The Anchor's Throne Pt. 01

The studio hummed with pre-broadcast energy. Cameras were rolling into position, lights flickering to life, crew members shouting over one another. Laura stood poised near the anchor desk, her black dress hugging her curves, her expression a mix of nerves and determination. It was her first day as my network's star presenter, and I'd been watching her every move from the control room, my headset buzzing with updates. She was flawless on paper, sharp, charismatic, and a ratings magnet. But something was off. She looked... restrained.

"Laura, do you like everything?" I asked through the intercom, my voice cutting through the din.

"Huh?" She flinched, her cheeks flushing as she glanced up at the control room window. My question seemed to throw her, and she tugged at her dress, shifting uncomfortably.

I frowned. I'd given her everything a new presenter could ask for. Top tier salary, a custom set, and even creative control. So why the hesitation? "If there's anything you're unhappy with, can I help you with it?" I pressed, leaning closer to the monitor. "I want you to feel good about my channel. I'll do anything for you."

Laura played with her hair, her gaze skittering away. "If you're really willing to do 'anything,' then..." She paused, biting her lip. "There was a man at my last job... Actually, I didn't call him a man. He was a pathetic loser. I blew him off constantly, but... Shit, can I really say this?"

"Don't be embarrassed," I said, forcing a smile even as my palms grew slick with sweat. This conversation was turning into a racy one. "I told you I can help."

She exhaled, her voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "Anyway, this guy kept hitting on me, begging to serve me. So I started using his face as a seat, just for laughs, you know? I'd sit on him every time I went on air. Creepy, right?"

"No, it's cute," I croaked, my throat tightening. The image, Laura, regal and commanding, perched atop some desperate fool while delivering the news, sent a jolt through me. She brightened at my response, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

"He couldn't get a job here, so I've lost him," she said, almost wistfully. "But I'm used to broadcasting with someone under me. It's how I get in the zone. I'm not sure I can be as effective without it."

"Should I hire him?" I asked, coughing to cover the tremor in my voice.

Laura wrinkled her nose. "God, no. He's a loser. I'd rather not see him again. I'd be more comfortable sitting on another face..." Her eyes flicked up to meet mine through the glass. "Yours, for instance. But that's a lot to ask, isn't it?"

My heart stuttered. "No... It's... It's possible."

Her smile widened, a glint of mischief sparking in her gaze. "Good to know," she said, then turned back to the set with a skip in her step, leaving me dizzy with the weight of her words.

I was the director of this network. The authority figure. Was I really about to let my new anchor turn me into her personal seat?

The broadcast was a triumph. Laura's debut drew raves from the crew and a flood of social media buzz. She strode off set with her head high, heels clicking sharply against the floor, and I intercepted her in the hallway, still riding the high of her success. And the undercurrent of dread her earlier suggestion had planted.

"So," she said, leaning against the wall with a casual air, "how'd I do?"

"Perfect," I replied, shoving my hands into my pockets to hide their shaking. "You owned it."

"Thanks." She tilted her head, studying me with those piercing eyes. "But I meant what I said earlier. I don't think I can keep that energy up without... you know."

I swallowed hard. "You were serious?"

"Dead serious." She stepped closer, her spicy perfume enveloping me, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "It's not just a habit, it's a power thing. Having someone under me, feeling them submit, struggle, it's what makes me shine. And I think you'd be perfect for it."

"Laura, I'm the director..."

"Exactly," she cut in, her lips curling. "If anyone's face deserves to be my throne, it's the boss's. Don't you agree?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but she grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the dressing room. "Come on. We're testing this now."

The door clicked shut behind us, and Laura pointed to a plush leather chair in the corner. The one she used to rehearse her lines. "Lie down and set your head against the seat," she ordered.

"What?" I stammered, my pulse racing.

"You heard me. I want your head right here..." she patted the chair "so I can sit on you properly. It'll last longer this way, and I need to see if it works." Her tone was firm, unyielding, and something in her gaze made my resistance crumble. I sank to the floor, positioning myself as she'd instructed. My head resting against the edge of the chair, tilted back slightly, vulnerable.

"Good boy," she purred, smoothing her dress before lowering herself onto me. Her weight settled deliberately, her thighs clamping, pinning me against the chair's cushion. The fabric of her dress stretched by her heavy and full ass cheeks, smothered me, and her scent, rich, musky and intoxicating, flooded my world.

"Comfortable?" she asked, wiggling her butt to adjust her position. My muffled grunt was all I could manage, but she didn't care. "This is perfect. The chair keeps you steady, I could sit here for hours."

She shifted, and then a low, rumbling vibration pulsed through her.

Pffrt!

A fart, hot and sharp, blasted against my face. I flinched, a choked noise escaping me, but her cheeks tightened around my nose and face, locking me in place.

"Oops," she giggled, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "Forgot to warn you about that. It's part of the deal, keeps things lively. Now, inhale it. All of it."

I hesitated, my pride screaming, but she ground her ass down harder against my warm face. "Do it," she snapped. "I don't want the smell spreading, it'll bother and distract me during the broadcasts. Breathe it all in." Seeing no way out, I obeyed, drawing the pungent gas into my lungs, the acrid smell searing my senses. She hummed in approval. "Good. That's how you serve me."

Laura didn't let up. She leaned forward, lifting slightly to peer down at me, her smirk wicked. "Open your mouth."

"What?" I gasped, dazed from the onslaught.

"You heard me. Open it. Now." Her tone sharpened, and when I hesitated, she pressed back down, grinding her ass against my face. "Don't make me repeat myself."

I parted my lips, and she grinned.

PPFRRBLLT!

Another fart, this one louder and wetter, erupted directly into my mouth, the taste bitter and overwhelming. I gagged, my body twitching involuntarily, but she didn't flinch. "Eat it," she commanded. "Swallow the whole thing, every bit of the gas. I don't want a trace of it escaping. You're my fart filter, do you understand?"

I choked, struggling to comply, but my squirming only irritated her. Without warning, her heel shot down, slamming into my balls with a precise, punishing kick. Pain exploded through me, and I yelped into her, the sound muffled in her ass.

"Stop twitching," she hissed, still seated firmly. "You distract me when you move like that. Keep still, or I'll kick your pathetic balls again."

I froze, my eyes getting teary, and forced myself to swallow the lingering fart, the humiliation burning as hot as the ache between my legs. She settled back, satisfied. "Much better. You'll learn to stay still and obey my commands without hesitation or struggling."

For what felt like an eternity, she stayed on my face, testing her new setup. She'd fart, sometimes soft and teasing, sometimes loud and commanding, and each time, she'd bark her orders: "Inhale it. Smell it. Eat it. Swallow." If I so much as flinched, her heel would find my balls again, swift and merciless, keeping me in line. The chair held me steady, prolonging her dominance, and by the time she finally stood, my face was red and flushed, my mind a haze of submission.

The next broadcast was a game changer. Laura demanded I join her on set, hidden beneath a custom desk she'd had modified overnight. A low platform beneath the anchor table, just big enough for me to lie with my head propped against a padded brace she'd dubbed "her throne." The crew, ignorant of its true purpose, raised eyebrows on the weird desk but said nothing when I gave it the green light. I was the director, after all.

They didn't know I spent the hour with her ass planted on my face, her dress hiked up, her bare ass pressing me tight and snug, into the brace.

She delivered the news with unshakable poise, her voice steady even as she unleashed a silent, searing fart midway through a segment. "Inhale it," she whispered under her breath, barely audible over the teleprompter's hum. I did, sucking in the acidic gas as she'd trained me, my nose and lungs burning with the effort. "Good boy," she muttered, shifting to grind harder and get more comfortable on me.

When a story made her laugh and bounce lightly, my face slipped a little, she felt me twitch beneath her and retaliated instantly. Her foot, hidden beneath the desk, drove into my balls with a muffled thud. I opened my mouth but bit back a groan, my balls flaring up,

PPPrrffssstst!

She'd let rip another silent but heavy fart in the same moment, right in my mouth. Despite the burning pain in my balls I quickly swallowed it, the taste coating my throat. "No distractions," she hissed, then seamlessly returned to her script.

Between segments, she'd lean back, lifting slightly to taunt me. "You're my secret weapon," she'd whisper, patting my head through the desk. "My little fart filter, who helps me stay focused." The brace kept my head locked in place, ensuring I couldn't escape her weight or her commands, and by the end of the hour, I was trembling, broken, and utterly hers.

Our routine crystallized. After every broadcast, Laura hauled me to the dressing room, shedding her clothes to revel in her beauty and dominance. "Head back," she'd say, and I'd obey, without any resistance, settling against the chair as she sat, her bare ass enveloping my face.

She'd experiment. Farting with my mouth closed, then open, giggling as I struggled to follow her rules. "Inhale it all," she'd demand, her voice a blend of amusement and authority. "Swallow it whole, don't let it spread." If I faltered, her foot lashed out, a sharp kick to my balls reminding me of my role. "You're here to serve me, not distract me," she'd snap, then relax with a contented sigh.

One night, she lingered longer, script pages spread across her lap as she reviewed the next day's broadcast. "These sessions take hours," she mused, shifting her weight. "I hate getting up, it breaks my focus." She glanced down at me, a wicked idea sparking. "Open your mouth."

I obeyed, conditioned by now, expecting another fart. Instead, a warm, steady stream hit my tongue. Her piss, sharp and salty, flowed freely as she relieved herself in my mouth without rising. I choked as the salty, bitter sweet liquid filled my mouth, my eyes widening, but her thighs tightened around my head, pinning me and not allowing me to move my head at all.

"Swallow it," she ordered, her tone casual but firm as she flipped a page. "I'm not getting up just to pee, you're my toilet now. It is comfortable, convenient and I don't have to waste time moving to and back from the toilet." I gagged, the taste overwhelming, but she pressed down harder. "All of it. Don't spill a drop, or I'll kick your balls senseless."

I forced it down, gulp after gulp, as she continued reading, unfazed. A fart followed, wet and loud, and she sighed. "Eat that too, swallow it whole. I don't want the smell ruining my vibe." The gas mixed with the remaining liquid in my mouth and I slightly twitched, which earned me another swift kick to the balls, pain lancing through me as she tutted. "Still fidgeting, damn it. You're my chair, my filter, my toilet. Act like it."

She stayed for hours, peeing whenever the urge struck, each time instructing me to drink it down while she focused on her work. "This is perfect," she said, scribbling notes. "I can focus on the important stuff, and you will handle everything else. Farts, piss, all of it. My little multitasking throne." Another light kick to my balls punctuated her words as I squirmed, and she laughed, rocking her ass to grind my nose and face deeper between her cheeks.

The power shift was absolute. I was the director in title only. Backstage, on air, I was Laura's seat, her filter, her toilet. She'd turned my authority into her playground, and with every fart I ate, every stream I swallowed, every kick I endured, I sank deeper into her dominion. The chair, the desk and the dressing room, they were her empire, and I was the man beneath her, reshaped to her whims.

To be continued...