The Guidance Counselor - Chapter 12 (Patreon)

A very strange thing happened after I returned home from the greatest session I ever had with Ms. Johnson – I only masturbated once. I had expected to spend the entire night alone in my room to the point where I had to yell at my parents to leave me alone and that I would have dinner when I felt like it. Instead, I dry humped my bed once and all of the anxiety and intensity of the past three hours escaped my body at once. I passed out holding the pillow and dreamed briefly of being with Ms. Johnson. The intrusive image came and went. We were lying down on the floor together and held hands.

Something in my brain was rewiring; I didn’t know then what it was, but it felt…different. And different felt good. My mom even noticed at dinner that night and said with a smile, “Well look at you. Do you have a girlfriend?”

I blanked. “What?”

She made a face at me assuming I was being coy. “How was your ‘after-school’ club? Or were you out seeing somebody?”

“It’s not like that. I was at the sci-fi/fantasy club.”

“And what were you doing for two hours?”

“Watching a movie. The Empire Strikes Back.”

I had a whole row of excuses readily lined up.

Oddly enough, I wasn’t worried about college admissions despite graduation being only a few months away. This whole new thing with Ms. Johnson was at the forefront of my mind. I entered a period of creative growth. I started to dive into writing my first real story about my OC Mimi the Witch. In between breaks, I doodled Ms. Johnson again.

When dad stepped into my room to ask me how college admissions were going, I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t care. For the first time ever, his aggravation meant nothing to me. He saw me doodling, and when I moved it aside for him not to see he shook his head and said, “Jason, what did I tell you? You have to be serious about this. You’re not. You’re never serious about your future.”

An older me would have just eaten his words and backed down. I tapped my pencil thinking of what to say. Usually, these arguments were tense with me avoiding eye contact. I still didn’t want to look at him in the eyes. But I mumbled something at first.

“What was that?”

“I want to do art,” I declared.

My dad said nothing. In his blank stare I could feel his anger rising. He gave one of those mile-long stares that told me he was rethinking his life and how he raised me. For a very brief second I regretted saying something. A certain “fight-or-flight” reaction came up. But I realized it was ridiculous to think that way. What was he going to do? Shoot me?

“I’m not paying tuition for you to fucking doodle,” he said.

I could have gone into it with him. You know how kids argue about what they want to do in their lives with their parents. There’s a whole lot of screaming or backhanded comments or rolling eyes or tears and blah blah blah. I didn’t do any of that, partly because I was so ill-equipped to argue that I didn’t know what to do or say. So I didn’t say anything. I just shrugged, turned my back on him, and continued drawing.

Dad harumphed and left my room.

I wanted Ms. Johnson. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to believe that what she said about me was true. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Our next “after-school session” was the most intense yet. I wrote about it immediately after I came home. I needed to remember every single detail. I wanted to always look back on that moment and savor it.

Ms. Johnson was there this time waiting for me, dressed as usual. In fact, she had on the same exact earrings and undershirt and even down to the same belt. It was as if we were continuing from the previous after-school session minutes later.

I gawked at the sight of a one-gallon jug of milk on her desk.

“Hi, Jason. Hope you had a good day. We’re going to try something different.” She drew the jug closer to her. She smiled, completely undaunted by the idea she was about to tell me. “We’re going to test the limits of the fantasy.”

“What…do you mean?”

“Well, remember how I said that one problem I could see with your fetish is you wishing for impossible things that can’t happen? We’re going to try and reach as much of the impossible as we can. That way, your desires might feel tamer. That’s my hypothesis of course. If I try to do the milk gallon challenge, you may be more relaxed when you develop a relationship with someone. They may not be able to, say, eat an entire buffet of food. But at the very least there can be a compromise to test their limit. While I may not actually finish drinking the entire gallon, enough of it WILL make me extremely bloated. That much is a fact.” She then said in a low voice, a little snarky, “To boot, I also have lactose intolerance. That may skewer the results, since not everyone is lactose intolerant, and side-effects of lactose intolerance vary from person to person. But we’ll ignore that for now and try something else later.”

I nearly fainted. My knees went weak and I palpitated like crazy.

“Jason? Are you alright?”

“Y-yes, Ms. Johnson.”

“Well, sit down. You know what to do. I’ll give you a few minutes to…put it on.”

Even though I was alone, my hands shook as I attached the circumferential transducer to my penis. This was batshit crazy. I couldn’t believe I was living the dream with this fetish.

Ms. Johnson returned, and the air in the room fell quiet like when the audience stops talking before a theater performance. My entire attention was on her, and nothing else. I didn’t think of my parents, my future, or even my art. The entire world during those after-school sessions was Ms. Johnson.

She drank straight from the jug, somehow not making anything drip.

The thing about watching videos online is that you are never really sure if what you are watching is real or not, specifically the content you have to pay for from fetish models. I of course didn’t have my own credit card or bank account. The only times I saw those fetish model videos were by leaks from older members. I was young at the time so the thought of watching stolen content didn’t faze me. Some of them were really good, others a bit cringe. I hated the sweet talk, especially if it was fake. I hated it when the model looked into the camera and said “Do you like that, sweetie?” or “Hey, you dirty boy.” I just wanted them to do the thing and be done with it – emulating the voyeur aspect of the fetish as if I were there in the room with them. But even when I found really good videos, I sometimes had a moment of reflection thinking “Did they really fart that much or was it pumped air? Did it really matter? How long can someone seriously fart for?”

Most gallon milk challenge videos ended in failure. Most YouTubers uploading them couldn’t get through half or a quarter of the gallon. Most of those videos were “duds” to me in the sense that they didn’t arouse me. Very few did, and those included girls who unbuttoned their pants to make more room to drink more. I never saw anybody finish the actual gallon. And a part of me understandably didn’t expect them to? I still wished they could, but at the end of the day I wanted to see a good show.

Ms. Johnson was about to give me a good show – and so much more.

She drank the milk in the same way she ate in our last session – without talking and without acknowledging my presence. She did her work as normal. There were no burps or farts for a long time – this was something different. The slow burn. The wait.

A quarter of the way through and she wasn’t fazed.

As she approached the halfway mark, she finally started showing signs of discomfort. She winced and sat back to adjust her belt – but not undo it. She really was testing to see at what point she would need to undo everything. For now, she was able to withstand the discomfort by loosening her belt by one notch.

I never before maintained an erection for that long. I started to experience the need for a handjob. That was a first for me. Before that, my innate desire for getting off was to get on the floor or bed start dry humping. I squirmed in my seat; practically feeling tortured. In a good way though. She had explicitly stated to not touch myself. Somehow that made it all the more enticing.

When the burps came, it wasn’t quite what I expected. The burps gurgled in her throat, and it sounded like she was gargling liquid. I actually didn’t like that, and if anything, that lowered my sex drive. The gargle sounded dangerously like she was on the verge of throwing up, and that wasn’t something that I was into.

Ms. Johnson then full-on gagged. She put a hand to her mouth as she burped and threw up a tiny bit of milk at the same time. She quickly reached for a tissue and wiped the mess from her mouth and chin.

My erection downgraded to a semi.

Ms. Johnson briefly acknowledged this by glancing at me; she must have noticed the reading on the machine through her laptop. This seemed to have momentarily broken her concentration, but she returned to the experiment at hand after she finished wiping off the milk. She cleared her throat several times and composed herself.

She had to take a break.

Lying back in her seat again, Ms. Johnson finally unbuckled her belt. She rubbed her taut belly just waiting to burst behind those tight pants. She winced again and seemed to contemplate if she needed to undo anything else. She slowly put the jug to her lips, stopped to reconsider, and took another sip.

About five minutes later, the most amazing thing happened – her button popped off!

It legit popped with a small short snap!

Ms. Johnson hadn’t expected it, obviously, and let out a brief exclamation.

The zipper of her pants immediately unzipped all the way down under the weight of her bulging gut.

And then to add to the brilliant moment – she belched aloud. This time, without the threat of throwing up. It sounded like a perfectly normal belch, one that had been trapped behind that tight waistline and now that her pants were fully undone it was free to escape.

Ms. Johnson put her hand to mouth suddenly, expecting vomit. Instead, a series of loud burps escaped her mouth like a gasket being loosened. They all sounded beautifully disgusting and varied in depth, length, and pitch.

The relief on her face after the explosion of burps ended told me everything – the closed eyes and the little sigh; she had more room now to continue. Despite now having a rounded gut, she had more room to squeeze more milk inside of her.

She took maybe a full minute to sit back and rub her belly, feeling much more relieved, letting out little sighs and overall “recalibrating” herself.

Ms. Johnson was really fucking doing it. I was already satisfied with what I had witness, but she went beyond. She continued pulling through. I realized I didn’t need to see a quick show where she chugged like a frat boy on a party night. I just wanted to see how much she could hold before she gave up. And my God, Ms. Johnson was a tank, an absolute unit. She could pack so much into her. The Chinese food session was just the tip of the iceberg. I now witnessed her full potential.

When she had a quarter of the gallon left, I wanted to scream, “OH MY GOD, YOU CAN DO IT! GO, GO, GO!” It had been a painstaking hour and thirty minutes but every second of it made me hard as a rock. Ms. Johnson’s composure was reaching its limit; she kept needing to take a breather and rub her belly. She had reached the point where she could have been mistaken as being pregnant; there was no way she could have zipped up and buttoned up her pants anymore. Her gut overflowed.

Ms. Johnson leaned over her desk and let out a few more burps, some of them gurgly again. She put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. She moaned, legit moaned, in discomfort. With her other hand, she cradled her belly underneath her desk.

She had to rest her head on her desk. This was quite frankly amazing. She freely made herself vulnerable in my presence. The once composed and professional Ms. Johnson was now a bloated mess moaning and groaning, unable to keep still.

“I think I have to…”

Ms. Johnson got up, and her stomach very audibly gurgled. She regretted making any sudden movements and stopped dead in her tracks. She leaned forward on her desk, gauging what exactly her body wanted to do. Burp? Fart? Something…worse?

She eyed the gallon of milk. Stared at it. Unblinking.

She gripped the handle and downed the rest of it.

When she finished, she dabbed her mouth with a tissue and plopped into her chair, which creaked loudly under her weight.

“Auuuuuggggggh,” she moaned aloud.

She winced, shutting her eyes and rubbing her painfully stuffed gut.

She actually fucking did it.

Ms. Johnson completed the gallon milk challenge.

She was now so bloated that her shirt was starting to ride up her belly, revealing half of her belly button. Her stomach swelled right before my eyes with every second that passed since she finished the gallon.

I uttered a bizarre sound from my mouth. It was like I had orgasmsed in disbelief. I immediately blushed and shut my mouth, clearing my throat loudly in hopes that she didn’t hear the strange sound I produced.

Ms. Johnson was too busy feeling bloated to have paid attention to me.

I looked at the clock; we were over time. She didn’t seem to notice though. For a moment I wondered if I needed to help her. She really did look in pain, wincing and groaning and turning in her seat.

The session could have ended there. I had nothing else to do that day (except your usual homework and wondering what my future would be like for the next four years, but who wanted to do that?). I completely disregarded any possible awkward conversations my mom might have wondering what took me so long if I stayed for another hour…or two. Right now, the only person who mattered was Ms. Johnson.

Ms. Johnson slowly got up and went for the couch. I was worried she might see behind the setup around my crotch, but she didn’t. She slowly bent down to lie down on the couch on her back. Her belly looked unreal – it stuck out like a round hilltop while the rest of her body looked “normal” in the sense of proportion. The open pants fly looked like the aftermath of some destruction. Then again, her pants were actually destroyed – the button was somewhere to the side of me on the floor having broken off entirely.

She didn’t say anything about ending the session. I wondered if she had the same idea for us to keep going. She glanced at me again and seemed to share this sentiment. I got the sense that we both wanted to see where this would go. The momentum had been great. I was clearly still enjoying this.

Some thirty minutes over our usual session time, her stomach made ungodly noises. Gurgles, rumbles, trembles. She moaned every now and then, shifting positions and rubbing her belly.

Thirty more minutes of watching this beautiful muse stretched out on the couch…and she let off a sudden loud and abrasive fart. God, the sound of it was unlike last session. That sound was nasty. There are farts and then there’s ripping ass. There’s like a whole hierarchy of terms in my head to categorize the types of farts. Toots and poofs were the small inconsequential stuff. The petty small sounds that don’t do anything for me. Passing gas to me indicated it could have been silent. A “fart” was a well-rounded audible blast. And then “ripping ass” or “blowing ass” was where the money was – the real meaty and notable stuff that I craved. Ripping ass implied a certain lack of control, a certain sound, a certain bodily implosion. It conjured up a mental image of a woman trying desperately to let it out quietly by leaning to one side in her seat, but it still comes out as a loud eruption against the hard surface of the chair.

Ms. Johnson was fucking ripping ass in front of me. Her reactions told me that she herself wasn’t expecting them to be so loud. Her eyes lit up as her ass blasted a cacophony of trumpets and trombones. I knew they were getting too big for her to handle when she had to subtly lift a leg off the couch.

Ah, the leg lift – a staple of ripping ass.

For a very brief moment I cringed at the thought of it, only because many of the rowdier boys there at my school liked to lift a leg before announcing a fart. Lifting one’s leg was this weird symbolical gesture of farting, sometimes a sign of domination. I didn’t quite think of it like that. I thought of it more in terms of the gas being so big that one had to make more room to let it out, to feel the ecstasy of relief.

Leg-lifting felt exclusively like a juvenile thing to do. The fact that Ms. Johnson did it too drove me wild. She had stripped herself of her professionalism and reduced herself to the basest form of bodily functions by willingly lifting her leg to rip obscene, terrible farts.

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

“Uff,” she said, and I swore I felt her relief after hearing that deep and bassy eruption.

She moaned some more and tried to relief herself of the discomfort by lying on her side, facing me. A few farts later, she tried lying on her other side, ass facing me. I honestly couldn’t tell which position was best. I loved seeing the expression on her face when she farted, but I also loved seeing her ass and feeling like I was witnessing a private moment when she didn’t know I was there.

I suppressed the urge to reach out and caress her ass, to rub her belly, to just feel her between my fingers. I often felt that urge when looking at pictures, whether art or real photographs. These sessions were making me think of things I never fully realized before. This “phantom” pain of a desire to touch her tortured me. Did I miss something in my development? Maybe my mother weaned me too early in life? I clenched my hands repeatedly imaging something there. Her ass looked so huge that it probably covered the entire width of my outstretched hand.

We had been there in her office for so long that the sun started to wane through the window blinds – evening was approaching.

Ms. Johnson had been lying with her back to me for quite some time, and then I started to realize something…

“Ms. Johnson?” I said. “Are you awake?”

Ms. Johnson stirred. She then sat up suddenly, her hair mildly disheveled.

“Oh my God,” she said, squinting. “I’m so sorry. I dozed off.” She checked her wristwatch. “Oh my God! You need to leave.”

Ms. Johnson being so unkempt felt so unnaturally that I almost scoffed in disbelief. She turned off the machine, checked her laptop, then realized her pants were nearly falling down, so she strained to zip them up and button them again – but she could only zip up her pants. She let that be and said, “I’ll step out now. You can leave right away once you’re ready.”

When I stepped out after putting away the circumferential transducer, I hadn’t expected her to be standing so close to the door. We both let out an awkward “Oh,” and played a game of who-will-step-aside-first before she finally stepped aside for me.

The whole thing made me feel as though we had just had sex – two partners stepping out of an office and appearing nervous, rushed, and flushed.

“I’ll see you later, Jason,” she said, smiling.

No matter what we did in those sessions, she ended it with the most pleasant and composed smile.