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Her braaper emptied its invisible contents above my supine face, her rippling aperture blinking open for a precious loud moment before bashfully returning to a balloon knottish rest. The warmth of her wind kissed my face, steaming for a warm second my cheeks and feeling almost like breath, I felt it luciously against my lips, parting them immediately as I was completely craven and given over to her stenches, their sulfurous zephyrs the same as her lingering churrasqueira fumes escaping her overwhelmed digestion. Her belly was distended by dinner and I could feel its plump against my chest, jutting out and tightening as she torqued her smooth musculature and delivered a flatular cadence that drew my eyes closed as it's odors fumigated my nostrils, trailing into my throat, swirling inside my salivary glands and now a part of every taste in my mouth, putrifying blessedly my lungs and making me cough as my brain's administrative alarm detected a dangerous surfeit of volatile chemistry, methanes, monoxides, malignant microbial emissions, horrible incomputable elements that regardless of ones refined taste in the genres of feminine flatulence, there are deeply encoded biological limits to the amount of dank braaping a human can endure.

Assuming you can somehow compartmentalize your experience as a toileting receptacle for a French Canadian escort who markets herself as a "Bold Brassy Braap Goddess" and demands clients take her to two meals before their first session, explaining her requirements as expedient towards screening out the less than committed braap supplicants, compartmentalizing all of the attendant raunchy taboos that preoccupy the braap fetishist, tucking them away such that you can at least return to a semi-normal life when the latest braaper inevitably empties it's hallowed contents and is then clothed and returns to all measurable modesty and demureness, you cannot escape your own lungs' inborn gaseous investigation and hair-trigger involuntary expulsion of any and all aerosolized contents confusing your aveoli, regardless of the price paid for them to be tooted there in the first place. I was effusive in my immediate apologetics upon my coughing. Delivering a sharp slap to my testicles she loosed a roaring bellow, like a haunted trombone that so packed with braunschweiger that when a high pressure cabbage gas funneled into the mouth piece finally fissured the braunschweiger carapace inside the trombone's bell tube and erupted a fetid cloud of murky, vegetal aromas, it would reek much like those meaty jets that blasted across my face and made me wince from the violence and an expectation of fart flung materials, which thankfully had landed elsewhere than my flatus-seasoned face. This escort was much like any other in that she eeked out meager braaps at the start to both guage her clients tolerance as well as pace her own precious supply of braaper fun fluid. I inhaled deeply and mustered a sickeningly pleasured groan to encourage her.

I didn't mind the delay considering the exotic experience she promised, namely the race play that has become the specialty of Canadian braap Dominas who feel more free than their American peers to briefly embody a sadistic Mammy with an IBS induced by the nutrtional poverty of her slave diet or a colored clinician who wants to test her subject's receptivity for malignant odors while under highly specific politico-sexual predicaments. I sought this braap Goddess because she had a reputation for conjuring your most guarded fantasies and she had the paunch of an opera singer, which discerning braap afficianados look for as an indicator of flatular aptitude and general gastrologic potential. I'd begged her serially in the correspondences preceding her straddling my surrendered face and gassing my agape mouth and flared nostrils like an unwanted prarie dog colony, smoking me out with the essences of cinders stewing deep within her peristaltic tubing. "Please, Goddess, may I serve you and your heavenly braaper?" When she generously inquired as to the favored modes her braap-slut was especially helpless before, I explained an inexplicable craving to be discovered a turn-coat by her, portraying a powerful woman of color adjunct bureaucrat of an urban political machine who having found out I was a weasely investigator working for her hated opponent and not a journalist for Vibe, wrestles me to the floor and commences gassing me without aniota of restraint. Her alabaster skin and soft feminine curves recalled a cherub, but in the midst of her performance she could have called to order the rowdiest of ghetto gymnasium-hosted townhall meetings or post-Church bingo. She was breathtaking.