It is Just a bet! Part 1

(contains facesitting, face farts, smell fetish)

Hello all warning, this contains erotic facefarts and other fetishes, like dirty feet, sweat spit armpits etc. If this isn't for you, I understand.

Brian was a second-year college student with semi-better-than-average looks: not ripped, not overweight, just average in a way that didn’t turn heads but didn’t repel them either. He wasn’t exactly drowning in female attention, but he had girl-friends, well, platonic ones, mostly.

To stay close to campus on a budget, he’d snagged a room through PadSplit: a cheap three-bedroom house with all utilities included for only $800 a month. He jumped at it without hesitation.

When he messaged the roommate listed as "Reagan," which he misread as "Regen" and he’d assumed it was a guy, there was no profile pic, straightforward replies. The listing had even said "men-only" type of household, so it seemed to fit.

Then he met her.

Reagan was unmistakably female: 5'6", long flowing black hair with an emo edge, dark eyeliner, a few piercings, ripped black jeans hugging her hips, and a tight tank top that showed off a slim but curvy frame. She had a no-nonsense attitude, sharp tongue, but not unfriendly.

Brian showed up with his bags, double-checked the "men-only" part in his head, then shrugged. *Maybe she just prefers hanging with guys.* He wasn’t about to complain. $800 was a steal.

She gave him a quick tour, leading him down to his room in the partially finished basement: concrete floors, exposed beams, a twin bed, desk, and mini-fridge. Functional, private, and cheap.

After unpacking, Brian decided to rinse off the move-in sweat. The only shower was upstairs in the shared bathroom. Still adjusting to the co-ed setup, he stepped out in just a towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping, skin flushed.

He nearly collided with Reagan in the hallway.

“Uh, sorry,” he muttered, cheeks burning as he clutched the towel tighter and hurried past her toward the basement stairs.

She just raised an eyebrow, smirked faintly, and said nothing. Brian didn’t want to rock the boat. One wrong move and he could lose the deal of a lifetime.

That evening, Reagan knocked on his doorframe. “Hey, basement boy. My friends are coming over. We’re doing Mexican. We made a lot. Tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, the works. You’re invited. Upstairs, 7 sharp. Don’t flake.”

Brian blinked. “Yeah… sure. Thanks.” He answered back.

The kitchen smelled incredible by 7: cumin, garlic, lime, sizzling meat. Reagan manned the stove while three other girls sprawled around the island, beers in hand, laughing.

Reagan waved the spatula. “Brian, meet the squad.."

Riley—blonde, 5'7", athletic build from constant runs and yoga, always in tight leggings, high ponytail, green eyes that sparkle when she’s plotting. Super competitive

Riley flashed a grin. “Hey, new guy. Hope you handle heat.”

**Quinn** petite, 5'3", short dark bob with a nose ring and stacked ear piercings, pale skin, big hazel eyes, artsy vibe in cropped hoodies and ripped shorts.”

Quinn saluted lazily, crunching chips. “Yo. Nice to meet you roomie.”

And **Emery**—tallest at 5'9", wild auburn curls to her mid-back, freckles across her nose and shoulders, killer hourglass figure she sometimes hides under baggy tees, but damn, those jeans don’t lie. Sweet smile, zero mercy in games.

Emery gave a shy wave that turned into a wink. “Nice to finally meet the mystery roommate. Reagan says you’re chill.”

They ate picnic-style on the living-room floor, plates piled with carnitas tacos dripping juice, cheesy enchiladas verdes, refried beans loaded with queso, Mexican rice, fresh guac, and churros for dessert. Everyone was close: knees bumping, laughter loud.

The gas hit fast. Reagan shifted and let out a soft, warm puff. Riley immediately fanned her face dramatically. “Jesus, Reagan, did something crawl up and die in there? That’s bean warfare!”

Reagan snorted. “Says the girl who can crop-dust the whole couch. Yours would smell like rotten eggs had a party.”

Quinn giggled after a bubbly series escaped her. Emery pointed accusingly. “Quinn! That one’s toxic, my eyes are watering! Warn us next time, you little gremlin.”

Quinn smirked. “Pot, meet kettle. Emery, yours sounds like a tuba solo. Deep and proud.”

Emery covered her mouth, laughing. “At least mine don’t sneak up like yours. Silent but deadly, much?”

They kept ribbing each other, playful complaints, fake gags, waving hands, blaming the beans, while the room filled with that thick, eggy-sulfurous warmth mixed with spices and perfume. Brian stayed quiet, face neutral, eating steadily. He wasn’t about to join in or complain, not as the new guy, not with rent this cheap.

After cleanup, they invaded his basement room. “C'mon gaming time!” Riley declared, flopping onto his bed. “Mario Kart tournament. You in, Brian?”

He shrugged and joined. They crowded the TV: Reagan leaning against his legs on the floor, Riley beside him, Quinn on the other side, Emery perched behind.

Engines revved, trash talk flew. The farts ramped up.

Reagan ripped a loud one mid-lap. Riley immediately groaned. “Reagan! That’s chemical—my nose hairs are burning!”

Reagan cackled. “Better than your silent assassins, Riley. I can still smell the last one you dropped on my pillow last sleepover.”

Quinn let out a sneaky poot; Emery fake-coughed. “Quinn, babe, that’s nuclear. You trying to gas us out of the room?”

Quinn grinned. “Shut up Em, yours don't sound ANY better!”

Emery laughed so hard she let another long hiss escape. “Oops, sorry not sorry. Blame the enchiladas.”

They were all cracking up, cheeks flushed, passing controllers, the air hazy and intimate. Brian gripped his Joy-Con tighter, silent, pulse racing from the warmth, the scents, the casual closeness.

He was dominating, Bowser pulling ahead lap after lap.

Riley narrowed her eyes. “Alright. Final race. Winner takes all. We win, you do whatever we want tonight. You win… we do whatever *you* want.”

The others nodded, smirks growing.

Brian swallowed. “Deal.”

The girls turned ruthless.

Riley kicked off her sneakers, swung her bare feet into his lap—soles pressing his thighs, toes curling against his shorts. “For luck,” she purred, grinding subtly while “accidentally” bumping his controller arm. Brian was still ahead using Bowser.

Quinn scooted in, sliding her ass half onto his lap, rolling her hips as she steered. A soft fart puffed right against him; she giggled. “Whoops, extra boost!” Brian tried to push her off his lap.

Emery draped over his shoulders from behind, chest to his back, then swung a leg over to straddle his side, warmth settling. She whispered hotly, “You’re too good,” and released a slow hiss that lingered, warm against his skin. Brian really shook with his controller now. These girls were brutal. Just one more lap.

Reagan twisted around, scooting back until her ass nestled firmly against his growing hardness, rolling once. “Focus, Brian,” she teased, right as she let out another deep one.

In the final lap, Riley “accidentally” elbowed his controller during a turn, Quinn distracted him with a quick hip grind, and Emery’s chest press threw off his aim. Reagan blue-shelled him at the last second.

The girls erupted in cheers as they crossed first.

Riley whooped. “We win! Basement boy’s ours tonight.”

Reagan turned, eyes dark and playful. “So… what do we want first?”

The girls exchanged hungry, mischievous looks.

Riley crawled forward, straddling him fully, still giggling from the banter. “Let’s start with making him pay up for all that winning streak. Slowly.”