A Note From Me

I like to create custom previews whenever I’m able because they give you naughties the clearest idea of what you’re getting yourselves into. I was a l*ttle too ambitious with the timeline I set for releasing this set of videos, so I wasn’t able to finish a custom preview for Part 2 before its release. I’m hoping to create and add one within the next couple of days. Ya know, in case you’re into that kind of thing.

Description Starts Here

You and I have just gotten married. We’ve barely settled into married life before you realize something has gone seriously wrong. The clean, tidy, reasonably house-trained, and good-smelling woman you married has seemingly vanished. In her place is a gassy, burping, food-smacking slob who no longer hides habits you didn’t even know existed, cleans herself up for you, or cares what you think. Each objection only gives me another opportunity to demonstrate how comfortable I’ve become, and your horrified reactions are rapidly becoming one of my favorite parts of married life.

I’ve claimed our bed as my personal lounging area today. I crawl onto it with my butt aimed outward, my tight pink, shapewear-style yoga pants stretched around every curve. Before I’ve even settled down, a bubbly fart escapes my crawling backside. Almost immediately afterward, a trumpeting toot slips out during a slow hip adjustment, followed closely by a hot backend burner that draws a small sound of relief from me. I finally wiggle into a snug spot on my side and begin tearing open a granola protein b*r while simultaneously letting out a couple of casual burps. I’m so quickly reabsorbed into my phone that I don’t notice you standing at the foot of the bed until I glance up with my mouth full, openly chewing and smacking through my first bite.

I greet you with a bright, granola-filled smile, only to have my grin loudly interrupted by my bottom blurting out a steamy heinie rattler. It vibrates through my skin-tight leggings and fills the quiet room before either of us can react. The smell reaches me almost as quickly, twisting a few involuntary noises from my throat, but rather than apologize, I laugh and ask whether you can smell it. Before you can properly answer, my *ss announces a second cheek-flapping blast. Your face immediately contorts with disgust, giving me the wicked idea to enhance your experience by sweeping the thick, malodorous cloud directly toward you.

I coyly remind you that we’re married now, which means we should be able to share things, including whatever muggy miasma happens to escape from either end of me. I continue fanning the stink across our bed while watching your face recoil into expressions I’ve never seen before. That’s when I reveal that I overindulged at a meat-heavy dinner with friends the night before. Now I’m curious whether each burst of gamey butt air carries a recognizable trace of everything I ate. Even I eventually have to stop wafting and pull my face away. My expression begins echoing yours with genuine revulsion, although lingering laughter keeps breaking through as I admit that it smells truly awful.

Your complaints inspire me to ask why you’ve become so whiny, but a fizzy balloon full of meaty air climbing through my chest interrupts the question. My expression suddenly turns serious as I sit higher with one finger raised, making you wonder whether something is wrong. I rock forward and backward, jiggle my upper body until my chest bounces, and pat my stomach to help the trapped air continue upward. Once it finally reaches my throat, I proudly belch out the word “Why?” and collapse into laughter over my own successful performance. You’re less impressed, of course, so I mock the endless questions you’ve been asking and act as though your disapproval is the most exhausting part of our marriage.

When you next point out my workout clothes, I admit that I had fully intended to visit the gym. Unfortunately, the lingering results of last night’s dinner have made that plan seem socially irresponsible. I could exercise around strangers while meat farts pour out of me, or I could remain here eating my protein b*r and contaminate a bedroom that belongs to me too. The second choice feels far more reasonable. I pick at the partially eaten b*r with my claws before impatiently stuffing the remainder into my mouth, leaving half of it hanging out. Then I lean toward you and open wide so you can inspect the chewed-up wreckage while I munch and crunch directly in front of you.

You impress me by managing to find yet another thing to be upset about. Your negative commentary about how I’m choosing to exist right now seems endless. Now you’re insisting that I’ve made our room smell like a bathroom. I start to argue my point, but one proper breath of the fetid air makes me pause, and I reluctantly agree that it smells like I’ve had some kind of accident. Refusing to let you dampen my mood, I perk right back up and return to my cheerful, gross self.

Throughout all of this, I shift between lounging on the bed, crawling across it, and experimenting with which kneeling position feels most comfortable. These movements continuously reshape and lift my leggings-covered booty. With each new adjustment and relaxed pose that conveniently shows off my hourglass figure, it becomes increasingly clear how l*ttle I care about the argument you seem determined to start. When you summarize everything you dislike about my manners, g*s, and smells, I flippantly repeat the complaints in a tone that says I’m not taking any of this seriously. Finally, while moving into another comfortable position, I snap my attention toward you and loudly declare that I don’t care. I assert that you’re supposed to love me for me, emphasizing my point with an exaggerated, wide-eyed pout.

I eventually drop onto my side facing away, leaving my rounded backside, legs, and bare feet aimed toward the end of the bed where you stand. When I scooch backward, everything behind me moves closer to you. What gives you pause is the sight of my dusty, crusty, callus-covered soles resting bare on our clean comforter. You take a second look to confirm that my feet genuinely appear that neglected before seeming to decide that they fit perfectly with everything else you’ve discovered about the new me.

I’m baffled by how much you appear to dislike everything I’m doing because, despite all your complaining, you’re still standing in the room with me and my smells. I’m even lucky enough to release several lengthy, noisy surprise belches. Yes, those exist. Don’t tell me you’ve never been surprised by a burp. Any time one happens, no matter what position I’m in, I quickly make whatever adjustment is necessary to bring my face close enough to gleefully bl*w the rancid, somehow stale air into yours. How do I gleefully accomplish that? Easy. With a big, wide-open smile on my face. After one particularly juicy, bubbling stream pours from my mouth, I hold up my finger once more and ask whether it smells more like meat or granola b*r.

Your disgust only makes me more theatrical. I scrunch my face into an exaggerated imitation of yours while mocking everything you’ve been saying and scratching inside one nostril with a claw nail. After a while, though, there’s only so much I can take of these comments and the line of questioning you seem determined to put me through. I decide to turn everything back on you by casually mentioning that perhaps you’re not the man I thought I married. You keep saying I’m not the woman you thought you married, but I’ve never seen this side of you either. I follow that by making it clear that I’m not interested in becoming your prim, perfect l*ttle trad wife. To prove I’m the exact opposite, I lower onto my knees and elbows, lift my butt toward you, and give the cheeks tightly cupped by my yoga pants a playful twerking jiggle.

When you complain again that I never acted this way before marriage, I simply ignore you and start twerking my buns again. Pressure has been building in my abdomen, and I intend to relieve it. My rotating tushy definitely helps as it slowly wiggles the trapped air out. Soon, my gyrating bottom falls into sync with a rumbling booty sneeze as it begins exhaling from the rear. But I’m not done yet. With the continued movement of my jiggling posterior, my bottom’s tune quickly transforms into a gassy, undulating sphincter squeaker, the sound flawlessly matching the rhythm of my oscillating haunches.

Once my l*ttle show fizzles out, I move to sit farther forward on the bed. However, I’ve briefly forgotten what my caboose can produce. I’m met with an invisible wall of odor that drives me backward as though I’ve been pushed. The whole reason I tried to move was to retrieve my phone, but now I’m stuck on the opposite side of the bed from it, with an almost solid, acrid cloud of funk hanging between us. I figure it’s best to settle into the corner and wait for the air to become survivable.

Right on cue, you continue complaining. This time, it’s about how I no longer dress up or make myself pretty for you, never mind that I’m currently wearing a full face of last night’s makeup and yoga pants that proudly display every part of my figure. Since nothing appears good enough for you, I finally present two options, hoping this will quell your dissatisfaction. You can either divorce me and surrender half your belongings for being mean to me, or you can learn to love this side of your new wife. Finally, you seem to have no words.

Figuring things might be safe enough by now, I carefully travel through the fading meat haze and settle onto my stomach, adding with a flirty smile that perhaps you’ll eventually learn to enjoy it. After retrieving my phone, I roll onto my back and stretch both legs straight into the air while returning to my messages. You remain at the foot of the bed for an unusually long time, staring at me in speechless disbelief while I flex my feet and casually wiggle my raised hips. When I notice you still haven’t moved, I roll my eyes and shift sideways until more of my elevated butt points toward you. Once I’ve adjusted, a prolonged fart pours out, and I give my cheeks a shimmy to shake the stink loose.

After allowing you to stand there awkwardly for far longer than necessary, I finally shoo you away by asking whether you’re going to keep watching me or go about your day.

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This Video Is Part Of A 3-DAY Release

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Important Note: The two parts that make up the full video each cover a different mix of interests, giving you two distinct paths to choose from. Or, if you want the complete experience, wait for the full video to release on the third day and enjoy it all.

Yesterday, I released the 1st part.

TODAY, I am releasing PART 2, with the contents of the video detailed in the description portion above.

Tomorrow, I will release the whole video, which will have a discount added for your patience.

Twerking Jiggle Farting Your New Wife Is Kinda Nasty - PART 2 with C4s.com