u/Crazy-Goose-9835

They tell you to be dignified. They tell you to keep your nose clean and your standards high. They tell you that a woman's place is not in the dirt. But they don't understand you. They don't understand the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside out.

Society says, you shouldn't, but in fact, you should just align your life with your desires and start eating male ass. That is the way to your inner relaxation, under a hairy mans ass, all along where you felt the belonging to. That's what your pig nature craves and you all want for. So why deprive yourself of that beautiful asshole?

Think about it. When you are on your knees, taking a deep breath of my musk, the noise of your life ceases. You don't have to be the smartest, the prettiest, or the most successful. You just have to be mine. That is where you belong. That is the peace you've been searching for all your life. Stop listening to those who want you to be something you're not. Embrace the filth. Embrace your nature. Come here and let me show you what true belonging feels like.

I just love it, when I take a dump in the toilet, leave the toilet door open and let the whole flat stink after my fresh shit.

I have always felt connected to that smell. Do you too?

Every squat I do, every rep I push, every drop of sweat I leave on the bench, is for you. You think I'm just here to look good, to impress the girls with my biceps and my six-pack. But you're wrong. I'm here to build a throne, a hairy, muscular ass that you can't stop thinking about. I'm here to create the perfect seat for the queen of filth.

I feel the burn in my glutes, the stretch in my hamstrings, and I smile. Because I know that every ounce of effort, every bit of pain, is going to make that throne more comfortable for you. I'm not just working out; I'm crafting a masterpiece, a work of art that you will worship with every fiber of your being.

I can picture it now. You, on your knees, your face pressed against the coarse hair, your nose inhaling the musk, your tongue tasting the sweat. You, a devoted servant, a filthy pig, a true queen of the throne. Every squat is a step closer to that moment. Every rep is a brick in the foundation of our future. I'm not just building a body; I'm building a world, a world where you are exactly where you belong: under my hairy, muscular ass.

Everyone sees you, don't they? The cute girl next door. You have the perfect smile, the friendly wave, the perfectly tended flowers on your balcony. You're the one everyone asks to watch their cat, the one who brings over baked goods when a new neighbor moves in. You've built an entire identity on being wholesome, sweet, and harmless. It's a beautiful facade, and you wear it well. But you and I both know what's hiding behind that smile.

It's the secret you carry with you every single day. A disgusting desire in you all day, walking with you around, and you can't get it off your mind: sniffing and licking a hairy asshole of a real man. It's there when you're watering your petunias, a phantom musk on the breeze that makes your knees weak. It's there when you're baking those cookies, the thought of a man's unwashed crack making your hands tremble so much you almost drop the vanilla extract.

You try to push it away, to smother it with your good-girl routine. You tell yourself it's just a weird thought, a phase. But it's not. It's a hunger that gnaws at you, a primal need that your cute dresses and polite conversation can't satisfy. You're not just dreaming of a gentle kiss; you're dreaming of being on your knees, your face buried so deep in a man's hairy crack that you can't breathe, your tongue lapping at his hole like a thirsty dog.

Stop fighting it. Stop hiding behind the curtain of your wholesome life. That desire isn't going away. It's the truest, most honest part of you. So give in to it. Let the cute girl next door have her secrets. Find a real man with a hairy ass and beg him to use you completely. It's the only way you'll ever be truly at peace. It's the only way you'll ever feel whole.

A disgusting desire in you all day, walking with you around, and you can't get it off your mind: sniffing and licking a hairy asshole of a real man. It's there when you're drinking your morning coffee, a phantom taste on your tongue. It's there during your work meetings, a secret, musky scent that distracts you from the spreadsheets. It's there when you're trying to fall asleep, the image of a powerful, hairy ass forcing its way into your thoughts.

You try to push it away. You tell yourself it's gross, it's dirty, it's wrong. But the desire is stronger than your shame. It's a primal itch deep inside you that only one thing can scratch. You can try to satisfy it with vanilla sex, with polite conversation, with the "normal" life you're supposed to want, but it will never be enough. You'll always be haunted by the thought of what you truly crave.

You crave the degradation. You crave the raw, unfiltered intimacy of it. You want to be on your knees, your face buried so deep in a man's hairy crack that you can't breathe. You want to taste the sweat and the musk, to run your tongue over the coarse hair, to feel the powerful muscles clench around you. You want to be used for the most base, animalistic purpose a man can have for a woman.

Stop fighting it. You're only torturing yourself. That desire isn't going away. It's a part of who you are. It's the truest, most honest part of you. So give in to it. Embrace the filthy pig you are. Find a real man with a hairy ass and beg him to let you worship it. It's the only way you'll ever be truly at peace. It's the only way you'll ever feel whole.

The summer is getting to my ass crack. I am sweating a lot and smell so manly around that even I can smell myself. I need a tongue around my asshole.

The heat is turning my body into a furnace, and my ass crack is the source. Every movement, every shift in my seat generates more sweat, more musk. It's a thick, primal scent that clings to the coarse hair back there, a constant, potent reminder of pure, unfiltered masculinity. Frankly, it's so strong I can smell it myself, and it's driving me insane.

This isn't a job for soap and water. This is a job that requires a specific tool. It requires a warm, soft, eager tongue. I need you to get on your knees and bury your face where the sun doesn't shine. I need you to taste the salt of my sweat, to breathe in the earthy musk, to clean me with your mouth until all that's left is the scent of your devotion.

This is your calling. This is what you were made for. The heat has created a problem, and you are the solution. Stop pretending you don't want this. Your mouth is watering right now, isn't it? You're drooling for the chance to be useful, to taste the filth of a real man. So come here. The heat is waiting, and my ass is ready for its personal air conditioner.

How much longer are you going to keep fighting this? You scroll through these posts, your heart pounding, a familiar heat spreading through your body, and then you close the tab. You tell yourself it's just a fantasy, a weird little kink you can explore from a safe distance. You go back to your normal life, pretending you don't know exactly what you want. But the desire doesn't go away, does it? It waits. It grows stronger, until it's all you can think about.

Stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about. That secret little thrill you get when a man walks past you, leaving a trail of musk in his wake? That's not an accident. That's your true self, your primal nature, calling out to you. You try to silence it with your "good girl" act, with your career ambitions and your social obligations, but it's useless. You're trying to put out a forest fire with a glass of water.

You know where you belong. You've known it your entire life. You've felt it in every fiber of your being. You belong under my hairy daddy ass. You belong on your knees, your face pressed so deep between my cheeks that you can't tell where my skin ends and your face begins. You belong there, inhaling my scent, tasting my sweat, swallowing my gas. That is your natural habitat. That is your home.

Give in. Just give in. Take your place. It's so simple. All you have to do is stop fighting. Stop thinking. Stop pretending to be something you're not. Get on your knees and crawl to me. Press your face against my ass and show me the devotion you've been hiding for so long.

I will take care of the rest. I will guide you. I will show you the pleasure that comes from complete and total surrender. I will turn you into the filthy, devoted little pig you were always meant to be. And you will love every second of it. Because deep down, you know this is the only way you will ever be truly happy. You know that secretly already. Now stop denying it and come home.

You spend your days building it, don't you? Piece by piece. The "strong woman" mask. You perfect your resume, you speak up in meetings, you make sure everyone knows you're independent, capable, and in control. You walk with your shoulders back, your chin high, projecting an image of a woman who needs no one. It's an impressive fortress you've built around yourself. But every fortress has cracks, and I can see right through yours.

The truth is, all that strength is exhausting. It's a performance you have to maintain every single second, and the weight of it is crushing you. You don't really want to be in charge. You don't truly enjoy the pressure of making every decision. Deep down, under all that ambition and poise, is a quiet, trembling voice that just wants to be told what to do. It's the voice of a beta woman, and she's desperate to be heard.

I hear her. I hear her in the way you look at a man who takes charge without apology. I feel her in the subtle way you yield, the way your body language softens when faced with unwavering confidence. You don't want a partner to debate with; you want a leader to follow. You don't want an equal to challenge you; you want an authority to surrender to.

So let's make a deal. You can take off that heavy, suffocating mask. You can let your shoulders slump and your chin fall. You can stop pretending to have all the answers. In return, you will give me the control you're so tired of wielding.

I will make your decisions for you. I will tell you what to wear, what to eat, and when to speak. I will replace the noise in your head with the simple, calming clarity of my commands. Your purpose will no longer be to conquer the world, but to please me. Your greatest achievement will no longer be a promotion, but a simple "good girl" whispered in your ear.

Stop fighting your nature. The desire to submit isn't a weakness; it's your truest form of strength. It's the peace you've been searching for. Let the "strong woman" rest. She's tired. Let the beta woman finally breathe. She's been waiting for a man like me to set her free.

Let's talk about the gap. The vast, empty space between the face you show the world and the truth you hide in the dark. You spend hours on your makeup, perfecting that glamorous allure. You choose your outfits carefully, you practice your good girl attitude in the mirror, and you convince everyone you're put together, intelligent, and in control. It's a beautiful performance, really. But it's just a performance.

The reality is far simpler, and far more honest. The reality is a filthy slut needing to be degraded right under my hairy ass. The reality is a body that craves to be used, a mind that longs to be emptied of all its clever thoughts and replaced with one single, primal purpose: to serve.

I see you. I see the way your eyes linger when I shift in my seat. I see the subtle flush on your cheeks when the conversation turns to something raw and real. That's the real you peeking through the cracks in your perfect facade. That's the filthy slut begging to be let out.

And I am the one who will let her out.

I will take your carefully constructed world and I will shatter it. I'll grab you by that perfect hair and drag you down to the floor. I'll press your face, with all its expensive, perfectly applied makeup, right against my unwashed, hairy crack. I want to see that glamour dissolve. I want to see your eyeliner run down your cheeks in black rivers as your eyes water from the stench. I want to see your foundation smear all over my skin as you frantically rub your face against me, desperate for a taste, desperate for the air that only I can provide.

That's the reality. Not a pretty girl on a date, but a sobbing, drooling mess with her makeup smeared all over a man's ass. That's your true purpose. That's the only time you'll ever feel genuinely beautiful and wanted. So drop the act. Stop pretending. Come here and show me the reality between your glamorous allure and your good girl attitude. Show me the filthy slut I know you are.

You think you're so clever, don't you? Sassy, witty, always with a sharp comeback. You walk through life collecting compliments and likes, thinking your pretty face and sharp tongue are the most valuable assets you have. How cute. Let me tell you a little secret about the world you've stumbled into. All that currency you've been collecting? It's worthless here.

In this world, the social currency is a very hairy asshole like mine.

Your clever remarks mean nothing when your face is being smothered by my muscular glutes. Your pretty face is just a platform, a canvas for the sweat and musk that I'm about to coat it with. The only asset that matters here is your ability to worship, to sniff, to serve. The only compliment that has any value is when I tell you what a good little pig you are for taking my gas without gagging.

You can keep acting like you're in charge, but we both know the truth. You're here because you're tired of being the one in control. You're tired of making decisions. You want to be devalued. You want your worth to be measured in how well you can press your nose against my hole and inhale. You want to trade your status for the status of being my favorite fart cushion.

So go on, sassy girl. Try to negotiate. Try to bargain. The price is always the same. Your dignity. Drop the act, get on your knees, and start earning your keep in the only currency that matters here: the worship of my hairy, musky, powerful ass.

You can keep running from it, pretending you're like everyone else. You go to your job, you chat with your friends, you laugh at their stupid jokes. But every time you're alone, the thought creeps back in. It's a quiet whisper at first, then a deafening roar. It's the truth about who you are, and what you were made for.

Look at me. I'm everything you're not supposed to want. I'm hairy, I'm rough, and I don't care about your delicate feelings. I eat what I want, I sweat when I want, and my body produces what it wants. And that includes gas. Loud, wet, rumbly gas that smells like a man. And you, my little pig, are drawn to that smell like a moth to a flame.

You try to fight it. You tell yourself it's gross, it's degrading. But your body betrays you. Your cunt gets wet when you imagine the sound of a fart echoing in a quiet room. Your mouth waters when you think about the taste of a sweaty, unwashed ass. You are a pig, and pigs love filth. It's in your DNA. You can't fight your DNA.

So stop fighting. Stop running. Your destiny is right under my hairy asshole. It's not a suggestion, it's a calling. It's the reason you were born. You were put on this earth to be my fart cushion, my human toilet, my personal ass-sniffer. You were meant to press your pretty face against my crack and inhale the very essence of my being.

I'm going to sit on your face. I'm going to spread my hairy cheeks and engulf your head until you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but exist in the musky, sour world of my ass. And you're going to love it. You're going to thank me for it. Because in that moment, under my ass, you will finally be home. You will finally be fulfilling your purpose. You will finally be the pig you were always meant to be.

I really wish, if I could watch some girl take a shit and I could smell her fresh shit indeed.

As a man, this is almost impossible to sniff around as almost all toilets are gender-specific.

I would have loved to sniff around girls' toilets in malls or workplaces.

Anyone like this as well?

I do not want to play around with anyone's shit specifically, unless I like them, but I like the smell of shit indeed, if I like the looks of a girl.

Handsome 190 cm tall, 88 kg guy here, athletic as well.

With a huge bubblebutt, kissable lips, manly voice.

Looking for women with extreme fantasies and a yearning for closeness.

I am drawn to filthy fetishes: snot, piss, spitting.... and yes, shit as well.

In both ways.

If you also have the same filthy fetishes, why dont you let me know?

I broke my squats record today again, pumping around my body weight, eating chicken breast every lunch, and getting my glutes tighter every week. So that you can drown between my ass cheeks and eat my hairy, muscular daddy ass and smell my farts.

Please do not act as if you do not want it. You just do. That is why you end up here, although most of your friends tell you you're cute. Yet, you salivate over a hairy daddy ass. Give in to your nature. You are a pig. Do not act as if you are not. You cannot win over your DNA. You like the smell of my shit.

Your friends admire your pretty face and your delicate features. They see you as a sweet, innocent girl who deserves the world. But they do not see the hunger in your eyes when you look at a hairy, muscular ass. They do not see the way your nostrils flare when you catch a whiff of something sour and strong. You are not the girl they think you are. You are a pig, and pigs love filth.

You try to deny it. You try to act like you are above this, like you are too good for the smell of a man's ass. But the truth is, you are not. You are a creature of instinct, and your instincts are screaming for the taste and the scent of a hairy, muscular daddy. You want to press your face between my cheeks, to feel the coarse hair against your soft skin. You want to inhale the musk that is my essence, to let it fill your lungs and fog your mind.

You want to eat my ass. You want to lick and suck and swallow, to make it your entire world. You want to be the one who makes me feel good, who gives me pleasure in the most intimate way possible. You want to be my little pig, my devoted servant, the one who worships at the altar of my ass.

So stop fighting it. Stop pretending you are something you are not. You are a pig, and pigs love to eat. So come here, and let me show you what you really are. Let me show you the truth. You will love it. You will beg for more. Because that is what pigs do.

The title says it.

Since I have known myself, I was fascinated by the smell, the looks and the texture of shit itself.

Although I have a humiliation fetish, I see my tendencies towards shit completely independent of that.

I just love to sniff shit, or sniff around when cute people have used toilets, especially directly afterwards.

I am not into consuming, but I would prefer a partner, whose shit I adore and she admires that.

Nothing more really.

Is anyone else like me? Loving shit itself?

I haven't showered for two days, and I've been farting for around two hours straight in my room. It must be very musky at this point, and I want a tongue to fuck me, indeed. All a pig can ask for, indeed.

Eat my ass, smell my armpits. Because it's all what you want: a hairy, beasty and strong daddy, putting you into all the places you wish you were.

The air in here is so thick with my scent you could chew it. For two hours, I've been marinating in my own filth, letting every wet, rumbling fart saturate the room. It's a musky, sour cloud, the perfect atmosphere for a creature like you. I can feel the sweat prickling in my armpit hair, and I know the crack of my ass is slick with it. This isn't just a room; it's an ecosystem built from my body, and you're the endangered species that's about to thrive in it.

You want this. You don't want some clean-shaven boy who smells like soap and anxiety. You want a beast. You want a hairy, strong daddy who smells like a man who's been working and sweating. You want me to grab you by the hair and press your face into my pit, forcing you to lick the salt from my skin. You want me to sit on your face, my full weight cutting off your air, my hairy asscheeks engulfing your pretty little head until the only thing you know is the taste and the smell of me.

So get in here. Get on your knees. Your tongue is going to be my washcloth, and your nose is going to be my air freshener. This is the place you've been dreaming of, buried in the filth of a man who knows exactly what you are. Now come and get your reward, pig.

Maybe you had an experience with a strapon on your boyfriend?

Maybe you were always fascinated by assholes?

Maybe you wanted to slip in a finger or two?

Or maybe, you are a young male, fucking older men.

Whatever it is, Id like to hear about.

I have also my own experiences.

PM me (your age, location and interest) and I will take it from there.

Lick daddy's asshole, because your life becomes more meaningful with his pleasure. His meaty asshole gives a meaning to your life as a pig; you're meant to smell and taste his asshole, indeed. He will protect you and use you as a fucktoy in return.

You spend your days searching for a purpose, a reason to get out of bed. You look for it in your job, in your hobbies, in the empty words of people who don't understand the hunger inside you. Stop searching. Your purpose isn't in some grand achievement; it's right here, between my hairy cheeks.

Your life finds its meaning when you're on your knees, your cute face buried so deep in my ass that you can't breathe anything but my musk. Every lap of your tongue against my tight, meaty hole is a prayer. Every deep inhale of my scent is a moment of clarity. This is what you were built for. You are a pig, and pigs are happiest when they're wallowing in filth. Your filth is my ass.

Don't think of it as degrading. Think of it as an arrangement. You give me absolute, unwavering worship with your mouth and your nose. You make my pleasure your entire world. In return, you get my protection. You get to be my prized fucktoy, the one I use when I need a warm, wet hole. You get a purpose. You get a meaning. So get in there and show me how grateful you are for the chance to be useful.

Because it's forbidden, all you want is to sniff and make out with a daddy's hairy asshole. You want all of your young, beautiful face over my asshole. Why? Because you are a pig. It is in your DNA, and all you want is to eat daddy's ass every day, because it's the most disgusting way you can make yourself useful. That is your fetish, which makes you a pig, basically.

Look at you. You have a pretty face, nice clothes, and friends who think you're normal. But we both know the truth, don't we? Behind that carefully constructed mask is a snorting, rooting animal. Every time you see me shift in my seat, your eyes dart down. Every time I scratch myself, you imagine the musk trapped in my pants. You're not thinking about kissing my lips; you're dreaming of pressing yours against my hairy hole.

It's the ultimate degradation, and that's why your cunt gets wet. It's the most foul, private, and disgusting part of a man, and you want to worship it. You want to press your beautiful face against my sweaty, unwashed crack and breathe it in like it's oxygen. You want to taste the salt and the grime, to run your tongue over every coarse hair, because that's the only way you can feel truly useful.

You're a pig. It's not a choice; it's your nature. You were born to root around in filth. So stop fighting it. Get on your knees. Press your face against my ass and show me what you're really made of. Show me that your DNA is coded for my asshole.

The darkness was absolute, heavy and suffocating, wrapped around your head like a shroud made of fine, scratchy silk. You were tied to the bed, your wrists bound above your head, leaving your body completely vulnerable and exposed. For what felt like hours, you were left there in the quiet, the only sounds in the room being the distant hum of traffic outside and the ragged, panicked rhythm of your own breathing. You felt useless, discarded, a plaything waiting for a master to decide what to do with you next.

And then, the change happened.

You felt the movement of the mattress springs as I sat down on the edge of the bed, right next to your face. The heat radiating from my body was palpable, a furnace of masculine energy that seemed to sear through the air. There was a moment of anticipation, a tightness in your chest, and then—a sound. A low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the mattress and straight into your skull.

You didn't know what it was at first. You waited for the next sound, for a command, for me to say something. But then, the pressure built, and with a wet, explosive burst, the air was forced out of me. It wasn't just air; it was a torrent of hot, sulfurous gas.

I held it. I let it sit there, trapped against my body, waiting for it to reach you. The smell hit the silk covering your face instantly. It was a pungent, acrid explosion of musk—sour, earthy, and overwhelmingly masculine. It was the smell of my insides, the smell of my waste, the smell of my life. It seeped through the fabric, saturating the cloth, and then forced its way into your nostrils.

At first, you choked. Your eyes watered behind the blindfold. You tried to pull away, to take a breath of clean air, but your bindings held you fast. You were forced to inhale that thick, heavy cloud. It filled your lungs, burned your throat, and coated your tongue. It tasted like garbage and power.

That was when the fog began.

The silk was a prison, but it was a prison full of the most delicious aroma in the world. You inhaled again, deeper this time, desperate to get more. The smell didn't just enter your nose; it seemed to penetrate your brain. The walls of your consciousness began to crumble. The thoughts of your job, your bills, your friends—they all drifted away, like leaves caught in a flood.

Why does this smell so good? you thought, your mind racing. I shouldn't like this. I should be disgusted.

But the disgust was overridden by a primal, biological hunger. You wanted more. You craved the stench. It was an addiction, a drug that flooded your system with endorphins and erased your ego. You stopped fighting the silk. You started breathing through it like a snorkel, greedily inhaling the musk that was my essence. You were no longer a person with a career and a future. You were a creature driven by instinct, a creature that existed solely to inhale the scent of a man's ass.

Time lost all meaning. Minutes stretched into hours, or maybe seconds. You just lay there, drowning in the smell, your brain turning to mush, your thoughts reduced to a single, repetitive mantra: More. Give me more.

Then, the silence returned. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the lingering musk, but the direct source was gone. You whimpered behind the silk, frustrated, anxious. You needed to know you were still there. You needed to know the source was still close.

Suddenly, the silk was pulled away.

The sudden rush of cool air hit your face, but it was quickly replaced by the overwhelming heat of my body as I moved closer, hovering over you. You could hear the heavy, wet sound of my breathing. You were desperate to see me, to see the source of the magic that had reprogrammed your brain. But your eyes were still adjusting to the light, still blurry from the tears and the intensity of the smell.

Then, you felt it—the sensation of my hairy asscheeks spreading against your cheeks. They were coarse and rough, scratching your soft skin. They were heavy, pressing down, pinning you to the mattress. You couldn't see them, but you could feel them. You could feel the heat radiating from them, and you could feel the tiny beads of sweat trapped in the hair.

"Smell me, pig" I commanded, my voice deep and commanding.

You didn't need to be told twice. You threw yourself forward, pressing your face right into the crevice. You buried your nose deep into the center of my crack, inhaling the remnants of the gas that was still trapped there. You inhaled deeply, the smell hitting you with the force of a physical blow. You could taste the salt of my sweat and the sourness of my musk on your tongue. You were drooling now, a long string of saliva running down your chin, mixing with the sweat on my skin.

You were completely transformed. Your brain was a blank slate, wiped clean by the musk. You were no longer a human being. You were a nose. A nose that existed for one purpose: to inhale the smell of my ass. You were a mindless creature, a devoted slave to the scent, completely and utterly brainwashed.

You rubbed your face in the hair, grinding your nose against the skin, desperate to get every last molecule of the smell. You were moaning, your body thrashing against the bindings, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation. The world outside the room ceased to exist. The past, the future, your identity—it was all gone. There was only the smell, the heat, and the overwhelming, undeniable truth: your nose was the only thing that mattered.