The Filthy Hermit

The lasso cinched firm around Renée's ankles and instantly yanked her legs out from under her, not so much felling her as flinging her hard to the ground. Her book flew from her hands with a busy rustling of pages. She landed face down, falling so fast she wasn't even able to bring up her arms to catch herself. More slack came out of the rope and she was dragged a few feet along the ground, toward the trunk of the tree the Filthy Hermit's apparatus had been built on.

Something was wrong, though, because the lasso wasn't lifting her up, only pulling her along the ground. Looking on from his hiding place at the sapling, the Filthy Hermit immediately saw the problem: the branch anchoring the rope to the ground, which he'd expected to snap when the trap was sprung, had held. Because of this not all the slack had gone out of the rope and it was only free to exert lateral, not upward, pull. He would have to remedy this quickly, so he shambled from the sapling over to the branch.

Meanwhile Renée lay inert, knocked silly. She rolled over on her side, visibly in pain, and clutched at her chest, gulping and gasping hollowly, wide-eyed with fear: her fall had knocked the wind out of her and, having never experienced this before, she was terrified that she was suffocating. At the same time her flight instinct kicked in and she wriggled her legs, struggling to lift herself up so she could run. But the taut vine bound her ankles together and she studied it in frightened confusion. At first she seemed like she was going to try and escape her sudden bondage—not that it would help, the Filthy Hermit gloated silently—but her panic over having her air stolen out of her consumed her, and a moment later she was clutching at her throat and thrashing miserably, desperate to breathe.

The Filthy Hermit kicked the branch and it snapped easily. The vine yanked Renée into the air by her feet with a quick jerk so hard her body's momentum sent her into the air. The vine went slack for a pregnant moment as she hung weightless in the air, completely at a loss what was happening to her. Then she fell back down, hard enough that the vine—which was only supposed to have enough slack to hang her upside down in the air, her head a foot or two off the ground—stretched, and the high branch it was threaded over bent. As a result her head cracked against the ground with enough force to make the Filthy Hermit wince as he looked on. She still hadn't recovered her breath and she dangled limply, one hand pressed against her forehead where she'd banged it into the ground, teeth gritted in pain, eyes lazy with confusion. Then she managed a pair of labored breaths and in an instant she was thrashing around like a fish on the end of a hook.

Hanging upside down her miniskirt flipped over its waistband so it hung around her sides and navel and her hips, posterior and pelvis were exposed, except for a pair of sheer pink panties that matched her miniskirt. The Filthy Hermit gazed at her in this impromptu state of dishabille and lust raged in him, stronger than before, because now he wasn't merely peering at her as she walked by. She was ensnarled and soon he'd be able to do with her as he liked.

Now that she was beginning to get her wits about her, such as they were, the first thing she tried was not to fumble at the rope binding her ankles but to press uselessly at her miniskirt, at first the front and then back over her exposed lower torso. Of course, without gravity on her side there wasn't much she could do; if she pulled one hem over her backside it left her pubis exposed; if she pulled on both her blouse would settle on the underside of her quivering breasts, baring her slim stomach and threatening to expose her ripe bosom. Any chick stupid enough to waste these precious few moments right after springing a trap trying to cover herself instead of trying to escape when this would probably be her last chance—a chick that stupid deserved everything the Filthy Hermit was going to do to her.

Renée was hanging in the balance between freedom and captivity; now was the time to put her down for the count. The Filthy Hermit climbed out of the bushes in a frenzy, stumbling as though crazed, and lurched over to his captured swan. She was gently swaying and slowly rotating, one hand fumbling with her skirt, and as he rose up to her, stealthily but quickly, she froze and sniffed. Her wriggling quieted as she recognized the same foul odor that had so haunted her these past few weeks on the path, and the pieces started falling into place for her.

She turned, having to swing her shoulders to do so, and saw the Filthy Hermit padding towards her—morbidly obese, streaked in grease and sweat, smeared with thick grime and flakes of offal from the animals he'd killed in the wild. Rotted semen was caked on his fly-buzzed dugs and stuck to the inside of his hirsute, fat-addled legs where it had drained from his black testicles. Renée, her face already scrunched up in fear and loathing from the sudden shock of her circumstance and the unwelcome visitation of that familiar, horrific odor, shifted into blind panic on seeing the Filthy Hermit. Her eyes went wide, glossy with white, and her chest filled up, mustering a scream.

The Filthy Hermit alighted on his prey. By glorious design what he coveted most about her was now most available, and he turned her about briskly by her jiggling hips to present her quivering rumpcakes, bare well above the fold of her thighs, their shape retained in the tight clean white-with-pink-trim panties she wore. They were firm and healthy. He would need to inseminate both of her other main fuckholes, to see if she was worthy. And then there was the need to examine her tolerance for pain, as well as her willingness to exult the Dark Lord. There would be much to discover about the young missy in the next few days.

"But first," said the Filthy Hermit, speaking to the entities in his head, "the scent." He'd not heard his own voice in years.

With one hand holding Renée steady on her left bottomcheek, and the other fighting off her fumbling wrists—which were by turns trying to schoo him away or, once again uselessly, push her tiny skirt over her demi-nude rear end—the Filthy Hermit plunged his face into the crack of Renée's fanny. From what he'd learned of Renée's lifestyle he knew her butt would be fresh and she was, smelling only of the cotton of her undies, the natural sweet fragrance that a girl her age emits, and a hint of perfume and talcum powder.

Her soft buttocks warmed and soothed the sides of the Filthy Hermit's greasy snout and he leaned into his task, first running his flared nostrils in long and heavy strokes along the fold of her bottom-side, and then pumping hot fast breaths over her tender anus and pantied quim, almost pants, meanwhile dabbing his sniffing face over her creamy ass. When he desisted for a moment and pulled back to admire her little rump up close, he saw he'd left a streak of green and yellow snot on the seat of her underpants.

"Smell the girl," the Filthy Hermit muttered. He massaged her bottomcheeks greedily with both hands, no longer concerned about her attempts to push him away or move her skirt back up over her violated hindquarters. "Sniff her pretty butt."

"Nnnggh," groaned Renée, "No." She wriggled and gritted her teeth, struggling, but the Filthy Hermit had her at too much of a disadvantage. Her thrashing did cause her tush to wobble tastily, though. The Filthy Hermit started biting her on her half-naked fanny. He'd sniff her and then give her a good chomp, holding her fast at both sides so she couldn't flinch away but so he could feel her try, feel her hips twitch and spasm and jerk ineffectually against his clutched, tensed fists. He didn't chomp hard enough to break her skin, but hard enough to hurt a little, to make her jump and protest bitterly—"Ow!"—and scare her. This was particularly true since the Filthy Hermit growled and hissed as he nibbled at her, and he looked so like an animal in his coat of filth, his godless nudity, his exposed, erect, disease-ridden genitalia, that she had no way of knowing what his limits were. Would he bite her flesh? Would he bite it off? Was it his intention to—gulp—physically consume her as prey? She had no way of knowing.

"Now she can sniff mine," the Filthy Hermit said eagerly.

With dizzying disregard for the unspeakable obscenity of his actions, the Filthy Hermit clutched Renée's hair on one side, turned away from her and squatted, aiming his slime-encrusted ass at her. Still holding her head steady with one hand, which was now extended out behind him, the Filthy Hermit reached around to grasp her hair on the other side of her head, holding her fast. She stared into a complex of great, wiry asshair with clumps of unidentifiable meat stuck between the follicles. There was also a heaving mass of hair on the small of the Filthy Hermit's back, tufting out between two hanging, saggy, wrinkly lovehandles. But worst of all was the nest of dingleberries ringing the Filthy Hermit's asshole, slick like black caviar; it was plainly the biggest part of the reason the Filthy Hermit stank so much.

The scream Renée was just beginning to vent was squelched in this nest of dung residue when the Filthy Hermit, part bending back, part bringing Renée's face closer to him, pressed Renée's face deeply into his unwashed asscrack. At first this stifled her scream because it so filled her with horror she couldn't exhale. A great quail of fear and nausea resounded through her like a roll of thunder and she could only quake at the end of her rope, her breath halting in absolute systemic meltdown. Her scream caught in her throat, she gestured to push against the Filthy Hermit, raising her hands to his buttocks. But his flesh so repelled her she couldn't will herself to touch it. She shook her hands fretfully and tried to turn her head—the Filthy Hermit could feel her neck tense up—as he nestled his moist buttocks on either cheek of her face, sliding her nose into his moist, noxious crack with a sickening squish.

oh, god.

Renée loosed a muffled shriek as her scream was lost in the dank horror of the Filthy Hermit's anus, and her voice gave way to a sudden wrack of revulsion, this being the most sudden and disgusting indignity she'd ever been forced to endure. Her scream vibrated lusciously in the Filthy Hermit's sensitive crack, tickling his spine.

She was surprisingly docile, given how awful this must have been for her; she twisted her shoulders and hips, almost struggling, and her neck was constantly tensed up, so desperate was she to pull away from him. She'd found the resolve, after all, to press her hands against his buttocks and she alternated between trying to push back from him and knocking the heel of her hand against him. But it seemed as though the reality hadn't yet registered, that she was lolling around in what she still hoped might turn out to be a bad dream.

The Filthy Hermit groaned in gratification. He moved his hips to work Renée's twitching nose against his sphincter. The more she struggled, the more deeply he forced her into his fecal patch. "I haven't wiped in so long."

The Filthy Hermit had Renée's slickening face squeezed so tight up his asscrack the bridge of her nose massaged his prostate, making his hard cock throb. Some of the filth in his crack was dry—it rolled hotly between his cheek and Renée's, stinging like a grain of sand—and some was newer; it greased smooth tracks for Renée's scrunched-up face to follow as it traveled over the vile surface of the Filthy Hermit's wide, unwashed ass.

By combining an up-and-down motion of its forearms with a back and forth motion of its hips, the Filthy Hermit nodded Renée's face against his black, reeking anus. A pair of strong, jarring twitches rifled through her inverted body and her arms went limp, dangling at either side of her head, she being too shocked, evidently, to even struggle.

"Mpfh," she gasped. The Filthy Hermit's hairy skin muzzled her entreaties. The Filthy Hermit bobbed playfully, bouncing his ass on the petite nostrils of Renée's topsy-turvy nose. "No," she protested, her mewl muted rhythmically against the Filthy Hermit's lumpy sphincter.

He loosed a vile, rotted blast of flatulence like a balloon deflating, an out-board motor starting up. "Oh, God, no!" cried Renée. The Filthy Hermit held her pretty face in his ass and squeezed his gassy rectum. The pitch of his trumpeting asshole picked up and Renée started shaking all over and coughing. Instantly the Filthy Hermit could smell it like weeks-old cabbage, and could only imagine what kind of choking stench was meeting poor Renée, pressed against his expelling anus.

She heaved. Perceiving at once what was coming, the Filthy Hermit swapped Renée's head to one hand and held her at the side, turning her awkwardly to point her open mouth to the ground. This made her look even more like a lured fish. With a grunt, a gush and a splash she barfed, leaving a pancake-sized puddle of watery girl-puke on the path. He held the rest of his fart while she spasmed twice more, dryly, and coughed a few deep, cheek-puffing coughs. Once she was done he restored her face to his backside and continued draining on her. During the long series of short, sharp afterfarts he was blasting her with between her eyes he felt a long trembling quiver overtake her. Then her tense neck went slack in his hands.

Having been thrown face-first into the ground, upended, and yanked by her feet with such force that she was thrown face-first into the ground again; having been exposed below the waist against her will and molested until her underpants were soiled; having been pressed into the stench of the Filthy Hermit's vile ass until her nostrils were thick with it; having totally upchucked but still being racked with nausea in her waving stomach, her head heavy from the sickly-sweet blood rush of being hung upside down—heavy-lidded under the weight of all these afflictions, she fainted.

Ah, good. He'd been having his fun but in the middle of the path his chances of being discovered were quite high. He put her over his shoulder like a sack of mulch, cut the rope holding her upside down (but left the cuff of rope tied around her ankles) and made off with her to his shack, where so much awaited her.