Date: Sun, 12 Mar 2017 19:28:19 +0100 (CET)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Smell This 28

SMELL THIS 28
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

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Well, god damn it, first a little housekeeping note.

Jon STILL hasn't finished part-four of his long-promised "Holes"
four-parter in this series, but honestly, that's okay, because I've been
promising Chapter 7 of "Memphis Boy" since April 10, 2015, and I haven't
finished that fucker either.

Really, this is what happened to Jon:

While attending the 2017 Middle School Boy's Cheerleading Regionals which
we host here in beautiful, rustic Crackwhiff's Corners, Idaho every spring,
Jon somehow managed to wander off into the kids' locker room and laundry
facilities, where he was hired on the spot out of sheer expertise in the
matter to wash the young competitors' recently-used undies and athletic
supporters and we haven't seen him since.

We have high hopes he'll be back by "Smell This 29," unless his favorite
middle school team moves on to Nationals, in which case "Holes Part 4"
ain't ever gettin' written. Until then, please make do with these
steamingly-fragrant contributions of lesser length, but equal import.

On with the show.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

AMYGDALA: CARSON

Carson, 12-years-old, sixth grade, Middleton Middle School, is sports
crazy. Whatever sport is available to him, he plays. He plays well, and he
plays hard; select soccer, baseball, basketball and even lacrosse.

"I guess I just like to play sports," he explains simply in an Instagram
caption, under a picture of himself standing on the soccer pitch with a
teammate after a game, both of them a little too sweaty, handsome, and
arousingly-disheveled for their own good.

The boys in the picture are far too pheromonally-laced for my heart to
maintain a regular rhythm. Click-save. I save the picture to my hard drive
for later scrutinization with my pants around my ankles, my dick in my hand
and a bottle of unscented lotion on my desk.

If Carson only knew how obsessed I am with the smell of his bottom and how
every waking hour of every single day, I'm thinking of a new way to
manipulate circumstances so I can get into a fresh situation where I can
sniff his sport-sweaty undies.

"This is me after our first baseball practice last season," he captions an
Instagram photo of himself, glistening in the sun. "Man, it was hot out
that day."

It WAS hot out that day. I remember it. I drove him back home after
practice. I remember how good he smelled in the car, all full of hot feet
and boy-sweat and armpits and stink-ass. Instagram never got a hit of that
bad boy mingly-shit, believe me.

Last time I checked, Carson has 8,400 followers on Instagram.

A quick flick through them will show that his demographic is predominantly,
in order:

Girls between the ages of 9 and 16.

Men of all ages, most of whom predominantly follow other young boys.

Women between 25-60, who also predominantly follow young boys.

Some other actual boys, around 60% of whom display the gay pride emoji in
their bios.

And me.

The young girls represent about 7,000 or so of his followers. They think
he's cute. Secretly, so do the boys, guys and women.

However, none of them know what I know - that Carson has the sweetest,
sweatiest-smelling most-accessible preteen boy bottom I've had the pleasure
of regularly smelling in a long, long time. When you think about it really,
I've practically got an all-access pass.

"I guess I just like to play sports," he explains.

And, "man, it was hot out that day."

Carson has a butt crack that makes his underwear invariably smell like the
most beautiful place on the planet. I'd love to go live in a cave full of
Carson's ass smell. I'd pack a small suitcase, roll a boulder across the
cave opening to seal off the outside world, and you'd never see me
again. You'd find my bones a few years later, and they'd be happy bones,
because they'd have died in a cave of Carson stink, asphyxiated in the best
way. Do NOT send in a pigeon in first to check for air purity. Go
away. Even dead in there, I'll be fine and happy.

His Instagram followers also have no idea – (and Carson has no idea
either) – that I've sniffed his dirty, sixth grader undies more times
than I can count, because he's my girlfriend's son, and not a day goes by
that I don't visit his hamper and his messy bedroom floor.

"I guess I just like to play sports," he explains. And after each game,
there's another sweet pair of Carson's finest stinkers, wringing wet and
reeking of vinegar boy anus when he shucks them off and leaves them on his
carpet.

Aching and grinning for his love of the game, he slinks off to shower
before dinner, and I'm left in his room all alone with utter, uninterrupted
privacy, to pick up and smell his day's finest project, and suck, sniff and
greedily swallow the sour, gritty gifts his boy crotch leaves behind.

I've done it so often, I can practically recall his scent from my amygdala
at any time, just by thinking about him and breathing in slowly.

The amygdala is one of two almond-shaped groups of nuclei located deep
within the temporal lobes of the brain in complex vertebrates including
humans, and are shown in research to perform a primary role in the
processing of memory, decision-making, and emotional reactions. The
amygdala is considered part of the limbic system.

Sometimes my overly-aroused amygdala in my limbic system is even thinking
of huffing Carson's sweet anus when I'm hard at work (phoning it in)
banging his mom.

"I guess he just likes to play sports," I think casually in my mind as I'm
pounding her pussy again, pretending it's her son.

She has no idea that not a single day goes by without me thinking about the
smell of Carson's peachy lil ass, or hatching my next plan to get hold of
his cute, sweaty underpants.

She has no idea, that despite having sniffed his undies what must now be
over a hundred times since he was 10, I have yet to come across a pair that
doesn't smell like his asshole. She has no idea that Carson is the
personification of our universal motto here:

ABC-SAT. All Boys Cracks are Stinky All the Time.

Carson's is anyway. My amygdala will vouch for it.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

LG: PHILLIP

Good Evening Gentlemen,

I thought you'd like to know, I'm auditioning boys for the role of
ten-year-old Phillip in the Legendary Ganymede's classic story, "Against
the Law." (I do that when I talk about him sometimes. I call him The
Legendary Ganymede with a capital "L" and a capital "G," and I'm sure you
won't disagree).

Here's the LG's original story link, should you care to refer back to it.

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/against-the-law

For those of you on a time budget, rest assured it is not essential to read
the full LG story before today's perky 10-year-old boy
auditions. Preferred, but not essential. We're all professionals here, and
I trust your judgment in these matters, even if you leave the script
entirely unread. Your bad if you do, but let's move on.

Anyhoo, in casting the role of Phillip for the upcoming movie version, I
have some young, anally-scented contenders below, and liberally borrowing a
few plot points from The LG's smoking-hot story treatment, (the movie
rights are going to cost us a fortune, believe me), let's make extra-sure
today's auditioning boys are a perfect "fit" for this challenging and
rear-expanding – er, I mean to say – career-expanding
role-of-a-lifetime.

Here's our first boy auditioning today. Let's have him work on the LG's
after-dinner scene.

LG states (and let's take it from the top): "A musky aroma drifted between
us. He had been to the bathroom immediately after dinner and like all boys,
tended to minimize the effort put into wiping himself afterwards. Still,
despite my reservations about licking him there it was not an unpleasant
smell. I inhaled deeply."

(Jesus. I think I fainted a little the first time I read that, back in the
day).

Oh, gentlemen. What a nice thought. Wouldn't you like to inhale the musky
aroma of Philip's heady little anus, even if he didn't put any effort into
wiping himself after dinner? If, by the time you got him home that night
and naked in your bed, wouldn't it be nice to discover that the cute little
stink button of his anus, improperly wiped, had turned into a fine, clear
buttery sheen of residue?

As you nudge your nose into his stinky little starfish and rub his tangy,
electric, cock-hardening detritus all over your nostrils, he'll peep and
squeak with the naughtiness of his own delightful uncleanliness? Oh yes
please, LG. Yes, yes, yes please.

Let's face it, gentlemen, boy-character Philip can smell himself too. And
he likes how he smells. Would you care to huff our first boy actor reading
for the part of Philip in that way, gentlemen, even if he wasn't a careful
wiper after dinner when he went stinky-potty? Marvelous thought. Make sure
his agent leaves us his used undies along with his headshot. He'll get a
callback, that's for fucking sure.

In fact, I'm almost ready to give him the part before I've seen the rest of
the boys!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Hmmm. Let's take a look at this next young man, also auditioning for role
of ten-year-old Phillip.

The LG script notes say: "I fantasized about entering his virgin body,
using all the skill and patience I possessed to minimize his hurt. I
reasoned that he would be tight, his untouched anus smaller and tighter
than any Mexican boy I had penetrated. And yet, I knew that his small body
would accommodate my penis although it would be a gradual and painful
process."

Mmmmm, I love the Mexican back story, gentlemen. Nicely done, LG.

Casting team, after you smelled Phillip's fiery little anus, and after you
huffed molecule after molecule of the life-giving stink from the sweet
sullied folds of his wrinkled little coin purse, would you give in to the
inevitable and consider entering his virgin body with as much skill and
patience as your trembling excitedness would allow? See script note above?

Phillip is so much tighter than the Mexican boys enticingly-referred
to. Phillip at 10 would need painstaking penetrative patience as you
cautiously nudged yourself into his stinky little glans-pleaser, by
millimeters, not inches, gentlemen. After all, Philip is still only
this-many years old. ((holds up ten fingers)). Good boy.

Suck his fingers, gentlemen. Remember to suck his fingers when you're
nudging him. They taste a little like birthday cake.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Here's one thing I always loved about the LG's stories. Instead of
repeating the completely cliché and constantly-overused rectal interior
description "he was so tight inside," the LG always spoke of the loose, wet
sponginess of a boy's rectum after the second sphincter was breached. He
wrote frequently of the wet, spongy, natural mucous inside a boy's bottom
during a full-out bee-eff, as if he'd actually been inside there himself,
God bless him.

LG script reads: "My finger pressed further into him, splitting his buttock
cheeks apart as I reached into his bowels. His anus felt spongy, soft, wet,
mushy. Beyond his distended sphincter, the walls of his rectum were sleek
and greasy. He trembled when I prodded the sensitive region below his
prostate. Again, there was no complaint. Instead, his pelvis bucked
savagely against my face."

Good Lord, gentlemen. If that doesn't knock your socks off, whoof, what
does??

Here's another boy auditioning for the role of Phillip. His pelvis bucking
savagely against your face, gentlemen, while you grab him by the skinny
hips and yank his sweet boy vadge onto your happy mug, demanding every atom
of sniffable butt stink before you roll him over onto his tummy, mount up,
and prod your aching, blue-balled cock into the sleek, greasy mulch of his
mucous-lined colon. I'm feeling faint, gentlemen. I do declare, I have the
vapors.

You'd smell nothing but pure stinky boy grease while you indulged yourself
in him, gentlemen. Pure, sweet, slimy nirvana. Not poo. Just colo-rectal
mucous, au natural, the way the LG intended. Like carving out a Halloween
pumpkin in front of a cozy October fireplace, and reaching inside and
smearing your fingers around in the slimy strands of endless goo.

Only this goo would be hotter. And smeared with your cockprint. And
invigoratingly ass-scented. And when you're finished knowing him
intimately, gentlemen, for a souvenir, be sure to keep his smelly-sweet
underpants. His undies are still incredibly stinky because he packed the
fabric into his dirty little anus by riding his bike to the audition. The
Lord loves a boy who rides a bike, because the bike seat packs his undies
up his ass. We've discussed that here before, gentlemen. We call that
bike-riding, bike seat phenomenon "packing the musket."

Be sure you wipe your cock with his undies after you pull out, to add more
of his magnificent pumpkin-sheen to the fabric of his cotton-crotch before
you slip him your phone number on the back of a gift card and send him on
his way. It'll be a wincing bike ride to the mall with your cum still
dripping out of his sore, stinking gaper, but he'll sure have fun spending
his hard-earned gains at Game Stop.

Mmmmm, gentlemen. This one might get the part of Phillip just because he's
carrying my babies inside him right now. I made my little bicycle boy-wife
pregnant before he pedaled the Pedowoods Mall, looking over his shoulder a
little grumpily at me as he built up speed, but certainly a little wiser
for the experience.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

The LG provides the following stage direction as we audition our next boy
for the role of 10-year-old Phillip in the movie, and possibly off-Broadway
version of "Against the Law."

LG plot note: "I sprayed my seed deep into his seething bowels. Still, it
was surprisingly intimate and very gentle despite the violent nature of the
act itself. Phillip's smell lingered between us, his succulent body holding
me captive as I lay over him. My penis remained in his tight bottom long
after the deed had been done."

Whoof, gentlemen. Succulent. Would you dare sniff a boy who's succulent?
Would you have the Right Stuff to do it without fainting into a quivering
ball of boy-sniffing jelly?

Let's try it out and see. Here's one now!

This succulent 10-year-old contender for the part of Phillip came to the
audition right after basketball practice, so he was already good and ripe
when he read for the part. His tight bottom was already full of the wet
musky boy cheddar we like to experience in a young actor. This one came to
the audition prepared. He's anus and rectum were already fully in
character.

"It was surprisingly intimate and very gentle, despite the violent nature
of the act itself," wrote the LG.

And you know what? It really WAS surprisingly intimate when you pulled down
his pants and made him bend over your casting couch so you could nose-rape
his crinkly little Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Fresh from the basketball
court, It smelled like apple cider vinegar with just a wisp of Jif or
Skippy in the middle.

It was raw, wet and ripe, and his undies were so drenched and full of light
stripes, the act of inhaling his tangy PB&J wetness really WAS
oh-so-intimate.

It should come as no surprise that unloading every gentlemen's First Need
into this tangy little 10-year-old would be an act both violent and gentle
in itself. Not surprisingly, he'll whimper the single word "Daddy," when
you ejaculate. And you'll smell his vinegar Skippy slit in the air the
whole time you eagerly rut and nut in him.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

And our final boy auditioning for the role of 10-year-old Phillip in LG's
classic story, "Against the Law" (and you better go back and read it, you
fuckers, because it's GOOD), would be the pajama-clad little tiger walking
into the reading room now, cleverly arriving at the audition already in
costume, (sheesh! stage moms!), to give us his reading of the afterglow
scene at the end.

Let's take it from the top of the post-fuck, gentlemen...

The LG's script calls for a post-coital moment where: "My nose was nestled
into his lower belly, breathing in the scent of boy and the lingering
pungent odor of anal sex."

Whoof. Magnificent. Even though our latest Phillip contender has put his
pajamas back on after the deed was done, and wandered off into the green
room. Even though he's now at ease, rehydrating with a nice cup of cocoa
after The Proceedings, (a cup you've no-doubt spiked with another
crushed-up roofie, you cad), you can still smell "the lingering pungent
odor of anal sex in the air." God bless you, LG, for that beyond-accurate
description.

The hot, post-fuck steam of our final Phillip-wannabe's ripe, spicy,
redolent sourness follows him from room to room through our production
studios here in Crackwhiff's Corners like a sweet, cheesy cloud. His boyish
aroma comes puffing out of his jammie pants and expanding your lungs and
tickling your nostril hairs with the fond, frenzied memory of his grueling
3-hour audition. There were plenty of stops and starts and "try-it-again's"
in that long nut-drainer, believe me, but he finally got it right.

In fact, this one auditioned so hard, you'll smell his audition drifting up
from the shaft of your cock for the rest of the day.

Whoof. Good boys, all. Some definite star power here.

Thanks to the LG and his countless fans for keeping Phillip alive in all
our hearts after all these years.

See you at the movies!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

GENERATIONS: TUCKER

Stayed at my grown-nephew Kyle's house last weekend. Got to spend time with
my grand-nephew Tucker.

I was at a family gathering in a house I hadn't visited before so I had to
be cautious. I was spending the night so I stayed up late and sat in the
living room talking and drinking wine with several other tipsy adults long
after I had lost interest in the conversation. My mind was on Tucker. I had
been watching him all evening, captivated by his boundless energy and his
boyish handsomeness.

I couldn't stop looking at his ass and wondering what it smelled like after
he had been in boy overdrive all day. He rode bikes and shot hoops with the
neighbor kids before lunch and spent much of the afternoon skateboarding
with his buddy Jake who is also a little hottie.

After dinner, Tucker and Jake had gone upstairs to Tucker's room to play
video games and I stopped in to chat with them for a few minutes when I
went upstairs to change. Tucker seemed pleased to have his cool Uncle Jon
visit his room and he gave me a brief tour while it was Jake's turn with
the game. He showed me his soccer trophy and his guitar and I asked about
his skateboard but he had left it downstairs in the garage.

It was nice to be near Tucker in his room and steep for a few minutes in
the boyish aura that pervaded his personal space. The room was clean but
cluttered with the typical odds and ends of boyhood. The main characters
from "The Walking Dead" watched over the room from a poster on the wall,
apparently not alarmed by the disembodied zombie head on a shelf nearby.

"I have the game. Wanna play?" he asked when he saw me looking at the
poster.

"Nah, maybe later on. Thanks, Tucky." Everyone called him Tucky when he was
younger but now only Tucker or Tuck will do. Jake's turn with the video
game was done by then so I politely thanked Tucker for his hospitality and
left the boys to their play.

My chance to smell Tucker's hot ass in his undies came later that evening
when I had to take a piss. Jake had gone home hours earlier and most of the
other guests had left, but someone was using the downstairs bathroom so I
went upstairs. Tucker's bedroom door was closed but a light was still on. I
couldn't hear anything but I thought he was probably still up playing video
games using his headphones.

Following my nose, instead of going to the bathroom in my guestroom, I went
to the one in the hall across from Tucker's room. That, my friends, is how
I got my hands on Trev's glorious boxer-briefs.

There they were, crumpled on the floor in an otherwise orderly
bathroom. The room was still a bit humid from a recent shower but the
mirror was clear and there was no steam in the air. I figured his undies
must have been there about 30-45 minutes.

I made sure the door was locked before picking up the undies for a quick
inspection. This was a well-worn and faded pair of blue Captain America
boxer briefs that looked smaller than I expected them to be. The tag was
missing so I don't know what size they were but I'm guessing they wouldn't
last him much longer.

They were the most faded and threadbare in the crotch and ball-pouch
area. The Captain America shield emblem was emblazoned on the front and
there were a few little holes along the fly. My zinging brain immediately
hatched a fleeting plan to rush to Target and switch these out for a brand
new pair, but it would not have gone unnoticed.

I was in a hurry so, without further ado, I flipped them inside out and
found a beautiful set of Tucker's hot little ass tracks. No heavy skids -
just some light caramel streaks that looked like they had been diluted with
sweat and extended to a diffuse, faded tan up the back of his undies and
toward the pouch.

I brought them to my face and inhaled.

"Mmm, oh Tucky," I said. "So good. Such a good boy."

My nose went into investigative overdrive. I remembered the scent of his
dad's undies when he was a boy. Remembered sniffing Kyle's stinky superhero
puffers like this. "Like father like son," I whispered as my eyes rolled
into the back of my skull and I stood there, frozen in time. Hot boy
ass. Two timelines.

There were three levels of scent from Tucker's hot little huff muffin left
in his undies. First there was the prominent tang of sweaty boyhole,
generated by a long day of boyish activities. Then there was a hint of
sweet spiciness like toasted cinnamon and, finally, a cheesy undertone for
a savory finish.

Tucker worked hard to generate the intoxicating boyish scent and cute skid
signature he left in his undies and now I was secretly inhaling the result
of his efforts. Fuck yeah, I was finally smelling his dirty little asshole!
It was so ripe and tangy I'm sure I would have fainted if I had been
sniffing the kid's actual asshole. Geezus, what a fragrance!

Needless to say, my cock was tenting the front of the sweatpants I was
wearing, but I didn't have time to get it out and stroke it. I could hear
talking and laughing downstairs and I knew I needed to get back down there
soon.

I quickly sniffed the crotch and found a hint of yeastiness where his
sweaty little balls had been shedding their pheromone-filled scent while he
was doing tricks on his skateboard. Near the fly, I found an invisible piss
stain with a rich nutty aroma that triggered visions of sniffing and
licking his hard little bone and smooth, hairless nuts.

Yes, of course I sniffed the hot little fucker's ass again. What
self-respecting boy-ass sniffing Huff Brother wouldn't? I think it smelled
even better on second whiff. As I breathed in his scent one more time, I
visualized his sweaty little pucker, moist with boyscent and ripe for
licking.

Like I said, I wanted to take those Captain America undies home with me so
bad that I considered fabricating a reason to hurry out on an errand so I
could pop into a department store somewhere and find a replacement pair so
I could switch them out. Hell, maybe I should keep an emergency kit of
various pairs of fashionable boy undies in my car for occasions like this.

But, alas, I had to leave those yummy little stinkers there. (SIGH)

All this took less than two minutes - another rare and glorious whiff of a
hot little boys' ass come and gone. Without risking more time, I put the
little treasure back on the floor as I had found them, flushed the toilet
and went back downstairs hoping I could manage to conceal my hard-on.

"I thought you went to bed, Uncle Dan," my grown nephew Kyle said.

"Nah, I don't think I could sleep right now," I said and laughed.

What I didn't say is: "I remember sniffing your Little League ass in your
dirty undies, Kyle. And now I just sniffed your son Tucker's hot little
asshole from his dirty boxer-briefs too. Mind if I sleep with him tonight?
Can I do that, baby? I'd hold him close and smell him all night, the way I
always remember smelling you."

Mmmm. Beyond hot. Two generations of musky hot boy-stink. Huffing and
sniffing and jacking off later.

Their hot little assholes, assualting my senses. Their scents and my semen.

Like father, like son.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

BOTANICAL: FREDDIE

Why a 10-year-old boy is fascinated with the Los Angeles Arboretum and
Botanical Gardens is beyond me, but that's Freddie. (Real name, Marcus
Frederick Jackson).

It's also fine with me, because no other fucker ever wants to take him
there. (There's only so many hibiscus trees one can take, unless, of
course, you're Freddie).

Every time I take him, it's like it's the first time he's ever been. He
will run, and jump, and skip around doing cartwheels.

Freddie loves that I take him to the Arboretum - the "Arb" as he calls it
because he can't pronounce it unabbreviated.

I told him I would take him to the Arb every opportunity I had, provided he
does one thing for me.  It went a little like this:

In the parking lot, around 5 pm, long day at the Arb, car smelling like
lavender and boy sweat, sun going down over the Red Oak trees.

FREDDIE: Thanks, Uncle Jace. I appreciate you taking me again.

JACE: Hey, no problem, dude. I'm happy to take you.

FREDDIE: I'm happy too.

JACE: Awww, you're so cute. Do you mind if we hug this out?

Freddie smiles and leans over to me in the driver's seat, throw his arms
around me and hugs me. I struggle to know what to do with the extra arm
length I have despite them being fully wrapped around his upper body.

I sniff into his neck. I just can't help it.

JACE: You smell so good, Freddie (I tell him as I hold him as tight as I
think I can get away with).

Freddie pulls back after a second or two.

FREDDIE (contorting his face): What do you mean I smell good?

JACE (thinking fast): Like lavender. The Arb has the best lavender bushes
I've ever come across.

Freddie goes off on one about the first time he smelled lavender and how it
gave him a rush of excitement.  Semi-coherent sentences and an incomplete
recollection of his first time. He finishes with...

FREDDIE: I don't know what I'm tryin' to say, but I love lavender anyway.

JACE: It seems you're very sensitive to smells.

FREDDIE: I am. Nobody understands that very much.

JACE: I do. I understand it very well.

Freddie looks at me.

JACE: I really do like the smell of you, Freddie, and not just the lavender
to be honest. I'm sensitive to your smell, just like you're sensitive to
the smell of plants... and like you, nobody understands that.

FREDDIE: I guess I can understand it.

JACE: No, you can't.

FREDDIE: Yes, I can. I can...

JACE: Did I make you happy today?

FREDDIE: Totally. I can't wait to come again, but I understand if you can't
take me.

JACE: I can, and I will, but you could really make me happy too.

FREDDIE: How so?

JACE: Well, I'm a bit nervous about asking you this, but, I'm hoping you
will understand because of your sensitivity to smells.

Freddie looks at me inquisitively.

JACE: I'm going to ask you, but just know two things; you absolutely can
say no, but whether you say yes OR no, you have to promise to me you will
never tell anyone.

FREDDIE (curious now): Promise.

JACE (deep breath, looking out the windshield before turning to Freddie):
I'd like to smell your bottom.

FREDDIE (pausing for a moment): My butt?

JACE: Yeah, your butt, whatever you call it.

FREDDIE: I call it my butt.

JACE: Okay, cool.

FREDDIE: Sometimes my ass.

JACE: Cool too. You have a realllly cute ass, Freddie.

FREDDIE (pondering): Are you gay?

JACE: I don't think so. I just love smells, and I thought you might
understand and I thought you might like to make me happy, seems as all you
have to do is slip your jeans and underpants down and let me sniff it, but
if you don't want to, that's fine.

I turn away from him and look out of the windshield again.  There's a
heavily pregnant pause, then...

FREDDIE: Okay.

JACE (turning back to him): Okay?

FREDDIE: You can sniff my butt if you want to.

He shrugs his shoulders.

It was close to 6pm, Saturday evening, April 2, 2016, at the Los Angeles
County Arboretum and Botanic Gardens. That was the time, date and place
that the sharp, bitter-tang of Freddie's super-sweaty, unwashed, preteen
asshole invaded my nostrils, crossed my blood brain barrier faster than a
sneeze though a mesh door and intoxicated me instantly.

The first sniff was slow... and controlled... and deep - like a lung
capacity test.  The second was just as deep but a little faster, the third
a little faster still, this time shorter, before fully transitioning from
macro to micro-sniffs - short, shallow, fast and frantic hits of Freddie's
moist, stinky little anus which contracted and relaxed over the tip of my
nose as I sniffed it.

FREDDIE: Mmmmmmm... I can't believe you're sniffing my asshole! (He
declared in a whisper as if someone outside might hear him).

JACE (reciprocal whisper): I can't believe it either, Freddie. It smells so
good and it's making me so happy.

I sniffed at his stinky crack in a panting-like rhythm; shallow, fast,
evenly timed, before one final, longggg, deep sniff.  Freddie had no idea
that I cum in my jeans, without even touching myself, such was the
intensity of his ass-stink and the eroticism of the moment.

Every time I took him to the Arb after that, I would smile when he did
handstands in front of me, knowing he was going to let me sniff his ass in
the parking lot before I took him home.

"I love the smells," he told me as we walked the gardens.

"Me too, Freddie, I said, "me too."

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