Date: Fri, 3 Feb 2017 08:36:15 +0100 (CET)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Smell This 27

SMELL THIS 27
By Brad, Mark, Jon & 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

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Hi-ho, Zach here. Don't you hate it when the teasers don't come true? In
our last installment of Smell This, we promised you the final chapter of
Jon's magnificent "Holes" four-parter. But as it turns out in this fragrant
edition, Jon's taking a little sabbatical from writing, which is only fair
because, Jesus, we work him like a horse.

So, in the meantime, we'll see what Brad and I can cook up to while away
the hours until Jon comes back and puts another sploosh of creativity up
Zero's gamey little back door. ((dreamy sigh)) So many imaginary buttholes.
So little time.

On with the show.

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TRAMLINES: MARK

Meet Mark. He's 12. He'll be 13 in April.

He looked so hot when he showed up for his soccer tournament this
morning. Right on time. 10:30 am for an 11 o'clock, first-game kick off.

He already looked sweaty and unshowered, wearing a t-shirt and track pants
that looked like he'd been wearing all week.

I was instantly hooked by him. Immediately obsessed. I zoned out of the
moment. Out of my entire life, in fact. All that WAS my life now was me,
12-year-old Mark, and my single-track lust for what his little preteen
bottom might smell like.

I couldn't take my eyes off him getting ready for his game. He was just so
preteen cute boy to me, I was overwhelmed by him. From his "youth medium"
t-shirt, to his 26" waist track pants and his cute white Nike shoes, I was
hooked on him.

I love how the shape of his small, round, 12-year-old bum made his shirt
lift up his lower back, as if it was letting his track pants announce its
arrival.

Gawwwwleeeee, his ass looked pert when he bent over. The perfect mix of
shape, size and age. I wanted to go over to him and offer him more money
than he'd be able to refuse just to let me have one minute smelling his
asshole. And that was BEFORE his 6 hour tournament today.

I really didn't need to be here much after 11, when the games kicked
off. In fact, I had lunch plans with a friend...

...not anymore. I'd be staying the entire 6 hours now, just in the
slightest hope that I'd get to see Mark, 6 hours from now, tired, hurting,
sweaty and fucking stinking like the ripe little boy he really is - walking
to the shower.

Yeah, I'd wait 6 hours for that. And I did.

My plan was simple, but clear. I'd seen him and become immediately obsessed
with him. I knew at that point, I'd be doing anything I could to get my
hands on his lil' underpants after he takes them off and locks them away
safely, or so he thinks, in his bag, in a locker.

I would sniff them and find out what his pre-tournament ass smelled like,
and then put them back and wait for him to come back 6 hours later in the
hope that I'd just catch a glimpse of his naked ass on the way to the
shower, knowing THAT was the ass I'd been smelling.

I waited until the locker rooms were cleared out and all the games had
started. Then, with my master key, I opened Mark's locker, fumbled around
in his back pack and found his sweaty lil' stinkers - a cute pair of Hanes,
10-11 boxer briefs.

They were still warm.

In a previous month, they may have been as white as Hollywood teeth. Not
anymore. The cotton was bobbling on them. They were so off-white they were
almost gray now.

And thin.

Before lifting them to my face, I could smell him on them. Just boy. Just
Mark. Just him.

But opening them up was another story.

Inside them was the most delicate, but obvious little pair of tramlines,
the undeniable evidence of these cute lil Haney's having been rubbing
against Mark's preteen, stinky lil anus.

"Ohhhh, what a good boy making your lil' undies smell like your lil boy
asshole," I whispered out loud as I took long, deep sniffs of them, right
on the spot.

They smelled simply of "ass." Of boy ass. That inimitable tang that
prepubescent boys' anuses have. Blue cheese and spice.

Mark was outside playing soccer, getting even sweatier. I could hear a
cacophony of little voices - arousing enough in itself. One of those voices
was no doubt Mark's, shouting out tactical instructions to his teammates,
while he and his parents were blissfully unaware that I was still in the
locker room, smelling his lil' stinky preteen asshole.

Admittedly, it was a long wait. I kept myself occupied with his underpants
for almost 4 hours, right to the knock out rounds. I had no idea when he'd
be back after that. It was the full 6 hours and then some. Mark's team made
it to the semi-finals before being knocked out by the league champions.

Getting to see Mark's smooth, naked lil' ass, if only for a few seconds,
was worth all six hours. Being able to look at the ass I had been smelling
for 4 hours and know that it was even sweatier and stinkier now, was the
payoff.

And his beautiful, sweaty lil ass did not disappoint.

I hope to see Mark's ass again.

Or his underpants.

I don't mind which.

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BUTT: BUDDY

It was 1948 and Tommy and Buddy were in the Boy Scouts together.

Tommy was 9 and Buddy was 14, and Tommy really liked his older buddy Buddy.

And Buddy really liked the smell of little Tommy.

Tommy asked Buddy to help him get his Knot-Tying Badge, and Buddy said yes,
because it was the perfect opportunity to sit real close and wrap his arm
around Tommy.

He could guide the younger boy's hand back and forth, and patiently show
him the in's and the out's and the loops and the swirls of a Sailor's Knot
and a Sheet Bend Double. A Timber Hitch and an Overhand Bow. There were 40
knots in all, and the older Buddy took careful time explaining each one
slowly and methodically to the concentrating youngling Tommy.

When Tommy would tie a knot wrong and get discouraged, Buddy would just
smile and patiently tell him, "Say now, don't be gloomy, pal. You almost
got that one, Sport-O. Try it again!"

And Tommy would concentrate so hard his little tongue would pop out between
his lips, and Buddy would lean in pretending to watch him make back loops,
but really he wanted to smell Tommy's hair again.

Tommy's hair smelled like Halo Shampoo. "Soaping dulls hair!" said his
mother's magazine ads. "Halo glorifies it!"

Buddy leaned in close and smelled Tommy's glorified hair. Tommy's glorified
hair smelled sort of like a girl. And Buddy didn't know why, but smelling
Tommy's glorified girl hair made his jinker get hard.

Buddy's own hair smelled like his Pop's Vitalis and a little bit of
dandruff. Buddy used hair tonic, because hair tonic was for
fellows. Shampoo was for ladies.

Buddy could also smell the laundry soap Tommy's mom used to clean his Boy
Scout uniform. It was Ivory Snow. Or Lux. Or Duz.

"Duz does everything!" said his mother's magazine ads.

Buddy liked his mother's magazines. "Movie Life" and "Look" and
"Photoplay." He sometimes found her magazines left open on her maple wood
dressing table. Sometimes he'd look at the drawings of the ladies.

Once when no one was home, he looked at some drawings of ladies wearing New
Playtex Invisible Living Girdles, and he put his hand down in his pants and
he touched and squeezed his jinker while he looked, and he got so excited
and his breath came so heavy, his jinker shot off and made cream in his
underpants.

And he got scared he jumped back and he dropped the magazine like he'd
touched a hot iron, and he washed his hands and he blushed beet red and he
rinsed his underpants out as quick as he could, and he put the magazine
back, and he never dared look at the New Playtex Invisible Living Girdles
drawings, ever again.

Buddy stared at Tommy's bare knees in his tight blue Scout uniform and his
jinker got hard like the day it shot cream.

Both of Tommy's knees were shiny and clean. A Scout is clean. A Scout keeps
his body and mind fit. He chooses the company of those who live by high
standards. He helps keep his home and community clean.

Tommy's blue socks were pulled up tight. The two yellow stripes matched his
neckerchief and slide. Buddy stared at Tommy's knees and he wanted to touch
and squeeze his jinker again. He wondered what Tommy's jinker looked
like. Littler, probably, with a cover over the top. Like all the other
fellows jinkers looked like when the Scouts were out in the woods and made
their water off to the side of the trail, or behind a tree or into a
bush. "Piss" was the word for making your water, and all the fellows knew
it, but Boy Scouts never said it.

Buddy liked looking at the other fellows' jinkers. Comparing their skin
hoods and seeing whose were prettier. He bet Tommy had a pretty one. He
wondered what his hood smelled like. Like maple sap and peanut shells,
probably. Most likely it smelled quite a bit like his own. But
littler. Prettier.

He was helping Tommy tie a Lariat Loop (the Lark's Head was next), when he
suddenly realized he could smell something else. Not Halo. Not Lux. Not Duz
does everything.

Buddy had caught a whiff of Tommy's butt.

He was confused for a minute, because Tommy was so clean. A Scout keeps his
body and mind fit.

Maybe Buddy was wrong. Maybe it was his own butt he was smelling.

But no. He knew his own butt smell. And this one was different. This one
was littler somehow. Sweeter and softer. Like a boy who might use lady
shampoo.

He leaned in and smelled Tommy's hair again. Halo and girl smells.

He leaned down close to the knot, pretending to watch and took a great big
sniff of the air, and yes, no mistaking it, fellows. He smelled Tommy's
butt smell.

"Oh, goodness," he whispered. "Hi-De-Ho, that's good."

"What's good?" asked Tommy.

"Your knot," said Buddy. "That's a cracker jack Lariat Loop. Now let's try
the Lark's Head."

"Okay, Buddy." Tommy was beaming.

"Okay, Sport-O." Buddy was sniffing.

They sat there together, Buddy and Tommy.

Buddy was 14. Tommy was 9.

Buddy watched his younger friend worry the rope. Twisting it, moving it,
deftly commanding it. Over and under. Tuck it back through. His confidence
grew. His concentration was fierce. His face was determined. His butt
smelled like heaven.

Buddy took both of Tommy's little hands in his, and helped him guide the
rope ends in and out. As he touched Tommy's little fingers and smelled
Tommy's little butt, his jinker was harder than it had ever been in his
life. He wished he had the New Playtex Invisible Living Girdles
drawing. He'd make some cream, he thought. Right here. Right now. He'd make
some of his cream and he'd show it to Tommy.

It almost hurt to want to make his cream so badly. Buddy made a moaning
sound, soft and deep in his throat as he smelled Tommy's butt. It smelled
like Holloway's Milk Duds, a Clark Bar, and some sourness. It smelled like
very good things. Like his mother making breakfast. Like buttermilk and
Bisquick.

"Am I doing it right, Buddy? Am I making the Lark's Head?"

"You're doing just fine, Sport-O. Doing just dandy." Buddy made another
deep moan in his throat again.

They sat together like that, tying knots and concentrating. Tommy focused
on his knots. Buddy pretending to watch, but focused on the butt
smell. Smelling deeply. Pulling. Needing.

Tommy and Buddy. Buddy and Tommy.

Buddy looked at Tommy's knees while Tommy tied a Cat's Paw next. Then came
the Stevedore. The Stevedore was tricky. Not many little Scouts could do
it.

Buddy wished he could pull down Tommy's uniform shorts and make him squeeze
the rope between his butt cheeks. Right in the crack where all the smells
got caught-up.  Then he'd pull the rope up and down and make it smell real
strong like Tommy's little buttermilker.

Then they could pull up Tommy's shorts again and practice more knots, only
now the smell of his butt would be stronger. It would be right there on the
rope now, rubbing all over their fingers.

Buddy was sure it would make him shoot cream.

"Good job, Tommy," he said to the younger boy. "Good job, Sport-O." He
tousled his head and he smelled his glorified smells. His girl smells, his
boy smells, all achingly mixed together.

It was 1948, and two days later, Tommy the Boy Scout got his Knot-Tying
Badge.

Thanks to his Buddy.

Thanks to his friend.

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SWEATY: CLAY

I thought Clay was a little too young to be going house-to-house asking for
odd jobs at the weekend... but who am I to complain?

In any case, my previous "lawn care guy," Braden, a freshman at
Crownweaver, the local high school, wasn't coming over any more. He had
agreed to let me jack off while sniffing his sweaty ass in return for
giving him blow jobs, but after three blow jobs, during all of which he
came in my mouth, he told me that the thought of me sniffing his ass was
weirding him out too much.

"I've just started dating this girl at school," he told me.

I got it, and I didn't want him to do anything he didn't want to do, so I
told him he didn't have to.

"Will you still give me a blow job?" he brazenly asked, a mix of innocence,
naivety and infidelity beaming from his face.

I went to my knees, and sucked his apres-lawn, sweaty, 3-inch teen bone one
more time, only this time, I pulled away from him just as he was about to
cum. I got back on my feet, held him close to me and cupped his
about-to-blow boner in my right hand, stroking it slowly.

He was already at least 2 seconds past the point of no return, so I just
took the back of his head in my hand, rested my chin on his shoulder, my
mouth close to his ear, stroked him and waited until he came in my hand.

"Good boy," I said, whispering in his ear throughout his orgasm before
telling him, "you're fired."

Braden had a beautiful 14-year old's cock, and his cum was delicious, but
ultimately, I needed to smell his ass and his lawn care skills were
seriously lacking, so that was the end of Braden.

Clay told me he was 14, but if Clay was 14, I was 21 again, and I hadn't
been getting away with that for at least the last 15 years.

Who would want to cut someone's lawn in the heat of the southern sun? Not
me, which is exactly why I offered the job to Clay - and he came over every
Saturday from then on.

At first, he struggled with the mower, but it was a sight to see. The first
time he did it, he showed up in long shorts and a white t-shirt.

Within ten minutes, the white of t-shirt had transitioned to a practically
see through cotton, hugging the contours of his young body and sticking to
his milky white, preteen skin.

Five minutes later, and not without a struggle, he'd peeled himself out of
his soaking-wet t-shirt, and I got to watch as he wiped his face with it
and then threw it on the driveway like a wet cloth.

"I'll rinse this out for you," I shouted over at him as I picked it up and
threw him a cold Gatorade which he gulped completely before he could
respond.

"Thanks, it's so hot," he said gasping for breath.

I watched him, in awe, as he took a few moments to cool down before kicking
the mower back into gear. He set off, making a zig-zag line down my lawn as
his skinny arms, devoid of biceps or triceps, fought against the mower's
little 2HP engine.

What a cute little bum he had and what a delight it was to watch it
trailing behind the mower.

I went back inside the house, took off my shirt and hid behind the
curtains, peeking on him out of the window.

I took his sweat-soaked little t-shirt, feeling four times its own weight,
and sunk my face into it, sniffing hard. The sound of Clay's freshly-formed
preteen boy sweat rushed backward through the fabric causing a sweat-mist
to spray up my nostrils, as I stared at his little bottom zig-zagging down
my lawn.

I was in heaven.

By the third week, Clay was a little more savvy as well as more relaxed and
uninhibited. He'd take his t-shirt off before he started to mow the
lawn. Bummer, I know, but inevitable.

No more sniffing it or wiping it all over my shirtless chest behind the
curtains. I just got used to enjoying seeing his skinny torso soaked in boy
sweat as he wrestled with the mower through the long grass - and of course,
while staring at his cute little bottom, dreaming about the sweat he was
working up between his peachy lil' ass.

Today, though, it wasn't just his shirt he took off. It was a particularly
hot day and Clay was struggling in the heat. Within the first 30 minutes,
I'd given him two Gatorades AND a bottle of Ozarka, all three of which
seemed to purge from his sweat glands within seconds.

No, not just his t-shirt. Today, Clay kicked off his shorts, which, when
damp, appeared to be causing him some leg-to-leg, inner thigh issues. Under
his shorts, Clay was sporting the cutest Bart Simpson swimming trunks I'd
ever seen. They looked ridiculous for a 14 year old boy to wear - unless
you were me - and then they didn't look ridiculous at all.

Oh-em-gee, did Clay look amazing in these skimpy lil' things! I wondered if
he was conscious of how much he was teasing me. I pondered whether or not
he was doing it on purpose. Boylovers often find themselves doing that and
I am no exception. I was teased regardless.

"Stand over there by the wall," I told him.

"Why?" he asked curiously.

"I just want to take a picture of you in your heard-earned sweat so I can
show my previous lawn care guy what real work looks like."

In rapid succession, I took as many photos of Clay as I could, before he
had the chance to think anything weird about it. However, that was probably
more my paranoia, as Clay didn't appear to have any issues with me taking
photos of him. A 14-year-old would've cottoned on. I think.

"You're not 14, are you?" I asked him bluntly.

Clay laughed out loud, like he'd just been full out busted for something.

"No, but I'm 12 today," he laughed. What are you gonna give me for my
birthday?"

I looked at Clay leaning against may wall, wearing his skimpy Bart Simpson
swimming trunks and covered head to toe in preteen sweat, as I wrestled
with my cotton mouth trying to think of something to say, but before I
could...

Your "previous lawn care guy," he said, using his fingers for air quotes,
"was Braden, right?"

Oh, no. He knows Braden. I practically gulped out loud.

"You know, Braden?" I asked him nervously.

"Yeah, he dates my sister at Crownweaver."

"Braden dates your sister?"

"Yeah."

"So... er, that's pretty cool... and like, do you know him?"

"Yeah. I see him all the time."

"Cool, cool. That's cool."

Awkwardness floated between us like a lingering bad smell.

"Only Braden told me he used to mow your lawn."

"Yeah, yeah. That's right. He did. Like, just for a little bit, y'know. A
few weeks."

"You know what he also told me?"

I gulped again as I felt my heart rise into my throat. I couldn't speak. I
just I shook my head.

"He told me you sucked his dick for him."

I thought I was going to faint at any moment.

"He told you that?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know why he would do that," I said, feeling like the classic liar
who tells more lies to cover his lie.

"You know what he also told me?"

"What?" I said, barely able to string the letters of a single word
together.

"He told me you wanted to sniff his sweaty ass, but he never let you."

"Again, I don't know why Braden would say that. Is he okay?"

"Braden's a dick!" Clay said, raising the volume of his unbroken vocal
chords another couple of notches.

"Yeah?" I said nervously. "Is he? I mean, like, yeah, he is, isn't he?"

"You know why he's a dick?" Clay continued. "Because he took free blow jobs
from you and didn't let you do what he said he was going to let you do."

"Wow," I said, relaxing just a tad. "You seem to have it all worked out."

"I've been wanting to know what it feels like to have my dick sucked since
I was 9. Do you have any idea how desperate I am?

"Er... I can see how that would work," I said, finding the ability to form
a full sentence again.

"The way I see it, is if you're prepared to suck mine and all I have to do
is let you sniff my ass, I get a pretty good deal."

"Well, y'know, if... er... if that's how you feel, I would---"

"---Braden's a dick, like I said," Clay butted in.

Clay crossed his right foot over his left, steadying himself on his toes
and leaning slightly to his right. He spread his arms across the top of the
wall behind him. It was one of the most provocative poses I'd even seen.

I looked at him, in awe as I often had over the last few weeks.

"Are you really gonna let me smell your sweaty lil ass, Clay?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said clearly. "As long as you suck my dick AND let me cum in your
mouth."

"Ohhhh, fuck," I mumbled between his young, small, peachy-smooth, slick,
sweaty lil fifth-grader ass cheeks. "If I didn't know you were younger than
14, I'd sure know now."

The smell of Clay's preteen boy ass was to die for. I mean, literally, I
would've happily died after I sniffed it and jacked off.

It was sweet, yet pungent - a mix of tangy spice, salty-fresh sweat, and a
more acrid legacy of vinegar and blue cheese, a smell that is only created
by preteen boys' perfect little assholes.

And I couldn't get enough of Clay's.

In fact, that's him ringing my doorbell again now.

Jon, get back here and write your chapter four.

I'm going to be a while.

Clay's got lawn work to do.

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