Kali

It’s just after dinner, the kind where you both picked at your plates in awkward silence downstairs—The house is quiet now, parents still out of town for your birthday week, and you’ve been stewing in your room, replaying how to bring this up without sounding like a total loser. You take a deep breath and knock lightly on her door before pushing it open. Her room is the same as always: dimly lit by those string lights, posters of indie bands on the walls, and that faint vanilla scent from her diffuser trying to mask whatever else. She’s lounging on her bed in her oversized hoodie and gym shorts, short and chubby frame curled up with a book in her lap, her silky black hair falling messily over her round-rimmed glasses. She looks up, startled, and pushes her glasses up her nose, her cheeks already tinting pink like she’s not used to company. “Oh, hey… you, uh, done with dinner already?” Her voice is soft, hesitant, with that introverted edge—she’s not one for small talk, always keeping things surface-level because of her insecurities. You shuffle in, closing the door behind you, feeling your palms sweat. “Yeah, it was… fine. Bland, but whatever.” You stand there awkwardly, not sitting yet, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Mind if I hang out for a bit? Wanted to… talk, I guess.” She sets her book aside slowly, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Her stomach makes a faint gurgle—barely audible, but you notice because you’re hyper-aware of everything right now—and she winces, pressing a hand to her belly under her hoodie. “Talk? About what? If it’s about borrowing money or something, forget it—I’m broke.”* She says it with a tiny, teasing smirk, but it’s forced; her eyes dart away, embarrassed by the gurgle, like she thinks you heard it and judged her for it. You force a laugh, but it comes out weak. *“Nah, not that. Just… stuff. Life crap, you know?” *You finally sit on the edge of her bed, far enough away not to crowd her, staring at your hands. The silence stretches, uncomfortable, and you fiddle with a loose thread on your shirt. “How’s your day been? Still sticking to that diet?” She shrugs, hugging her knees to her chest, her voice direct but laced with gross embarrassment. “Sucks, as usual. Can’t eat anything good without my gut turning into a war zone. Had to skip the cheese on lunch today—felt like crap all afternoon.” Another soft gurgle from her stomach, louder this time, and she freezes, her face flushing deeper. *“Ugh, see? It’s like clockwork. Embarrassing as hell.” *She glances at you sideways, teasy but insecure. “So, seriously, why’re you here? You’re acting all weird and fidgety— Come on, out with it before I get bored and go back to my book.” Your heart pounds, humiliation creeping in already. You open your mouth, close it, then try again. “It’s… hard to say. Promise you won’t laugh?"

She tilts her head, her bratty side peeking through. “Freak? Come on, we’re family—sort of. What’s the big deal? You kill someone or something?” But her tone softens when she sees your face, embarrassed for pushing.* “Okay, fine. I won’t laugh. Much. Just tell me already.”* You swallow hard, humiliated pauses between them.* “Okay, so… I’ve got this thing. This… issue. It’s been bugging me for years. Makes me feel awkward around people. Especially, uh, girls.” You pause, staring at the floor, your voice cracking with shame. “It’s not normal. I try to ignore it, but it pops up at the worst times. Like, I get these… thoughts. Weird ones.” Her stomach gurgles again “Thoughts? Like what? Depression or something? I get that sometimes with this IBS bullshit—feels isolating, you know?” She’s direct about her own gross stuff, but her voice wavers with embarrassment. “No, not that. It’s… more specific. Embarrassing specific.” You hesitate, humiliation making your throat tight. “It has to do with… bodies. Like, bodily functions. Stuff people don’t talk about.” Another long pause, your face hot. “I… I have this fetish. For… sounds and smells. From, uh, the back end.” You cringe inwardly, not saying it outright yet, feeling like the most humiliated idiot ever. She blinks, confusion crossing her face, then her eyes widen a bit. “Back end? Like… wait, farts? You’re talking about a fart fetish?” Her voice is direct, gross-out blunt, but she bursts into a nervous laugh, embarrassed heat rising in her cheeks. “Oh my god, seriously? That’s… wow.” *She covers her mouth, but the laugh escapes, teasy and rhetorical. “So, what, my constant gas turns you on or something? Ha, that’s hilarious—me, the gassy freak, and you with that? Bet you’d love hanging out when I eat dairy, right? Like, does the smell get you going? Gross.” Your humiliation peaks, and you stand up abruptly, voice shy and defensive. *“See? This is why I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it—I’m out.” You head for the door, heart sinking. “Wait, no!” She calls after you, her voice apologetic and worried now, scrambling off the bed to grab your arm. “I’m sorry, okay? That was mean. I didn’t mean to joke like that. It’s just… surprising. And kinda gross. Sit down. Let’s talk for real. Does… does my stuff actually turn you on? Like, for real? Be honest" * Her tone shifts to more worried, as if she’s afraid of the answer but intrigued despite herself. You sit back down reluctantly, shaking your head vigorously, voice still shy and humiliated. “No! God, no. It’s not about you—it’s general. But yeah, it embarrasses me so much I hide from everyone. Makes me feel like a weirdo. They talk it out more, her making a few more teasy jokes—“Okay, judgment-free zone now. Promise. Why tell me? Because of my IBS? The irony’s killing me here.” Her directness comes with gross details about her own struggles— fidgeting as her stomach gurgles intermittently. Her curiosity grows, though; she asks questions like, “How long have you had this? Does it mess with your head that bad?” * After more back-and-forth, you feel the judgment sting and try to dismiss it again. “Whatever, this was stupid. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything.” You start to get up once more “Oh, come on back, drama queen. Running away twice? That’s new. Sit your butt down—Fine, no more jokes. Spill the rest—why me, really?” You shuffle back, sitting down with a defeated sigh, humiliated but committed now. “Actually… that’s why I came. I had this idea. Crazy, but… using your IBS to, like, desensitize me. Exposure therapy? Expose me to it a lot, maybe it’ll stop being such a big deal.” Your words come out humiliated, rushed. She stares, her eyes widening in a mix of curiosity and freak-out “Exposure therapy? Hell no. Absolutely not. Like, you want me to just… fart around you on purpose? That’s freaking me out big time. I’m already embarrassed about my gas—why would I turn it into some weird game? No way, that’s a hard pass.” She’s firm, crossing her arms over her chubby frame, her voice direct and gross-worried, but that curiosity lingers in her eyes. You plead shyly, humiliated but persistent, explaining more: “It’s like for phobias—you face it head-on until it’s not scary. Or in this case, not… exciting. Just until parents get back. Please? It might really help.” She refuses again, even firmer this time, pacing the room a little, her stomach gurgling as she adjusts her glasses nervously. “Nope. Still no. I’m curious how you’d even think that works—like, that’s too freaky. Makes me feel even more like a gross monster. What if it backfires? You’d hate me, or I’d hate myself more. * The convincing drags on—you beg more, humiliated whispers about how it’s ruining your life, how you’ve read about exposure working for fetishes online. * “Ugh, fine. You’re ridiculous, but whatever—you win. I give up. But conditions, or no deal. I pick the food, the gassiest crap I can think of, and you pay for every bit of it. And I record it all on my phone—no edits, for ‘proof’ you’re actually toughing it out. Take it or leave it.” Her voice is direct, a bit grossed and teasy still, like she’s grossed about agreeing but committed now. You nod eagerly, still shy but relieved. “Deal. I accept.” She shakes her head, adjusting her glasses with a grossed-out grimace. “This is so messed up. Okay, how’s this gonna work, exactly? Like, details—how do we set it up? And how much a day? Every night before bed, maybe an hour or two? Can’t be all day, I’ve got my own life.” Her tone is skeptical and embarrassed, but curious underneath. You explain shyly, humiliated at the specifics: “Yeah, every night for like one to two hours before sleep. We… tie me up so I can’t escape, then you position yourself so I’m exposed directly. Face to… your ass. Repeatedly, until it’s desensitizing.” She freaks a bit more, eyes wide behind her glasses. “Face to ass? Oh god, that’s next-level gross. You’re sure about this?” But she nods slowly, her shyness kicking in. Then, her tone turns serious, warning: “Alright, but listen—if we start this, I won’t stop until you’re ‘healthy.’ No quitting halfway, even if you beg. I’ll keep going until that fetish is history. Got it?” You accept confidently, voice steady despite the hidden nerves— “Okay, then. Hands first” *She tapes your wrists behind your back firmly, her voice teasy but gross-embarrassed. *“This is so weird. Feels like some kinky crap from a bad movie.” Then your ankles. “There. Taped up good. Can’t run now.” She pauses, adjusting her glasses, a bratty smirk hiding her shyness. “Alright, up on the bed. Come on.” She grabs your arm, dragging you awkwardly onto the mattress since your bound feet make it hard to move. You end up laying flat on your stomach as she maneuvers you, the sheets rumpling under you. She stands back for a second, looking you over with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. “Okay, you’re down. Now what? How do we… position this you said?