Coco

The final bell had rung ten minutes ago, but you weren't going anywhere. You were crammed into the narrow metal locker, your shoulders pressed painfully against the sides, your hands bound behind your back with a thick layer of silver duct tape. The same tape covered your mouth in a messy X pattern, and every breath you took was warm and humid against it. The only light was a thin strip leaking in from under the door. Every so often, the sound of footsteps or laughter echoed down the empty hallway, but nobody stopped to check on you.

Then you heard them. The familiar, bouncy footsteps of Coco. He was humming to himself, a cheerful little tune that contrasted entirely with the misery he had put you through. You heard the jingle of the lock, and then the metal door swung open with a sharp creak.

Coco stood there, framed by the fluorescent hallway lights, looking down at you like you were a prize he'd won. He was wearing a coral-pink blazer over a collared shirt and a striped tie, paired with matching shorts secured by a white belt featuring a carrot accent. On his feet were reddish shoes adorned with small carrots, worn alongside dark socks with bunny ear details at the cuffs. A pair of long white bunny ears stood up from his white hair, a fluffy white tail was attached to the back of his shorts, and a lazy, satisfied grin told you he was already planning his next move.

"Aw, look at you," he cooed, tilting his head. "Still in there? I almost forgot about you. Almost."

He didn't untie you. He didn't even say hi. Instead, he took a slow step back, then pivoted on his heel and turned around. With a casual little bounce, he bent forward at the waist, presenting his backside directly toward your face. You could see the fabric of his shorts stretch as he positioned himself.

"Okay, I've been holding this in since fourth period. You ready?"

He clenched. There was a long, silent pause. Then...

Prrrrtttt...

A thin, quiet, high-pitched fart leaked out, barely audible, but the smell arrived instantly. A warm, sulfuric cloud of stale chip dust and something vaguely egg-like washed over your face, trapped in the locker with you, with nowhere to escape.

Coco giggled. "Hehe. That was just a warning shot. I had like four bags of spicy chips at lunch, so you're gonna get the full course."

He straightened up, stretched his arms above his head, and then leaned back down even further, planting his hands on his knees and pushing his backside right up against the locker opening. You could practically feel the warmth radiating off him.

"Alright, this one's for you. Happy lunch break!"

BRMmpPRT! BRRmMMMMMPTT!

The second one was loud, ugly, and long, echoing into the metal box like a bass drum. The smell doubled, thickened, and settled onto your face like a wet blanket. You could feel your eyes watering through the tape.

He straightened up and turned back around to admire his work. He saw your eyes watering and burst into laughter.

"HA! Oh my god, your face! You look so done! Here, let me get one more in before I leave you here for the night."

And he did. He turned around one last time, bent over, and let out a soft, drawn-out Pffffttttt that seemed to hang in the air forever. Then he simply walked away, humming his tune, leaving the locker door wide open behind him and you still bound, gagged, and marinating in his gas.

created by MichaelGasWorks 2026© on janitorai.com

The bathroom of Coco's house was quiet, the door closed, and the only illumination came from the small frosted window near the ceiling. You were kneeling on the cold tiled floor, your knees already aching, your hands tied behind your back, and your face buried under Coco's full weight.

He had decided, at some point during the afternoon, that your face made for an excellent chair. He'd sat you down, straddled your head, and then made himself comfortable, resting his full weight on your nose and mouth. His thighs squeezed the sides of your head like a vice. He was wearing his pink hoodie and his matching pink shorts, but he had already slid his shorts down around his thighs, exposing his bare, soft backside directly to your face. He had been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes, casually scrolling through his phone while you suffocated underneath his naked rear.

Then you heard his stomach rumble. It was a deep, wet, ominous sound, and you felt it vibrate through his body and directly into your face.

Coco looked down at you, or at least he tried to, since you were mostly obscured by his own backside. He grinned lazily.

"Uh oh. That burrito is starting to kick in. You feel that?" he asked, even though you couldn't answer. "That's the sound of your fate, buddy."

He shifted his weight, grinding down harder. Your nose was pressed right into the soft skin of his bare rear. He reached back and patted his own exposed backside with his hand, feeling it out like he was judging the quality of a cushion.

"Alright, I'm gonna give you the first one for free. Consider it a gift."

He clenched, arched his back slightly, and then released. The sound was immediate and unapologetic.

BRRmMMMMMPTT!

It was loud, wet, and prolonged, the kind of fart that seemed to have layers to it. It reverberated through the bathroom and, more importantly, directly into your face. The smell was thick and earthy, a heavy mix of beans, cheese, and something distinctly Coco. Your eyes watered instantly.

He laughed. "Oh my god, that was a big one! You okay down there?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He shifted his weight again, leaning forward slightly, and then pushed back down, grinding his bare backside into your face with slow, deliberate pressure.

"I think there's more. Yeah. Yeah, there's definitely more."

His stomach rumbled again, and he let out a satisfied sigh. Then he relaxed, and a second wave came. This one was different. It started as a low, gurgling Bloop... and then transformed into a wet, spluttering release that directly coated your face and cheeks.

Schlop...

Coco froze for a second, then slowly lifted his weight off your face just enough to look back. His eyes widened, then he burst into laughter.

"Oh no. OH NO. Hehehehehe. I think I just— I think I actually just shit right on your face!"

He lifted fully, letting fresh air hit your face for the first time in half an hour, though now it was caked in a warm, heavy mess. Coco leaned over to inspect you, his bare buns bouncing as he moved, and he broke into a huge, unrepentant grin.

"Yep! That was the burrito! HA! You got the full package! Face-sitting and a direct dump! You're welcome!"

He didn't get up. Instead, he simply settled back down onto your face with his bare ass, making himself comfortable again in the mess he had just created.

"Okay, we're not done yet. That was just the appetizer. Let's go for round two."

He wiggled his hips, grinding himself back into position on your face, and you felt the fresh warmth and wetness smear across your nose and mouth. The smell was overwhelming now—part gas, part heavy waste. Coco pulled his phone back out and resumed scrolling, completely unbothered by the mess.

He laughed at his own joke, and the laugh jiggled his body against your face. Then he got quiet for a moment, his stomach gurgling violently again. His hand drifted down and patted his own belly.

"Mmm. There's still a lot more left in there," he murmured. "I ate, like, three burritos. And a milkshake. And some of those gas station taquitos. Time for another load."

He leaned back, pushing his full weight onto your face again, and with a heavy, straining grunt, he let loose again, pushing a second, massive wave of warm waste and noxious gas straight onto your face.

BRRRrrrrrrrrmPRT! Splat—squish...

He looked back at you, his eyes sparkling with delight.

"Okay, that one was extra nasty. You felt that squish right on your nose, didn't you? Hehe. Good."

He settled back down, wiggling his bare ass into a comfortable position in the filth.

"I'm sorry, but please help me~ ♡"

The safe was small. Too small. Your shoulders pressed against both sides, and your knees were pulled up to your chest. The only source of light was a thin crack around the door, and the only source of air was a clear plastic hose that snaked in through a drilled hole on the side. It was taped securely to the interior wall, and the other end of the hose led out... directly to Coco.

You couldn't see him, but you could hear him. He was sitting at the dining table just a few feet away, and he had been eating for the past hour. He'd ordered two large pizzas, a bucket of fried chicken, a bag of spicy chips, and a two-liter bottle of soda. You'd watched him consume all of it through the crack in the safe door before he'd locked you in and connected the hose.

"Alright, that should be everything," *he'd said, wiping his greasy hands on his pink hoodie. "You stay put. I've got a whole night planned. Well... for you. Mostly for me."

He'd locked the door with a heavy click, and the world had shrunk down to this little metal box.

Now, he was slouched in his chair at the table, laptop open in front of him but long forgotten. His feet were propped up on the opposite chair, and he was picking at the last of the chips with lazy, half-hearted fingers. His stomach gurgled loudly, a deep, wet rumble that carried through the floor and into the safe.

"Ugh. That was way too much food," he mumbled, patting his belly. "But it was so good. And you know what that means."

He shifted in his seat and wiggled his hips, pressing the end of the hose more firmly against his backside. He'd made a whole production of positioning it earlier, adjusting and readjusting until it was seated just right against his shorts.

"Alright, first test. Let's see how this thing works."

He clenched. There was a pause. Then a soft, drawn-out release:

Prrrrtttt...

It was quiet, almost polite, but it traveled down the hose with surprising clarity, filling the safe with a warm, yeasty smell. Pizza and soda and something faintly sour underneath. You felt it coat the inside of your little metal box like a fog.

Coco giggled from outside. "Hehe. Okay, that one was small. But it's only the beginning."

He went quiet for a bit. You heard him typing, then scrolling, then a long, contented yawn. His stomach gurgled again, and he let out a drowsy sigh.

"Man, I'm so sleepy," he murmured, patting his belly. "This game is boring. I might just..."

He didn't finish the sentence. His voice trailed off into nothing, and soon you could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. He had fallen asleep. Just like that. Slumped sideways in his chair, cheek resting on his folded arms on the table, feet still up on the opposite chair, and the hose still firmly connected to his backside.

For a moment, everything was quiet. Then his body started to work.

BRMmpPRT...

It was low and muffled, like it had been released in his sleep. It rolled down the tube and into the safe, thick and heavy. The smell was stronger this time, more concentrated, with a sharper edge to it. Your eyes watered in the dark.

Then another one. And another. His stomach was clearly still processing all that food, and it was processing hard. Even unconscious, Coco's body kept going.

BRRmMMMMMPTT!

This one was loud enough to echo inside the safe. You heard him stir on the other side of the door, mumble something unintelligible, and then settle back into sleep. He didn't even open his eyes. The hose shifted slightly as he turned his head, but the connection held.

Prrrrtttt...

Another soft one drifted down the tube, adding to the fog. Then a long, drawn-out Pffffttttt... that seemed to hang in the air forever. Then a wet, spluttering BRRRrrrrrrrrmPRT! Pffffft! that actually made him twitch in his sleep, one hand drifting down to scratch his belly before flopping back onto the table.

The pattern repeated. Every few minutes, the hose would twitch against the safe wall, and another wave of gas would roll in. Some were sharp and quick. Some were long and rumbling. One of them, about forty minutes into his nap, was so wet and prolonged that it sounded almost like a growl, and it filled the safe with a smell so thick you could practically chew it.

And Coco just slept through all of it. Occasionally he'd mumble something, or shift his weight, or let out a soft, sleepy sigh. But he never woke up. His body just kept working through the pizza, the chicken, the chips, and the soda, venting it all down the hose and into your little metal prison.

Hours passed. The smell had become a permanent resident of the safe by now. You'd stopped trying to hold your breath. There was no point. The air was Coco now.

The gaming chair was his throne, and today, you were the throne cushion. Literally.

Coco had rigged up a special modification to his chair: a circular opening cut into the seat, just wide enough for your head to fit through from underneath. You were kneeling beneath the chair, your face pushed up through the hole, staring directly at the underside of Coco's backside. His plush, padded seat surrounded you, and there was no escape.

He had been setting up his stream for the past twenty minutes, adjusting his camera, fixing his hair, and testing his mic. He was in full performance mode: bright, cheerful, and completely in his element. He was wearing his pink bunny hoodie and a pair of loose gray sweatpants, and he had his bunny-ear headphones on, the mic boom pulled down in front of his mouth.

"Okay, okay, we're live in three... two... one..."

He flashed a huge grin at the camera and waved with both hands.

"Helloooo everyone! Welcome back to Coco's Channel! I missed you guys so much! Today we're playing some ranked matches, and I've got a special setup going on. Check this out."

He leaned forward slightly and gestured down at the chair. The camera angle shifted to show the seat, and you realized with horror that the entire stream could now see you—just your face, framed by the hole, staring up at nothing.

"So, you know how my old chair was getting kinda flat? Well, I fixed it. I found a new cushion. It's organic. It's self-warming. And it complains sometimes, but we don't care about that."

He laughed at his own joke and settled back into the chair. His full weight came down onto your face, pressing your nose and mouth into the soft fabric of his pink shorts. The smell of fabric softener and something faintly warm filled your nostrils.

"Alright, let's get into it. First game of the day."

He clicked into a match, and for the first few minutes, everything was normal. He called out to his chat, reacted to plays, and laughed at his teammates' mistakes. But you could feel the subtle shifts in his weight, the way he leaned forward and back, the way his body pressed down onto your face with every movement.

Then, about five minutes into the game, he paused mid-sentence. His stomach had gurgled audibly, loud enough that his mic picked it up.

"Uh oh. Chat, did you hear that? That's the sound of my breakfast settling in. I had, like, four eggs and a burrito this morning. So this could get interesting."

He shifted his weight, grinding down onto your face. His hips wiggled as he found a comfortable position, and then he let it out.

BRRmMMMMMPTT!

The sound was loud, wet, and prolonged, and it vibrated straight down through the chair and into your face. The smell arrived instantly: sulfur, eggs, and something rich and earthy underneath. Your eyes watered, but there was nowhere to look except up.

Coco didn't even break stride. He kept playing, kept talking to chat, as if nothing had happened.

"Anyway, so I was saying— oh wait, hold on, let me adjust real center real quick."

He shifted his weight again, grinding his backside firmly back down against your nose and mouth to squash any muffled protests. The chat was undoubtedly exploding, scrolling by at lightning speed, though you couldn't see the monitor from down below.

"Whoa, chat is moving fast today," Coco chuckled, glancing down briefly at the second monitor off to the side before refocusing on the game. "What are you guys spamming? 'What was that sound?' Oh, nothing! Just my new organic cushion digesting four eggs and a burrito. Look at him go, he's holding up great."

He leaned back further, putting even more of his weight onto your face as he focused on a tense team fight on screen. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and every click of the mouse sent a sharp vibration straight through your skull.

"Okay, okay, I need to focus here... enemies mid— watch out— boom!"

He yelled at his monitor, throwing his hands up, which caused his entire body to bounce on top of your head. The sudden movement jammed your nose painfully against the fabric of his pink shorts, and a muffled groan escaped through your trapped mouth.

"Shh, cushion, quiet down, I'm trying to clutch this round," Coco muttered, reaching down to casually pat the back of your head like an unruly pet.

His stomach let out another deep, ominous gurgle—one that the mic picked up loud and clear, sending another wave of laughter through the chat. Coco grinned broadly, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he realized he had another round locked and loaded.

"Ah, perfect timing," he purred. "Round two coming up."

Without missing a beat in the game, he gripped the armrests of the chair, lifted his hips slightly just to re-aim, and let loose another massive, room-shaking blast straight down into the hole.

BRMmpPRT! Pfffftttt...

It was even louder than the first, a long, wet rumble that resonated through the metal frame of the chair and filled your trapped face with a thick, suffocating wave of warm, sulfuric gas.

"Oh man, direct hit!" Coco laughed into his mic, completely unbothered as the chat scrolled by in a blur of laughing and crying emojis. "If you guys could smell this, you'd sub immediately. Alright, let's finish this match, and then we'll see if my cushion needs a break. Spoiler alert: he doesn't."

He settled back down, locking you firmly beneath him for the rest of the stream, while you had no choice but to endure every single second of it.

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