her gas-blowing butt and swam away from Michael. While this was nobody’s
first choice, he had the twin trainers hanging onto his legs, so the best he
could hope for was to catch up with his wife. He flapped his arms as best he
could to wade through the water with the two girls hanging onto him, until he
finally managed to grab his wife’s ankles and pull onto her legs, up to her
butt. As Catherine elevated herself to the surface, Michael delved in between
his wife’s cheeks and sucked the farts straight out of her. Catherine was taken
aback by this, but she was in heaven: the feeling was bliss for her. Eventually,
though, she stopped her wind, and then kicked away from Michael, getting out
of the pool, and calling for that bottle of water. The chef, who had watched
all the events just then with sheer amazement, handed it to her, and she took
a sip. “Oh my God!” she said, almost spitting it out, “it’s EXACTLY like my
farting!” She continued to drink the water until about half was left of it,
and then told the girls to bring Michael out of the pool. They pushed Michael
onto the side of the pool, and then hoisted him up in front of Catherine. “Now,
my dear, take a sip of this,” she encouraged him. He dodged the bottle as she
tried to provide the water for him, but she stopped this but ramming the bottle
into his mouth. Michael dutifully sipped away, struggling to stop himself from
spitting it out as well, and once he finished the bottle, he collapsed onto
the floor. Catherine laughed maniacally at this, before stopping abruptly and
saying to the chef: “Get me another bottle of water.”

The End.