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What follows is a rejected submission to the erotica website “Fit To Be Tied.” The sites hook is “sexuality firmly grounded in reality,” which I thought I had delivered in spades. Tragically, that was not the case. After three submissions of the story below, I was told to “never again submit this piece of writing to the site, under penalty of legal action.” I found that to be more than a little harsh, and welcomed a chance to give you readers of The Prompt a chance to make up your own mind regarding the piece’s merits. Please enjoy “High Pressure Pleasures.”

He grabbed her from behind by the hips, a soft moan involuntarily escaped her lips as she began to rub her ample-yet-firm ass against his rapidly-hardening cock through his slacks. The fabric of her sundress eased over her skin as easily as he imagined it doing so for the entirety of the evening they had spent together. She pressed her ass out firmly, the wisp of fabric that Victoria’s Secret sold as underwear all that stood between his girth plundering her drenched depths. The hips of the goddess before him twitched with anticipation. And then, like a man with a heavy lisp beginning to pronounce the word “super,” he heard the unmistakable sibilance of a fart escape her perfect ass.

It wasn’t just the sound that shocked his system: There was warmth and wind, too. Not a ridiculous amount, mind you. This wasn’t a tire with a gouged sidewall, or even a child blowing upon a birthday cake with all his might, driven to make sure his wish came true. No, it was the sigh upon a spoonful of hot soup, strong enough to cool, weak enough to keep the vessel’s steaming cargo in its container.

He gathered his thoughts. “Everyone farts. This isn’t a big deal. It doesn’t even smell. You’ll laugh about it with her tomorrow. Well, not tomorrow. That would be suicide. But a few months down the road.” Besides, he was somehow still completely aroused. “Great, this is how horrid fetishes start. With my luck, two weeks from now, I won’t be able to get it up unless her ass is giving it to me harder than a hair dryer.”

This internal debate between the sex-starved angel and nose-holding devil perched on either shoulder must have lasted longer than he thought it had, because an utterance of “is everything okay back there?,” in his lover’s tone pierced the night’s silence. The devil, only seconds before on the ropes, sprung back to life, ready to resume the mental prize fight once more.

“Is this dirty bitch serious? She farts on my dick and asks if there’s a problem?” His face, once red with arousal, began to flush in anger. “How would she feel if I opened the oven while she was going down on me? I’m sure, ‘Is there a problem?’ wouldn’t work for me. I’d probably draw back a bloody stump, like Jeff Goldblum’s The Fly vomit dropped on my cock.”

And, as soon as the debate begun, it was over. The object of his desire turned object of his ire, had decided to cut the sexual Gordian knot and, with a grunt equal parts lust and drunken nodding off, pulled her underwear aside and plunged her paramour within.

And thus began the first session of intercourse. That led to the relationship. That lead to the engagement and the wedding and the house and the children. And, ultimately, the divorce. Because it was a all built on a weak foundation. A foundation with a fart-sized crack in it.

John Papageorgiou

John hosts a long running comedy radio show titled Papa's Basement. He also performs standup and improv and drummed once for a Unitarian church.

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