"Camero-o-o-o-on!" she called to me. "Mami's home! Time to earn your paycheck!"

I sat up and rubbed the back of my head and sighed. What I would never tell her: first of all, I don't get paid jack-diddly-squat for my labor. If I brought my grievances to management, Carlotta would only spin it to suggest that my continued presence on her glorious and sacred ass is payment enough. If I pushed those complaints, she assures me that I may find recourse in sharing my concerns with HR, which she says stands for "index finger and thumb."

Only a profound moron would try to straighten out this glaring discrepancy.

What I can do, perched in my little jewelry box of containment, is execute a cold read on my mistress. Sometimes, there are very few seconds between being aware of her and being thrust into the center of activity, so I've learned to look for telltale signs that indicate how the winds of the evening will blow. No pun intended.

For instance: listening to the tone of Carlotta's voice, I can tell she's in a great mood. That bodes well for me, as I like to sustain those good moods as long as I can. I certainly wouldn't bring up an HR violation, as long as she's high and bubbly and playful. Who would do that? Only a dedicated, career moron would do that.

But the sustained note in "ho-o-o-o-ome" is some cause for concern. Point one: we live in a hotel room that she's checked out indefinitely, due to a massive inheritance from a former husband, now deceased. You can put those puzzle pieces together yourself. And let the record show I tried to explain how much more economical it would be to simply rent a double-bungalow in an unglamorous part of town, compared to reserving an expensive hotel room in the center of Downtown, but that went over as well as my first HR complaint.

Point two: when Carlotta sings that long, when she plays around with extended vowels... well, if the reader will permit me to extrapolate from historical data... she's probably drunk. By itself it doesn't mean much, it's only a positive indicator, but if she laughs at her own jokes, she's likely gone out to her favorite tequila bar and either hooked up with old friends or befriended a squad of nobodies and strangers, depending on how deep into her cups she was when the good times struck her.

I can see her now. The jewelry box in which I bed rests upon the otherwise unused writing desk, and I'm sitting up in it, nude but comfortable due to her thoughtful temperature control. And as I scratch the rear of my scalp, I watch her curvy body dancing its way to my corner of the room, clawing hands tearing off the clingy, Lycra bonds that hug her tits and constrain her hips. I've seen this before, this is fine. The city gets sultry, the room is warmer than she likes when she shows up, and if she's had a few shots, sure, she'll tear her clothing off in a very theatrical need to get comfortable.

"There's my walkin', talkin' butt-plug, ha ha ha-a-a-ah!" she says. "Guess who found a new taqueria tonight! Guess whose belly doesn't agree with habaneros, ha ha ha-a-a-a-ah!"

I... am so fucked.

She stands above me, showing herself off. A demonstration of power, I've seen it before. Sweetly rounded belly thrust at me, bare and caramel. Modest tits ensconced in enticing black lace. A perfectly shaved armpit as she reaches back to tousle her thriving mane of black hair, turning her face aside in a silent moan, proffering bee-stung lips to the night's entertainment. Her other hand twists behind her back, her other hand disappears to cup her profound buttock, which I can't see, but then she smacks her ass savagely, three sharp cracks that make me wince. Her broad, white teeth pinch her fat bottom lip in a paroxysm of sybaritic delight, and then she turns her smoky, sultry eyes to me.

Now, Carlotta is a beautiful woman, make no mistake. At normal size, I fell for her without a hope for self-defense. It was her ass, you see, that plump and burstingly perfect set of succulent buttocks, churning within the tensile veil of painted-on jeans. And now that I'm small? Forget about it. A modest ass would be enticing, but a large ass from my unique perspective is positively, incontrovertibly addictive. And this delightful, spicy, unpredictable seductress lets me enjoy hers... at a price, and within a very narrow context.

So when she begins rolling her hips, bunching and smoothing the rolls of flesh around her waist, slowly rotating upon the hotel room carpeting as though guided by samba music from the motherland, I can only regard this as the prelude to a job that must be done.

I sit there dutifully attentive as she swirls and gyrates before me. It's a beautiful sight, but I can only think of what comes next. And when she stretches one well-fleshed arm down to my velvet-lined station, I should be thrilled by the attention of the goddess, but I can only think of what comes next. And when she dances, step by step, over to the enormous (to me) bed, sets me down and continues her sensual writhing immediately above my tiny, frail, wretched little body, all I can think about is what comes next. I try to enjoy myself, sure, watching those abundant buttocks swing and sway just above me. But it's that deep and plunging crack between her succulent buttocks, partially visible behind the scrim of enticing black lace panties, that concerns me more than anything else and snaps me out of any lurid fantasy I might entertain.

Then she slows down, her hips rocking grinds down to a pause in the action. She presses her plump thighs against the edge of the mattress, not far from my tiny little feet, and a thin seam of light from the rest of the room peeks between her inner thighs. Just above me is the bold and pronounced curve of her butt cheeks, wrapped in lace, and I hardly want to look up at all, yet the curves and lines command my gaze. Sitting on the clean, bleached hotel linens, myself unblemished and only slightly humid from a comfortable sleep, I stare up at the abutment of her massive thighs to the savage curve of the tuck of her ass. Her butt cheeks literally shelter and shadow me, directly above my little body, and...

I hear a hiss, and then a loud rumble as butt cheek applauds against ample butt cheek, inadequate to hold back a steaming jet of fetid gas, blasting straight out of her asshole. Her huge ass looms over me, is what I'm saying, and then she farts directly upon me, copiously upon me. Intestinal byproduct replaces all breathable air around me, and even though I know it's coming, it's too sudden. My eyes stink, my lungs burn, and my throat clenches shut, but it's done. Carlotta has farted upon me, and all those foul bacteria, the questionable blessing of her intestines, are inside of me now.

I collapse to my side and clap my hand over my mouth, trying not to puke. Far, far overhead, somewhere past the impressive bulge of one magnificent buttock, Carlotta laughs with hilarious abandon. She brays, she cackles for about a minute before she can catch her breath.

"You like that, pequeño?" Her voice is rich with mirth. If she had farted around a normal-sized companion, she might blush or even leave the room. But with me? She brags. "I'm afraid you've got quite a night lined up for you, my little lover! I haven't had such spicy tacos in months! I guess my poor guts have softened up, lost their tenacity. But that just means more work for you, doesn't it, my little Cameron?" I can only watch her butt cheek shudder with her immense laughter and hope she doesn't shit on me right through her expensive panties.

When she turns her planetary ass away from me, and I'm staring up the vast expanse of her cute belly and reasonable breasts, she looks down upon my wretched, crumpled form. And she throws her head back in laughter, guffaws echoing off the popcorn stucco ceiling of this cheap-ass, overpriced room. Her belly shudders with her hilarity, almost directly overhead, and all I can do is wait for the tremors to subside. Carlotta loves to laugh, however, and she savors these moments, the unhappiness of her little man and the awesome potency of her curvy, biochemically reactive body upon me.

Now it's a flurry of activity. While I gasp for fresh air, Carlotta peels the straps of her bra off her shoulders, loops her arms above them, and swivels her bra 180° to better unhook it. Her pointy little tits poke far above me, and she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties. She successfully tugs them over her ample hips, but I'm too slow to scramble out of the way as she bends in half and dumps her tremendous booty upon the edge of the bed (where I lay, sickly and weak). Drunk though she might be, she nonetheless fits me right up the seam of her ass to pile the full tonnage of her body upon me. I can't see it, but she shucks her panties off her legs and flings them away; I can't hear it, but she laughs harder at my sad fate. I'm not aware of anything until the light of the room floods my body and the ceiling spreads above me: Carlotta has kept me trapped between her abundant buttocks until she crawled upon my bed, parked herself on knees and elbows, and thrust her magnificent ass up to the skies.

And now I sit upon her lively, puckering anus, and there is only one thing left to do.

I have to begin to clean it.

First of all, I survey the damage. It looks not too bad, to begin with, just the normal, ordinary engorged asshole of a beautiful woman who likes a lot of attention to her ass, but who has otherwise spent the day working a job, walking around town, etc. Nothing exceptional. I crawl to my knees and get down on all fours: she's pretty clean so I'm not worried about soiling myself. Slowly I make my way around her asshole, checking out for any stains, detritus. She was talking about a spicy dinner, so usually that means trouble, but it doesn't look like−

Her sphincter rises slightly, and before I can dodge I catch another hot, steaming blast of air full in the chest and face. Her anus looks like a dumbfounded drunk's expression, mouth hanging slack, but instead of vomiting on me it's just the exhaust of her digestive process. And true to her word, there's a stream of pepper spray in there for good measure.

Lying snugly within her pronounced ass-cleavage, there's no way for me to collapse and roll away. I grimace all my facial orifices shut, turn away, and hurl myself to lie flat upon the hillside of one massive butt cheek. I can't swear, I mustn't swear right now or she'll just laugh her ass off at me, and I don't want to encourage that. Because it's not her ass that would come off, but likely my tiny little body would go tumbling down to the sheets, and that earns me a special punishment. Right now, however, I can't think of a worse punishment than getting these hot and spicy farts dead in my face for hours.

The giantess giggles and sings "sorr-ee" at me, like she's doubtlessly going to do a dozen times tonight until she's as tired of it as I already am. Grunting, I wipe my face off on the skin of her inner butt cheek and pull myself up. Gotta be a good sport about these things: if I can't handle her at her fartiest, I don't deserve her at her horniest.

"Hey, babe," I shout at the top of my lungs. "I don't have my cleaning equipment."

No response.

"Hey! Sweetie? ¿Amiga hermosa? I said−"

"I heard you!" she snaps. "I'm just... oh, shit. Bad, bad, bad!" Her hand soars up over the hemispherical and, sloppily, her fingers just brush me away.

I try to lie flat and dodge her fingers. "No fair! Come on, give me a chance! You're cheating!"

"¡Dios maldito, get the fuck outta there!"

Her tone surprises me, and when I poke my head up to look around, her middle finger gets a lucky strike at me. Her fingertip catches me under the jaw and peels me away like a sticker, and I tumble to the mattress. I lie there, between her huge, round knees, staring up her monstrous thighs and wondering what happened.

My question is answered when she heaves her colossal bulk off the bed and sprints to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. What happens next is a gastric megaton of destructive firepower. And the longer it goes on, the more my heart sinks, because she's just making it worse and worse for me. Good thing I slept all afternoon, I guess, because there'll be no sleep tonight, not for me.

Sure enough, after an eternity she comes coiling around the door frame of the bathroom, grinning at me wickedly. "Someone's got their work cut out for them, little lover," she purrs. One fingernail trails down the jamb with a grating, raspy noise.

Protesting or objecting would land me in the shit right now, no pun intended. She has me trained well, honestly: "That's all I'm here for, lover. I've got one job to do, and I love to do it well for you." I rise to my knees and hold out my arms, as if I could embrace any part of her body.

She simpers, eyes glittering. "I didn't make a mistake when I stole you, did I?" Her massive hips roll in a supreme gesture of comfort and opulence as she returns to the bed. "That's why I'm giving you a little break: I fucking devastated that toilet, so I wiped myself off for you." Then she winks and produces from behind her back a drinking glass and a moist towelette. "Just not very well, is all." Oh, she thinks she's clever.

I put on a brave smile and she climbs back onto the mattress. "And, no punishment for losing your balance and falling out of heaven. That's my gift to you." I swallow my reaction and sing praises of her generosity. She tears off my first square from the towelette, plucks me up and places me between her cheeks, and off I go.

Foul. Fucking foul, that's what this is. My knees fight for space in the thin pink seam at the base off her ass's cleavage, right before it all turns caramel and spreads out in all directions. I dig one elbow into one enormously fat buttock and start mopping up the residue of her explosive diarrhea. It looks like Carlotta did indeed scrape most of it away but there's plenty here for me. I rub away at it: good, it's still coming up because it's fresh. Immediately my little square is stained to uselessness and I toss it down, aiming well to deposit the scrap into the drinking glass. Carlotta has been shredding more cloths for me, and I take them up one by one.

The smartest thing to do is to clear my own path, right down in the deepest part of her rear's valley. I wipe up a space slightly wider than my own body, creep down into her ass crack, closer and closer to her anus. From there I can reach up and wipe quite a lot, mopping down the walls of her vast cheeks until her healthy, glowing skin loses all its blemishes. No more greenish-brown paste mucking it up, no more flecks of red and green peppers, undigested throughout her GI tract. I'm getting a good rhythm going, running a new cloth between the deep radial wrinkles of her anus, when it pushes out at me.

I'm quicker, this time. I throw myself to her buttock and searing air roars up my shoulder and back. "Goddamn it, Carlotta!" I scream, beyond thought. She only laughs, though, shaking her massive ass like an earthquake. I bounce off her buttock and collapse upon her anus, and I swear I can't get up fast enough. Scrabbling uselessly with panicked arms, I'm pressed flush against her sphincter when it opens and spurts three in a row: BRAAP-BRAAP-BRAAP! I can actually feel her asshole rubbing over my chest, flexing around my sides. It's fucking disgusting, it's all-encompassingly disgusting. Her putrid gases seem to wind around me, flowing over my armpits, my biceps, snaking around my neck and slithering down my spine. Oh fuck, my skin crawls to feel it!

"Did I get you, honey?" she calls back mockingly. I fail to respond, going back to work as she sings her apology to me. It's just hilarious to her. Her only regret, she told me once, is that she can't see my expression when it happens. She'd like to see my hair flowing in the breeze. I refrained from response.

I'm kneeling over her anus, one knee on each side, when she blasts me again. Her fart gushes straight up into my cock and balls, and... I would never admit this to her, but that kind of felt nice. Hot, moist air breathing around my scrotum? It was sensual in a way I wasn't expecting. I pause in wiping the film of her diarrhea and regard the now-red and swollen asshole between my legs, wondering if I could slip my genitalia in there, mid-fart, and let her close up around me... Naah, I can't do the splits. That's the only way that'd work.

Everything around me is clean, as I toss cloth after cloth over the cliff of Carlotta's boundless rump (and a couple into her rectum, for my mild revenge), so I have to get the stuff farther away. I'm so intent with standing up, getting my feet to splay and line up with the crevice of her buttocks, that common sense flees my head. I'm not even mad when she giggles, knocking me off my feet, and rips a huge one. With tedious predictability, her stinging, swollen anus opens up like a gaping maw, and in goes my foot, then my shin, my knee, my thigh right up to my balls. When it seals around my leg, I can feel the burning tissues of her asshole. I almost feel bad for her, for this tender, sensitive little orifice. It looks abused, and my heart goes out to it, until another round of very deep flatulence burbles up all around me. Swearing my head off, I struggle to free myself. Mostly successful is still a failure, however, and her asshole clinches around my ankle.

I wait for her to fart again, but she's just laughing to herself, laughing harder when I jerk at my leg in an attempt to extricate it. She knows what's up, so she's not going to break wind until it's absolutely unavoidable. Sighing, I resume reaching up the sides of her ass where her shit has splattered like... I don't know, like the innards of jack o'lanterns thrown from a car window at 30 mph. Like a murder scene, if the victim was a water balloon filled with runny feces. I mean, I get it, she's gassy and her guts are punishing her for the peppers, but how did she even get it all the way around like this? For fuck's sake.

Down goes another piece of moist towelette, filling the valley of buttocks with the piquant sting of lemons, cumin, and shit. Out comes another fart, for which I'm uncharacteristically grateful, and I yank my foot out and dance lithely down her ass crack to finish up my work. I'm down to my last square, it seems, and I really economize this one, sopping up the drying film off her skin like I'm brushing it to the side.

But at last: "Done! Done, sweetheart, it's all clean."

"It's all clean?"

"Every last square centimeter, my delightful lover. Anyone could eat off of your ass."

She chuckles to herself. "That's too bad, mi pequeño amante," and before I can ask why, she flicks me out of her butt once more and traipses to the bathroom for a second round of destruction.

It's going to be a long goddamned night.