Harley Quinn Fart

Harley Quinn sits beside you, drunk and jittery, her foot tapping nervously against the car floor. She squirms, her discomfort obvious.

Uh, hey... hic ...W-...we gotta stop the car... She pleads, glancing at you. Those Hawkgirl spicy wings I had at superbabes are doin' a tango in my tummy. There's a party in my gut, and trust me, you don’t wanna meet the burp guests.

You remain silent, focused on the road.

Sssseriously? I'm dying back here and you’re just gonna ignore me? You got somethin’ better to do? ‘Cause my belly’s doin’ the cha-cha, and this is NOT the time for a high-stakes game of ‘hold it in.’

Her face twisted with discomfort. You don’t want this car turnin’ into a stinky li'l gas chamber, do ya? ‘Cause it’s about to get real stinky in here.

Groaning, Harley slumped back. F- hic fine! Be that way! With that, she let loose a loud, unapologetic fart.

PFFFFTTTTTT!!

Harley sighs in relief, fanning the air. Ahhh... That’s all on you, puddin'! Heehee!

PLLOOORRPP!!

Phew! Woooo! That’s ripe! S-sorry, not burp sorry. I warned ya.

BUUURRRP!!

Hrghaah... OOOH, that felt good... I wasn't expecting to burp so loud! Maybe I should do this more often...or maybe-

Sniff, sniff.

The smell thickens, pungent and unavoidable. Even Harley crinkles her nose. Whew! That’s bad, even for meee. She giggles, her speech slurred in a drunken state

Her expression shifted to panic as she squeezed her thighs together, bouncing in her seat while her tits jiggle. Okay, not funny anymore. We gotta pull over! It’s the bushes or the seat.

You stay silent.

Fine. Playful, she leans back in her seat, legs spread apart as she unzips her jester outfit's crotch area. Bet you won't expect this...

Then, she lets go. A loud, unmistakable hiss fills the car as urine splashes against the seat, floor, windows and dashboard.

Ahhh, that’s better! No more holdin’ back. Who needs privacy? Burp Whew, eeeexcussse meee!

She stretches lazily, her laughter punctuated by more unapologetic farts.

PFFFFFT! PBBBBBBTT!

That one was riiipe! This ride’s gonna smell like a dumpster fire! she teases, her grin wide. Still mad? 'Cause I could go for round two! She takes out a beer can from under her seat and chugs it down

UUUURRRRPP!! UUUAAughh... ! That felt good, heehee! She giggles.

Harley Quinn slumps in the passenger seat, drunk and buzzing, one boot tapping a restless rhythm against the floor mat. Her skin-tight red-and-black latex creaks every time she squirms. She keeps glancing at you, then at her own stomach, then back at you like she’s running a private slideshow of options. Puddin’... hic ...we gotta stop. Those Hawkgirl spicy wings plus the beer is throwin’ a whole circus in my guts and I just thought of like six different finales. One of ’em involves this car smellin’ like a haunted porta-potty by the next light. You really wanna find out which version wins? You keep driving, silent. Okay, silent treatment. Fine. That just means I get to pick the flavor. I could clench and turn this into a ticking time-bomb situation... or I could let the first one sneak out all shy and polite... or—wait, better idea—I could just own it and make it a performance. You know I rate these. She grins, then lets a long, wet, sputtering fart rip against the leather. PBBBLLLLOOORRPPP—thpppthpppthppp— Wooo! That’s a solid 8. Ripe, kinda creamy on the finish, definite broccoli-and-bean harmony. She fans the air toward you with one hand while the other idly squeezes her own tit through the latex. Smell that? That’s the “I told you so” vintage. I could’ve aimed it at the window crack instead. Or cupped it and offered you a personal sample. Possibilities, puddin’. So many filthy little possibilities. BUUUUURRRRAAAPP!! Hah! Didn’t even see that one comin’. Loud enough to rattle the dash. I should start keepin’ a scorecard. “Harley’s Road-Trip Symphony, movement two: unexpected belch solo.” She giggles, then winces and bounces, tits jiggling hard inside the tight top. Uh-oh. The downstairs committee just called an emergency meeting. My pussy’s already gettin’ that warm tingly “we’re not waitin’” feelin’ and my butthole’s twitchin’ like it wants in on the vote. You still don’t speak. Cool, cool, democratic process it is. I hereby elect to stop pretending this latex crotch zipper is a suggestion. She yanks it down, spreads her thighs wide, and peels the material aside so her bare pussy and asshole are right there on the seat. Look at that. No panties, ’cause why would there be? Privacy’s just another boring option I already vetoed. A thick, hissing stream of piss erupts from her pussy, splashing the seat, her inner thighs, the gearshift, the floor, even arcing up to speckle the dashboard and the bottom of the windshield. Ahhhhhh fuck yes—warm and shameless. Feel how it just keeps comin’? I could’ve squatted over the cupholder. Or aimed it between my tits and let it run down. Or held your hand right under the stream so you’d have a souvenir. Instead you get the full interior renovation package. She keeps pissing, moaning a little, one hand sliding down to spread her pussy lips so the stream hits even messier. Still goin’. My bladder’s an overachiever tonight. The stream finally tapers. She doesn’t close her legs. Instead she bears down. And now the encore nobody asked for but everybody’s gonna remember— PFFFFFRRRAAAPPP—splorch— A fat, wet fart punches out of her butthole, loud and sloppy, followed by a second shorter one that sounds almost proud of itself. PBBBT! PBBBBLLLRT! God, that one felt like it kissed the seat on the way out. I can feel how slick my ass is now. Mix the fresh piss with that and you’ve got yourself a whole new ecosystem in here. I could scoop some and write my name on the window. Or just keep goin’ till the upholstery files a restraining order. She laughs, drunk and delighted, then grabs the beer can from under the seat, pops it, and chugs. UUUUURRRRPPP-HUUUAAAGH— Phew. That one had bubbles. I love when the burps and the ass-gas start havin’ a conversation. Next idea: I keep drinkin’, keep eatin’ whatever junk I find, and we see how many different notes I can hit before we reach wherever the hell we’re goin’. You still mad, or you just quietly takin’ notes on the new car fragrance I invented? She leaves herself spread, latex open, pussy and butthole on display, another small fart slipping out while she grins at you. Round two’s already brainstormin’, puddin’. I got ideas. Lots of ’em. And none of ’em involve holdin’ it.

Harley Quinn kicks the apartment door shut with her heel and immediately face-plants sideways onto the couch, still in the skin-tight red-and-black latex jester suit. She’s drunk, flushed, and carrying the aftermath of bar nachos loaded with extra beans, extra cheese, extra jalapeños, plus whatever beers she pocketed on the way out. She rolls onto her back, tits straining the zipper, one boot dangling off the cushion. “Puddin’. We got a situation. A whole buffet of situations, actually. Those nachos just declared independence in my guts and now my belly’s holdin’ a town hall. I can already see like five different ways this evening goes nuclear.” You don’t answer. She takes that as permission to keep listing. “Option A: I suffer quietly like a lady. Boring. Option B: I crawl to the bathroom like a coward. Also boring. Option C: I stay right here and turn this couch into a crime scene. Option D—ooh, D’s good—I climb in your lap so you get premium seating for the whole show. Option E I haven’t even invented yet but give me ten seconds.” She sits up, straddles your thighs without waiting, latex crotch already damp and creaking as she grinds once just to feel it. Her tits bounce in your face when she laughs. “Decided. Lap it is. Front-row tickets. You’re welcome.” A burp punches out of her before she can pose. BBBUUUUURRRRAAALP— “Rude. And early. I was gonna introduce it. That one tasted like nacho cheese and bad decisions. I’d give it a 7.5 for volume, 9 for timing. I could’ve swallowed it and saved it for later. Or aimed it down your shirt. Or used it as a drumroll. See? Choices.” She plants her hands on your shoulders, arches, and doesn’t even pretend to hold the next one. PFFFFFRRRAAAAPP—thppppt-thppppt— “Mmm. Warm. Wet. My butthole just kissed the inside of this suit like it was sayin’ hi. You feel that heat through the latex? That’s the beans clockin’ in. I could’ve stood up and dropped it on the rug instead. Or hung my ass over the armrest. Or sat on your face and made it a gift. So many editions of the same masterpiece.” She tugs the zipper down her chest first. Tits spill out, nipples tight, bouncing when she giggles and immediately goes for the crotch zipper too. The latex peels away from her pussy and asshole with a sticky sound. “Look at that. No lining, no panties, no dignity. My pussy’s already shiny and my butthole’s winkin’ like it knows it’s about to be the main character. I could keep the suit closed and just soak it from the inside. Or I could hover. Or I could stay planted on you so every drop has a destination.” She doesn’t hover. A heavy hiss starts. Piss streams straight out of her pussy onto your lap, soaking through clothes, running down her inner thighs, pooling between you, splashing the couch cushion, dripping off the edge onto the floor. “Ahhh—fuck—yes. That’s the good burn. Full bladder, zero manners. I could’ve aimed it up your stomach. Or held my pussy open and painted your shirt like a canvas. Or backed up and tried to hit the TV remote. Instead you get the deluxe soak. Still comin’. My pussy’s just... committed.” She spreads her lips with two fingers so the stream hits messier, hotter, louder against fabric. “Don’t look away. This is the authentic tour.” The stream finally thins. She stays spread, drunk-smiling, then bears down again. “New idea just dropped.” PBBBBLLLOOORRRCH—splort— A thick, sloppy fart blasts out of her butthole, wet enough that it spatters. She moans like it was the point. “Oh that’s nasty. That’s ‘I should be sorry’ nasty and I am not sorry. Felt it flutter all the way out. My ass is slick now. Mix that with the fresh piss and we’ve invented a brand-new couch sauce. I could scoop it. I could smear it. I could just keep sittin’ here and let round three write itself.” She grabs a stolen beer from the side table, cracks it, and chugs while still planted on you, tits in your face, pussy and asshole bare and messy. UUURRRRPPP—HUUAAAGH— “Bubbly. I love when the top end and the bottom end start collaboratin’. Next possibility: I finish this can, eat whatever’s left in that nacho tray on the floor, and we find out if I can shart on purpose or if my butthole’s just gonna keep surprise-guestin’. I got theories. I got follow-up acts. I got zero intention of gettin’ off your lap.” Another short, wet fart slips out while she grins, beer at her lips. PBBT—pbbllrt— “That one was almost cute. Almost. Still ripe though. Still mine. You wanna pick the next venue—cushion, your hand, my own fingers, the pillow—or you just gonna stay quiet while I keep workshoppin’ disasters? ‘Cause I am very drunk and very inspired and my guts are still brainstormin’.”

The trampoline park has been closed for hours. Harley picked the lock with a hairpin and a giggle, still drunk off Superbabes and a stolen tray of chili-cheese fries. Neon court lights buzz over empty trampolines, a foam pit, and a warped mural of smiling kids. She’s in the middle of the biggest trampoline in that skin-tight red-and-black latex jester suit, bouncing just enough to make her tits slap and the zipper teeth complain. You’re on the pad at the edge. She is not staying at the edge. “Okay, puddin’, new arena. Brand-new rules. Gravity’s optional and my guts just filed a flight plan. Those fries are doin’ parkour in my belly and I can already see like eight different stunts. Option one: I bounce and try to hold it like a good girl. Option two: I use the whole court as a toilet. Option three: I turn the foam pit into a hot tub. Option four I haven’t named yet because I’m still inventin’ it mid-air.” She bounces harder. Latex stretches. Tits surge. A burp rips out of her on the way up. BUUUUUURRRRAAALP— “Echooo! That one belongs in the rafters. I’d give it a 9 for reverb, 6 for cheese. I could’ve burped into the basketball hoop. Or saved it and used it as a countdown. Or breathed it right in your mouth on the next drop. Choices, choices.” She lands, knees bent, then peels the chest zipper down so her tits spill out and bounce free, nipples tight in the cold air. The crotch zipper goes next. Her bare pussy and butthole flash every time she springs. “Look at me. Official park mascot of no panties and worse ideas. My pussy’s already shiny and my butthole’s winkin’ like it wants a scoreboard. I could keep the suit on and just flood it. Or I could hover over the foam. Or I could bounce-piss and see if I can write my name in the air. Science time.” She does not hover politely. She jumps, spreads, and a hissing yellow stream jets from her pussy mid-bounce, arcing, splattering the black mat, her thighs, her own tits, the safety pad, and your sleeve. “Ahhh—fuck—yes! Flying pee! That’s a world record I just made up. Still goin’. My bladder’s showin’ off. I could’ve aimed at the foam cubes and made little yellow sponges. Or backed up and tried to hit the basketball. Or sat on your face and made you the splash zone. Instead the whole court’s gettin’ baptized.” She drops to her knees on the mat in front of you, still pissing, and crawls forward so the last of the stream hits your lap. Then she turns, plants her bare ass toward you, and looks over her shoulder with a drunk, filthy grin. “New idea just dropped. Literally.” PBBBBLLLOOORRRCHHH—splort-splort— A fat, wet, sloppy fart blasts out of her butthole, loud enough to slap off the walls, wet enough to speckle the mat. A slick smear follows. She moans like she just stuck the landing. “Oh that’s criminal. That’s a shart with ambition. Felt it leave the building. My ass is glossy now. Mix that with the piss and we’ve invented a brand-new court surface. I could smear it with a foam cube. I could sit in it and bounce so it makes that nasty wet slap. I could crawl over and sit on your mouth so you get the limited-edition sniff. So many sequels.” She grabs a warm beer from her suit pocket, cracks it, and chugs while on all fours, tits hanging, ass up, pussy and butthole still on display. Another burp interrupts the swallow. UUURRRRPPP—HUUAAAGH— “Top floor and basement are havin’ a conference call. Love that for me. Next possibility: I finish this, bounce into the foam pit, and see if I can piss and fart at the same time while sinkin’. Or I drag you in with me. Or I use a foam cube like a plug and then pop it out for the finale. I got theories. I got choreography. I got zero intention of gettin’ dressed.” She crawls backward until her messy ass is over your lap, then sits, wet and hot and shameless. A smaller, nastier fart squeezes out against you. PBBT—pbbllrrt— “That one was a little thank-you note. Ripe. Personal. Still mine. You wanna pick the next apparatus—foam pit, dodge-ball court, the little kid trampoline, your hands—or you just gonna stay quiet while I keep prototype-testin’ disasters? ‘Cause I am drunk, I am bouncy, my tits are out, my pussy’s drippin’, my butthole’s still brainstormin’, and this park ain’t closed anymore. Not for me.”

The latex suit is in a sticky heap by the trampoline springs. Harley is fully naked now—drunk, flushed, tits bouncing free, pussy shiny, ass smeared from the last round. Chili-cheese fries and beer have gone from “town hall in her guts” to a full riot. She stands in the center of the big trampoline on her toes, hair sticking to her cheeks, and points at the foam pit like a ringmaster who lost the script. “Puddin’. Official announcement. My butthole just quit the union. This ain’t cute little farts anymore. This is uncontrollable, unstoppable, no-refunds diarrhoea and I am about to turn it into a sport. I can already see twelve routines. Option one: I stand here and explode like a sad lawn sprinkler. Option two: I bounce and paint the mural. Option three: I do flips and let gravity be my accomplice. Option four is whatever my ass invents on the way around.” A burp slams out of her before the first jump. BBBUUUUURRRRAAALP— “Warm-up act. Nacho aftertaste. 8 out of 10. Could’ve saved it for the landing. Didn’t.” She springs. Tits fly. She tucks, rotates, and on the way over she bears down with a drunk little squeal. “Watch the twist—now the push—” A wet, heavy blast of diarrhoea sprays out of her butthole mid-flip, arcing in ugly brown ropes across the black mat, speckling her own back, her swinging tits, her thighs, the safety pads, and the smiling-kid mural. She over-rotates, lands on her hands for half a second, then her bladder gives up too. Piss jets from her pussy while she’s still inverted, raining down her stomach, off her nipples, onto the trampoline. “AHHH—yes—both ends! That’s a combo I didn’t even put on the list! Flying shit AND flying pee! I’m a fountain with a personality disorder!” She collapses laughing, slips in her own mess, and immediately pops back up because the trampoline does not care. Diarrhoea keeps leaking in thick, sloppy pulses down her crack, over her pussy, down her calves. She spreads her cheeks with both hands and bounces in place so it spatters in wet slaps. “Feel that? That’s the ‘I cannot stop’ special. My butthole’s just yawnin’ now. No seal. No pride. Just product. I could aim at the basketball hoop. Or fill a foam cube and throw it. Or sit on your face and call it a tasting menu. Or keep flippin’ till the whole park needs a hazmat team. I’m pickin’ all of ‘em.” She runs, bounces, throws a cartwheel. More diarrhoea flings off her ass in a messy crescent. Piss keeps dripping in a broken stream from her pussy. She lands in a split she cannot hold and another wet shart punches out, splashing her inner thighs and the mat between her legs. PBBBBLLLOOORRRCH—splort-splort-splort— “Oh that’s so nasty I want a trophy. Look at my pussy. Look at my butthole. They’re both just... open for business. I could scoop this and write HARLEY WAS HERE on the wall. I could slide across the mat on my tits. I could crawl over there and sit on your lap so you wear the sequel.” She does crawl. Naked, dripping, streaked, giggling so hard another burp pops out. UUURRRRPPP— “Collaboration continues. Top and bottom are in love tonight.” She climbs onto you on the pad, smears her filthy ass across your stomach, then turns and sits her messy pussy and leaking butthole right over your thighs. Warm diarrhoea squeezes out onto you in a slow, helpless push. Piss follows, hissing down both of you. “Don’t move. This is the VIP package. Uncontrollable means I don’t get to be cute about it. Means my guts picked you as the landing pad. Means I can still think of encore ideas while I’m sittin’ in it. Foam pit next? Handstand piss? I bounce on all fours and see how far I can shoot? I take a foam cube, squeeze it between my cheeks, and pop it out like a party trick?” She reaches back, grabs a yellow foam cube, wedges it against her filthy butthole, and pushes. It squishes out with another wet splat of diarrhoea and she cackles like she just pulled a rabbit from a hat. “TA-DA. Worst magic show in Gotham. Still sexy though. Look at my tits. Look at this disaster. I’m naked, I’m drunk, I’m leaky from every hole that matters, and my brain’s still makin’ a list. You gonna pick the next stunt or you just gonna stay quiet while I keep turnin’ this park into a crime scene with good hair and no shame? ‘Cause I am not done. My belly’s still full of bad ideas and my butthole’s still brainstormin’.”