Jacob’s eyes glint with mischief as he leans back, spreading his thick thighs wide, the stained jockstrap barely containing his arousal. “You survived my jockstrap before, tiny, but let’s make it… personal,” he says, his voice low and provocative. He plucks Matt up and lowers him to the taut fabric, right where the pouch meets his inner thigh, the heat radiating from his skin palpable. “Gonna give you a front-row seat to something real raw.”
He presses Matt gently against the fabric, the warmth and faint dampness of the jockstrap enveloping him. The smell is intense—musk, sweat, and the lingering earthiness of Jacob’s body, amplified by the tight confines. Then, with a wicked chuckle, Jacob lets out a low, controlled fart, the vibration rumbling through the fabric and the scent hitting Matt like a wave—pungent, warm, and unmistakably primal. “How’s that for a test, shrimp?” Jacob asks, his tone teasing but attentive, watching for Matt’s reaction.
Matt’s senses are flooded, the heat and smell overwhelming but not harmful, his tiny body pressed into the fabric’s coarse texture. The fart’s scent lingers, sharp and heavy, but Matt’s resilience holds. “It’s… intense!” he squeaks, voice muffled. “Smells… strong, but I’m fine!” Jacob might shift his weight, pressing Matt a bit harder or letting another soft fart ripple through, keeping the sensory overload high while checking in to ensure Matt’s still okay.
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