Chapter 3: Stinkface time!
Ted still had his face stuck up John's ass, cursing himself for ever thinking he could engage the legendary John Cleese in such a manner. Like a wounded animal stumbling toward its watery demise, he barely clung to consciousness, a tidal wave of adrenaline and embarrassment crashing over him in toxic waves.
The inescapable scent of the timeworn establishment nestled into his nostrils, an ever-present reminder of his current plight. John suddenly felt extremely gassy, like he needed urgently to fart! "Oooh, those beans I had for lunch have come back to haunt me, Ted. I'm afraid you will bear the brunt of my carefully cultivated dietary choices."
John quickly made his way to a corner of the ring, dragging Ted along with him, before pressing his ass against the turnbuckle and setting Ted's arms on the bottom ropes. "Ahhhhhhhh..."John sighed in relief like An Ape named Ape from George of the Jungle as he released a very cataclysmic blast of gas from his ass. Ted couldn't help but gasp for breath amidst the whirlwind of wind. His senses reeled from the pungent blast, a noxious cloud sufficient to decimate any mortal man who dared provoke the wise and sensitive-boweled beast that was John Cleese...but at least his face was free from John's glutes, for now.
John patted his butt a few times as he prepared to use his finishing move on Ted.
"Here comes the Stinkface, Ted!" he declared, winking at his opponent before he lowered his sweaty ass towards Ted's face. Ted's mind reeled in horror, both at the prospect of his imminent demise and at the fact that he had challenged this living legend in the first place. In his inebriated state, Ted had sought glory but had only found shame instead.
As John Cleese smothered his face with his steel-like glutes, Ted's temper boiled, threatening to bubble over, swallowing him whole in the process.
Yet, his strength deserted him with JC's oppressive dominance, his limbs quivering as if temporarily paralyzed. His lungs screamed desperately for air, muscles clenched in an ever-tightening spiral of agony, gnawed by a silent desperation from within. But it was all he could do as John continued to rub his ass on him.
"You see, Ted, this is my finishing move: The Stinkface! Your face is nothing more than my tush towel now!" John Cleese taunted with laughter. It was a humiliation so dense, yet infinitely creative, it defied all wrestling conventions as Ted's face squelched within the firm grasp of John Cleese's plump backside.
The experience was a curious assault on Ted's senses, a perfume of masculine sweat, and spicy farts that enveloped his nostrils.
John Cleese's taunting laughter reverberated off the gym walls, fueling Ted's waning resistance. Like a subdued, cornered beast, his body tensed in anticipation of the inevitable, but defiant spirit flared in his eyes, denying submission. Another massive fart was building up inside of John and getting ready to be released.
"This sure brings back memories," John said proudly. "It reminds me of when I was Ape in George of the Jungle, and Ape was put in a cage by these two poachers. Even in the cage, I managed to give them a giant blast of my Gorilla Gas--just like you're about to smell now!"
John roared as he released yet another laxative cloud, as if showing solidarity with his long-lost primate alter ego. As the pungent fog settled over the ring, something inside Ted shifted. The linchpin had snapped, and a profound realization settled across his fiery gaze.
The masterful blend of humiliation and exasperation had shattered the last vestiges of his braggadocio, a welcome but utterly foreign humility blooming in its place.
And all it took was a searing descent into the ruthless world of John Cleese's gaseous inferno.
The vile but enchanting dance of funk-flavored camp left Ted reeling, his pride as thoroughly assaulted as his senses. Writhing within the embrace of his still-victorious foe, he realized he'd have to find a different kind of power if he ever wished to escape John Cleese's playful clutches.
John Cleese, for his part, seemed to enjoy making Ted smell his gas as he let out another sigh of relief like Ape did in the movie.
Ted had never felt more pathetic than at this moment. His face was covered in the actor's sweat, his ego was shattered, and his senses were assaulted by the unforgettable smell of John's farts.
And yet, as he lay there, defeated and humiliated, Ted couldn't help but feel a strange sense of awe. He had entered the wrestling ring as an arrogant and obnoxious man, but after facing off against John Cleese, he had been brought down to earth with a thud.
The bite of defeat stung his pride, and the smell of John's farts had seared his nostrils, but Ted knew that this was just the beginning. He had been humbled, and now, He had been brought to his knees, literally and figuratively, by a man twice his age and infinitely wiser. John Cleese had taken him apart piece by piece, humiliating him in ways that Ted never thought possible. But as he lay there, his face still pressed against John's sweaty glutes, he felt a newfound respect for John. The actor was a legend, not just in comedy and cinema, but in wrestling as well. He was a force to be reckoned with, and Ted had foolishly underestimated him.
"I surrender. Also, there's something I have to tell you, John," Ted gasped, finally admitting defeat. John Cleese chuckled, slowly pulling his butt away from Ted's face and offering him a hand to help him up. Ted took it, his ego still bruised but his spirit somewhat mended.
"Well done, Ted," John said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You've got spirit, if not brains."
Ted groaned, rubbing his aching jaw as he accepted John's hand and pulled himself up to his feet. "I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
John Cleese chuckled, shaking his head. "Not a chance, my boy. You're going to be the butt of my jokes for years to come." He joked as he shook his rump at Ted.
"Worth it for a celebrity like you." Ted said in admiration of John Cleese as he saw John flexing his muscles. "What I meant to tell you is...I love your movies, and I want to rim you, eat your ass as you pump those Ape-strength farts on me."
Ted's cheeks reddened as he realized that the words coming out of his mouth seemed to either amuse or baffle John Cleese.
"That's certainly a request I've never heard before, Ted," John Cleese said with a raised eyebrow, a bemused expression settling across his mug. "But, who am I to deny such a passionate plea? Let's get you in position for my Stinkface 2.0."
John sat back down on the mat and pulled Ted's face toward his buttocks.
The smell was overpowering, a pungent, nauseating aroma that stung Ted's nostrils. He could feel the heat emanating from John's body as he pressed his face against his sweaty, muscular backside. Ted's heart raced as he awaited the next sensation. He was nervous, uncertain of what would come next. Would John's farts smell as bad on his tongue as they did up his nose? The anticipation was excruciating.
"Yes, fart on me like An Ape Named Ape would. Charm me by speaking to me and taunting me in that voice of his." Ted said in admiration of John's butt and powerful gas. He wanted to feel the heat radiating from John's backside, the firmness of his glutes, and the rhythmic pulse of his bowels as they prepared to unleash another onslaught of noxious fumes.
The wrestling ring had never been the stage for such a unique combination of sweat, flatulence, and unbridled adoration, but as John lowered his ass onto Ted's face again, the boundaries of conventional erotica disintegrated.
"Ape Named Ape" aptly encapsulated John's voice for the occasion - a deep, resonant timbre that reverberated around the ring. The guttural rumbles served as a tantalizing introduction to the avalanche of hot gas that escaped his behind, forming an ethereal veil around Ted's head. The sheer pressure of the ominously quiet arena exacerbated every minute detail of the encounter, and despite his apparent defeat, Ted reveled in the experience.
Ted surrendered to John Cleese's dominance, willingly submitting as John's ass swallowed his face, suffocating it while it blasted him with gusts of gaseous residue. Ted fell in love with John's flurry of flatulence, humbly anticipating more while John teased him in his "Ape Named Ape" voice.
"By the power vested in me as a legendary comedian and wrestler, I hereby dub thee Sir Fartsniffer of this ring. Will you accept this esteemed title and join me, Lord Fartmaster, the undisputed champion of gaseous warfare, as my right hand man?" John asked, smacking his own ass in triumph.
Ted's eyes widened with determination, as he bravely stood up to face John, and both of their sphincters puckered in anticipation. "Why yes, Lord Fartmaster, I'll smell your ass whenever you want, even follow you to the ends of the universe!" Ted declared bravely.
And with that, he embraced his newfound identity, one that would bring him to the brink of ecstasy and despair in equal measure.
John Cleese continued to bestow his Stinkface 2.0 upon Ted well into the next morning, taunting Ted about having his face grinded and farted on by him.
"This next fart's got the power of broccoli and banana's behind it! Here it comes!" John announced, ready to unleash another loud and long fart.
Ted cringed at the thought of what was to come, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a strange kind of excitement. It was a mix of fear, humiliation, and anticipation—that peculiar arousal that arises from submitting to a dominant force.
And John Cleese was certainly a dominating force. A legend in his own right, his illustrious career had spanned decades, leaving an indelible mark on comedy, film, and television. He proceeded to release a thunderous fart on Ted with a massive sigh of relief.
"Ahhhhhh...Ah, that's better," John murmured like An Ape from George of the Jungle, a hint of satisfaction in his raspy tone. The powerful gas blew across Ted's face, leaving him staggered and disoriented under the sheer force. The smell filled the ring, a bold and intense aroma that had Ted's eyes watering with every labored breath. It was a scent that Ted knew all too well by now - a blend of sweat, muscle, and gaseous domination.
It was the aroma of his own submission, one that John Cleese had expertly crafted and perfected over the years.
Their wrestling match had started off as a drunken bet, a foolish attempt by Ted to prove his masculinity to a crowd of strangers at the local gym. He had been a fool, blinded by his own arrogance and obnoxiousness, to challenge a man twice his age and a dozen times his strength.
But now, Ted lay beneath John Cleese's ass, his face smothered by the legendary actor's plump buttocks, and he couldn't deny the thrill that came with surrendering to such a dominant force.
As Ted took in the full force of John's gas, he couldn't help but marvel at the older man's formidable presence. Here was a man who had conquered, not just the world of comedy, but the realm of professional wrestling, too.
And now, Ted was his prize, a hapless submissive under the spell of John Cleese's mesmerizing flatulence.
As long-time fans of John Cleese and newcomers to the world of erotic literature, we invite you to join us on a journey of exploration, seduction, and the taboo world of male flatulence.