Date: Fri, 15 May 2015 21:43:16 +0200
From: Zachary Blake <z.blake@mail.com>
Subject: Smell This 13

SMELL THIS 13
By Brad, Mark & Zachyboy
M/b, b/b, oral, anal, sniffing, buttplay

Complete fantasy. Never happened and we don't encourage it. Read, sniff,
enjoy, then go home and keep your hands and your noses to yourself.

What's that you say? You've never donated to Nifty? Here's your chance to
correct that oversight.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

On with the show.

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HOMAGE: CHRISTOPHER

There was a story here quite a few years ago – 2007 to be exact –
called "Christopher's Dirty Undies." I've always loved it, so go ahead and
read it at the Nifty address below. If you like "Smell This," you'll
definitely be intrigued by Christopher. In fact, you've no doubt read him
many times already. And by "read him," I euphemistically mean "masturbated
over him." Let's not be coy, gentlemen.

http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/christophers-dirty-undies

Christopher's author, "Undietales," only wrote two stories. The one above,
and another the year before: "Tyler's Underwear." Both were good, but it
was Christopher and his secretly-sniffing protagonist who stole my heart.

I've written to Undietales a few times through the years to thank him, but
never received any response. I think like so many great and promising
authors online, they post a story or two, but the fan mail and validation
they hope for never comes in, so they quietly retire after one or two story
attempts and let their email address go softly to seed. Tragic, really.

Lesson learned, gentlemen readers...stop occasionally to thank your
authors. Yours might be the one eagerly-awaited note of encouragement that
gives them the courage to write their next three stories. And then all of
our reading nights with lotion and tissues benefit exponentially. If you
don't send your favorite authors a note now and then saying "hey, good job
on that one," don't cry when they vanish from your midst with unfinished
missives and the chapter two that never came. Not to state the obvious, but
if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.

I always wish I could have struck up a correspondence with Undietales, just
to let him know I've loved his story for 8 years. Hell, people ask me if I
wrote HIS story back then under a different name. Nope. Wish I did
though. It's a good one.

And with a 13-year-old son named Christopher myself, I could quite
literally write a part two to his original, iconic masterpice just about
daily.

Christopher's undies in my house this morning? An unassuming pair. Faded
Glory, a common department store brand. Red black and grey camouflage
pattern. Medium. Size 8. Made in India. 100% cotton. Machine wash cold with
similar colors. Use only non-chlorine bleach when needed. Tumble dry
low. Oh no, gentlemen. We will not be using non-chlorine bleach on
these. Not yet anyway. We will not be tumble drying low. Oh, no. Fuck that.

The view from the back of Christopher's undies? A standard, shapely
oval/rectangular stain, 6 cm in total, a darker 1.5 cm toward the top, a
darker 1 cm toward the bottom. Three shades of brown.

Let me consult my paint chips for reference as I study Christopher's
undies. The underlay is a lighter color, this from three days of use,
soccer, gym, and busy boyhood. "Caramel Corn" is the name of it, on the
painter's card. The darker area at the bottom, "Rich Clay." The much darker
area at the top? The much darker one? "Saddle Brown." This pair runs a
rich, rewarding gamut of a bouquet from Caramel Corn to Rich Clay to Saddle
Brown.  Well done, Christopher. Well done. Good boy.

My Christopher is an active boy. He comes home from school and play, and at
13, when he goes to the bathroom, probably doesn't wipe himself as good as
he should. Showers are an afterthought. He needs to take them daily, but he
doesn't always get there. Especially on the weekends when he's playing hard
and making his underwear really stinky.

Let's reposition the garment, shall we? Let's spread Christopher's undies
on the counter so we can see the outside and the inside all at once. Let's
bunch them up a little and see what we see. I call this viewing position
"the wide open maw."  Maw definition: "the jaws or throat of a voracious
animal."

This is how I most often find Christopher's undies. On the floor, tossed
recklessly aside, flipped off his foot, in some variation of the wide open
maw position. I love this position because even at first glance, towering
above it, I can immediately see the colorful personality of the underwear
themselves, the cotton white insides that arouse me with feelings of purity
and virginity, and the stain itself which speaks to naughtiness, nastiness,
dirtiness, possibility and promise.

And then we zoom in on Christopher's undies with our eyes AND our nose. I
hold them up to my nose this morning in the downstairs bathroom. I take my
cock out. I begin to huff and masturbate.

The front, the piss pouch, is pure dry boy urine. This is a more mature
urine smell. It is not Christopher's previous, little boy, maple syrup,
too-much-sugar-urine scent. Christopher's a teen now, and he's played hard
in these. Two hours of soccer. 90 minutes of gymnastics. Baseball with
friends. And three days of cumulative boyhood in between. The urine smell
is strong and deep. Teenlike. Cocklike. It states its case and asks for no
leeway. This is a strong piss-dick smell and it makes me moan.

The ass scent? Pure butt. Pure joy. Not a lick of shit. Just ass. And
again, mature ass. Not baby ass. More like, "I worked hard for this ass
scent, bitch. Get some." Tangy, but not sour. Borderline citrusy. Not sweet
enough to be an orange. Too sweet to be a lemon. Something in between a
grapefruit and a Persian lime. Baby dill pickle juice, cut 50/50 with
water. Too-sweet wine. A Donnhoff Reisling, 2011. Something woody in the
background. Like faint evergreen.

It sure made me cum, whatever it was. "Do you want this, Christopher?" I
whispered to an empty bathroom, huffing and jacking. "Can you get down on
your knees for me, baby? That's right, like a puppy. Good little puppy. And
spread your butt cheeks for me, Christopher. And let me put my face in
you. That's right."

"I'm gonna put my nose in you and sniff and sniff and sniff your hot little
butt. Hold still, baby. Hold still, Christopher. I'm gonna cum sniffing
your hole. Gonna cum sniffing your sweet, pretty hole....spread it for me
wider, Christopher...that's it...spread it so wide for me....gotta cum now,
baby...gotta cum with my nose in your hole...look at dad cum for you...look
how you make dad cum so hard...so much...gotta cum for you...sniff your
hole and cum for you, Christopher...."

And that was it. Boom. There went my cum, all over the downstairs bathroom
counter with this beautiful pair held tightly to my nose. So perfectly
scented, when I took them away from my nose, I still got two more phantom
sniffs of Christopher on my next two inhalations. The scent lingered on my
undernose for two more clothless breaths. This pair made a magnificent
wake-up fuck. A magnificent cum.

I'm going to have lots of time with this pair, talking dirty to it and
using up lotion. Thank you, Christopher. Thank you, Undietales. He's
growing up into a big boy now. He's not the Christopher you wrote about,
but I think of your boy while I'm enjoying the sweet aroma of mine. I can
tell by this pair, my little boy is growing up, just like yours was, all
those years ago.

Mine's 13 and lovely. And he's a tribute to you.

Christopher's Dirty Undies, everybody.

Everybody meet Christopher.

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BUTTERFINGER: BRAYLIN

Braylin liked two things most of all: shooting one-on-one basketball in his
driveway with his friends, then later up in his room, with an Xbox 360 and
a mega Sprite-load of high fructose corn syrup as his only aphrodisiacs,
sticking his hand down the back of his size 8 Hanes, rubbing a quick-slick
feely-finger up his greasy-ripe shitcrack and trying to get the other boys
to sniff it. Some months were better than others, For May, he was 1 for 3.

You'd never guess he was a budding little sniffologist by looking at him,
so clean-cut, American and wholesome...this scampy little 4th grade
sexpot. Light brown hair, baby blue eyes, flannel shirt and Lands End
jacket with a smile that could light up the classroom, and often did, as
homeroom teacher Drake Ellison more than once noticed, adusting a hopeful
cock in his pants. (But we'll get to Mr. Ellison later).

No, for now, we're just going to stick to keeping our nose right where it
belongs: young Braylin and his propensity to sniff his own cloyingly sweet
anal oil and his predilection for proffering his pooper paste to any other
boy he could shake a stick at.

His older brother's the one who taught him.

"Hey, Squirt, butt finger time!" Brady would laugh at 15, wrestling
5-year-old Braylin to the ground and easily pinning him, wiping a sticky
finger under his nostrils and giving his pint-sized sibling a sniff of the
old bro factory.

At first, Braylin hated it, then started to like it, then started to love
it when he realized the combination of the full-body brother pin and the
heady aroma of the full-bodied butt finger were combining to make his
little dickie tingle. And when the weenie says yes, the nose says I'm in.

Funny thing is, though, that whole first year, being a cute and naïve
little boy, he thought his big brother was saying "Butterfinger," not "butt
finger," so that's the word he always associated with his post-basketball
drive-by stink fingerings. "Butterfinger."

When his brother moved out and went to college, Braylin had to play it with
his little friends instead.

"Hey, Josh," he said to the first 4th grade classmate he tried it on this
week. "Wanna smell my Butterfinger?"

Josh, who was right in the middle of acquiring the void sword in
Castlevania LOS-2, didn't much care for Braylin's stinky finger, which had
come out the blue (well, the light brown really) and taken a little
Vicks-under-the-nostrils dace under Joshy's nostrils. Only believe me, when
Braylin gave you one of his pasty puppy pap smears, it was anything but
Vicks.

"AWWWW, MAN! What'd you do THAT for?" Joshy yelled, dropping the controller
and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.

"Sorry, man. Just goofin' with ya," Braylin giggled, laughing on the
inside, crying on the inside that his friend didn't want to play a quick
round of Stink in the Nose Hole.

The next time he tried it was with Josh's cousin Benny, over after school
because their moms were doing some PTO uniform sale together. The only
uniform Braylin was interested in was the potentially stinky Fruit of the
Looms under Benny's Old Navy boot-cuts.

They shot some hoops, played a game of HORSE. Braylin, as always, let the
other kid win when he had a HOR on the board. When Benny wasn't looking,
Braylin ran a finger up his sweaty crack and took a deep sniff,
surreptitiously rubbing it off on the basketball when he was done. Braylin
had beautiful long fingers, and on any given day at least two (and
sometimes four of them) smelled deliciously like ripe-ass.

Up in the bedroom, Benny balked.

"Holy crap, dude! Get that stinky finger away from me."

Braylin just giggled. "Come on, man. You never played Butterfinger before?"

"First of all, it's butt finger," Benny said digustedly. "Secondly yes, and
thirdly, fuck you."

He left in a huff and Braylin had to settle for a self-sniff and solo
masturbation as he huffed his long slender fuck-finger and jacked his 4th
grade, 3-inch bone.

The third kid, bingo.

Braylin invited Hisoka over. Soki was the cute little Asian kid from the
choir room that kept looking at Bryadin when they sang "Castle on a Cloud,"
especially that line, "She says, Cosette, I love you very much." No
kidding. He always looked Braylin right straight in the eye when he sang
it. It kinda made Braylin's dickie get hard.

Turns out Soki couldn't shoot hoops for shit. They tried shooting free
throws, but after Soki made one to Braylin's eight in a row, it quickly
became apparent they were pretty unevenly matched. In basketball anyway. As
far as butt finger goes, it turns out they were birds of a funky-fingered
feather.

"Hey, Soki...smell my ass," Braylin giggled, smearing the kid's nose with
fingerful of tacky butt-musk and already expecting another rejection.

But life's got a funny way of fooling you sometimes. Soki lit up like the
bells ringing on Shogatsu.

"Ohhhhhh, nice," he whispered. "You got a nice one. Here's mine." He
reached down the back of his own pants and gave Braylin 2 cc's of the
finest Japanese boy stink a charter school exchange student has ever had to
offer.

"Oh, wow," Braylin whispered. "You stink good, Soki. You wanna do some
more?"

Soki did.

Braylin locked the bedroom door and they both took their pants off.

Soki showed Braylin how he sucks his index finger and pushes it way up deep
in his ass.

Braylin showed Soki how to put his face way down deep between another boy's
butt crack and sniff a butt hole straight from the source. "Me and my
brother used to do it," he told him. "But he's in college now."

Soki showed Braylin how to french kiss another boy. And he taught him how
to say "I think you are very handsome" in Japanese.

They laid down on the floor next to each other, head-to-toe and they each
taught each other how to suck each other's little penises at the same
time. Braylin put one of his long fingers up Soki's ass, and Soki put one
of his up Braylin's. Braylin came first, then Soki followed. And followed
again, two and a half minutes later.

So, if you happen to be driving down Morningwood Way one weekday after
school, and you see a cute, cheery, peaches-and-cream all-American kid in a
flannel shirt and a Lands End jacket, holding a basketball with long lean
fingers that look like they might be into something, make sure you stop and
ask him for a quick game of HORSE.

Because trust me, when the basketball's over and you head up to his room,
those fingers smell like the gateway to heaven, and in Braylin's world, a
bright smile and a game of HORSE are just a prelude to other, smellier,
happier things.

Let the basketball fall where it lands and scamper up the stairs with our
neighborhood stinkpot.

Braylin's a good boy, everybody.

Everybody meet Braylin.

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COMMITTED: SCOTT

"Fuck he's hot, Matt," I said pointing to a boy dragging his feet along the
sidewalk just outside the gate of Carrolfield Middle School.

"Who, Scott?"

"You know his name?" I replied turning to you.

"Uh huh."

"What the fuck, Matt? Why don't I?"

That was the first time I had set eyes on Scott who I later found out had
just turned 12 years old. You knew his parents. You'd been lusting over him
for years before you and I finally met up for a day of boywatching
together.

Some weeks later, on another boywatching day out:

"I thought you might like these," you said to me in your car holding out a
pair of boy's underpants in front of me. I looked at you and you had the
smile the size of a small planet beaming across your face.

"Whose are they?" I asked excitedly.

"Not gonna tell ya."

"Oh come on, I gotta know!"

"I'm not gonna tell ya, I'm gonna show ya."

The clock on your dashboard turned to 3.00pm and within seconds, scores of
middle school boys and girls started flooding out of the gate of
Carrolfield as we sat in your car on the other side of the road.

"Oh...please tell me they're HIS," I said to you as the cutest specimen of
a middle school boy turned the corner out of the gate.

"No, not his," you said smugly.

"His?"

"Not his either."

Then, almost forgotten but quickly reminded of him, Scott came walking out
of the gate. He was a typical example of a 12-year-old boy. He had a slight
attitude walk - that little macho man in him practicing for adulthood, but
oh so far away still.

He was short, about 4' 6" with short black hair, gelled into a mohawk but
his hair so short you could barely see it. He was skinny; a straight
body. Long arms, no definition apart from the shape of his little bottom. I
adored him.

My bottom lip lost consciousness as I lost myself into lust for him and
almost forgot where I was, or that we were together.

"His," I suddenly hear you say, and I turn around.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me?"

"Nope," you replied, your smile turning to a laugh.

"You've got HIS underpants?

"Yep."

"Like...those are HIS dirty undies, right there in your hands?"

"Yep."

"THAT boy across the street, right there?"

"Scott. Yeah," you said, laughing at my excitement.

I felt my entire body just melt. It's as though my insides had come out and
were just splurging down my body like molten hot lava. I was literally
erupting in lust.

"Here, smell them," you said handing them to me. And I did. I sniffed them
hard and lustfully as I watched him walking off home into the distance. I
indulged myself in the dank, raw, stale smell of his little anus as I
transfixed my eyes on his cute little preteen boy bottom as it disappeared
along the sidewalk.

Two Months Later:

How we ever went from lusting over 12-year-old Scott from afar (and
sniffing his undies you were occasionally able to snag from his bedroom
when you were over at his house visiting his mom and dad), to him agreeing
to do a dance for us I cannot particularly fathom. But it happened. You're
the man, Matt. You made it happen.

The reality is he turned out to be an easy buy. Agreeing to teach him how
to ride a dirt bike as well as including him on the B class race team camp
event was all it took. Within three days of agreeing it with him, on what
turned out to be a beautiful Friday afternoon, Scott came over to your
house on his way home from school as arranged. His side of the deal in
return for the dirt bike training and camp commitments?

To dance for us...

...to "I'm Sexy and I Know It."

"If you want to learn how to ride AND come to camp as well, it better be a
good show," you had told him. "No effort, no camp."

"Have you heard of a blind eye commitment?" you also asked him.

"No..uh huh."

"Do you know what jerking off is?"

Scott's face contorted. He knew what jerking off was. His face didn't
contort because he was confused or disgusted but because inside, he
wondered if you somehow knew that he'd been jacking off for almost two
years now.

"I know you know, Scott, and it's cool. You don't have to say anything. You
jack off. I know. You don't have to know how I know, but I do know...and
you do jack off, right?

"Right," Scott said, his chin dipping toward the floor.

"It's okay," you said reassuring him. "That's what a blind eye commitment
is all about. I'm turning a blind eye to the fact that I know you jack
off. In fact, your mom knows you jack off too, but she ain't gonna say
anything because she's turning a blind eye to it too."

Scott stood in front of us, listening. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed
or relieved.

"Well, while you're dancing, Brad and I are going to be on the sofa
watching, okay?"

"Okay."

"And we're gonna be jacking off at the same time. And...we want you to give
us a blind eye commitment, okay?"

"What do I have to do?"

"Turn a blind eye. You saw nothing, you know nothing..."

"Okay," Scott said tentatively before his hesitance turned to a smile - the
magnitude of the agreement he just made completely lost within his own
innocence.

"There's something else too. Once you've finished dancing, I want you to
give us your underpants."

"What for?" Scott said, stunned by your request.

"Do you really wanna know?"

Scott hesitated.

"Because I'll tell ya, Scott, if you really wanna know."

Scott thought for a moment or two.

"Nah...it's okay. You can have them if you want them. I'll turn a blind eye
to that too.

"Good boy," we both said in unison.

You turned on the video camera which was on a tripod in front of the sofa
between us. We both unzipped our jeans and pulled them and our underwear
down under our buttcheeks. We leaned back into the sofa, our right hand on
our already-rising cocks.

"Okay...whenever you're ready," you said to Scott.

"I'm ready," Scott said...

And boy, was he ever.

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ELEVEN: MICHAEL

I love it when little Michael comes over.  I guess he isn't that little
really, but he is to me.

Eleven's a funny age to a boylover. There's an exciting intensity thinking
about a ten year old boy and something special about a 12 year old who has
not quite hit his teenage stride yet. But eleven? Well, eleven is neither
here nor there.

Until you meet Michael.

When you meet Michael, your desire for ten and twelve flies out the window.

Eleven. It's all a boylover needs.

Sub five feet by several inches, smooth as a baby's butt, milky white
thighs, skinny arms and a pretty face, Michael melted my heart the first
time I saw him.

Little did I know at the time that within less than six weeks, I would have
him calling in to my house on his way home from school to get naked for me
and have his bottom sniffed.

I don't know if you two gents ever had the honor of smelling the rump of an
11-year-old when you were 13. I did. And let me heartily recommend
it. During teen-tween sex play, there was such a smell of ass in the air at
that age. Show me an 11-year-old who takes the time to wipe properly (or
even bathe properly) and I'll show you the next president of the high
school honor society, because believe me, the 11-year-old asses I pushed
into smelled like pure, Grade-A, number-one, take-no-prisoners BOY ASS,
ripe and open and sweet and entirely unwashed.

Unwashed and unworried. That's how an 11-year-old boy takes care of his
ass. I'm not kidding. Line me up any dozen 11-year-olds and I will show you
ONE FULL DOZEN stinky asses you can sniff until you blow a load in your
khakis, friends. Just scoot down the line on your knees, and you'll be
cumming, untouched, by the time you hit boy number five, so unwashed and
unworried are their sweet, pretty asses.

Michael can't come over on Tuesdays or Fridays. He has after school
activities - Kumon and acting class - and his mom collects him after
school.

But Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, for the briefest time, he's
mine. Just long enough to get myself off with my nose between his ass
cheeks.

Does he like it?

I've been over and over this question with a fine-tooth comb for the past
year. Michael doesn't exactly "like" it. He doesn't exactly "dislike"
it. He tolerates it. It intrigues him. It amuses him even. He can't imagine
why somebody would get so excited smelling the place he poops from. But he
immediately understands the severity of my need. He doesn't discount it.

He may be doing it more for me and his own sense of fascination. He may
derive mild tickles and comfort and giggles from it, but it's probably not
directly sexually arousing to him at this age, yet he's so fascinated by
the extent of my need for it, he gladly offers his ass for more.

He lets me get what I need. He's exploring the subtleties of why a man
would need this. Tolerating and even coming back for more in his attempt to
figure it out. To grasp the big picture of why a man would moan when he
smells his stinky ass. It's gone far past initial embarrassment on
Michael's part. Now it's pure fascination. Pure intrigue. Why would I want
this? And why would Michael want to keep giving me more of it? He's
fascinated by my need, and by his own cooperative response to it.

And damn, do I react.

"Ohhhh, Michael, your bottom smells so nice today, dude," I will moan out
as I sniff it.

His cheeks occasionally flinch when he feels my nose in a certain position
on his sticky young butthole and I love how it makes them momentarily grip
my face between them, before relaxing again waiting for the next sniff.

"Ohhh, I love it when your bottom is this sweaty," I tell him as I sniff
his boistink and slowly jerk my throbbing, precumming cock.

Michael never says anything back, but I can tell he's listening to my every
word. Whether he's excited by it or not is difficult to tell, but he is in
no way resistant and, well, he hasn't missed a Monday, Wednesday or
Thursday since I started smelling his bottom. I figure that speaks volumes
about how much he's enjoying it.

He keeps coming back. He's never missed a day.  He doesn't even understand
it himself, but he knows it's important. He knows it's essential. He knows
he needs his dirty bottom sniffed, and he knows how well you do it and how
excited it makes him feel...that confusion...that tingle-puzzle-mindzone
when you take him there.

It's like time stops, and all he knows is the ticking of the clock and your
nose up his ass. And he wants to relive it and understand it better. And he
keeps coming back. He wouldn't dream of missing it. Part of him wants you
to do more. Part of him wants your finger in there.  You awaken something
in him. Something hungry he has no words for.

And me? I get excited as soon as Michael knocks on my door and I get a rush
of sexual energy that floods my entire body when I open it and see him
standing there, all of four feet six, looking up at me with his puppy dog
eyes. The fact that he comes to my house under full disclosure, knowing I
am going to smell his bottom, sends shivers through my balls.

I think half my fascination with boy stink today is trying to relive that
smell in the air when I was fucking boys back in my own tween and
teenhood. It was a magical musk I reduplicate every time my nose is buried
in Michael's bottom. It takes me right back to shooting up that sweet,
slippery, stinky cavern of all my little boy friends back then.

There was simply no better smell. Pumpkin pie cooling on a windowsill a
close second in November, but otherwise, uh-uh, give me Michael's ass. In
my nose. Squatting on my nostrils. Right now. This is all I need from
him. Not sex. Just this.

When he's naked, he looks like a preteen living boygod. His body is
incredible and in particular, his bottom is something to behold.

When he leans over my exercise ball, getting into position, I can't take my
eyes off his beautiful, round little boyass as I excite myself with the
anticipation of what it's going to smell like today. Over an exercise ball,
can you believe that? What a perfect tool for rolling him instantly into
perfect place and perfect level.

And now, forgive me, but I have to drop everything and bury my nose in
Michael.

I'd write a little more tonight, but some things just can't wait.

Bottoms up, everybody. Michael's a good boy.

Everybody meet Michael.

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