Frankie's make-out session

Frankie, recovering from the tickles towards his armpits rather quickly, began to take control. He realized that you were no ordinary jobber, and actually applauded your effort for trying to outdo him. "Y'know," he said, his thick Staten Island accent coming out as he slicked back his greasy and somehow musky pompadour, "I appreciate your effort. You're no ordinary jobba. So I'm gonna give you an extraordinary way to go out, cuz."

He turns you over, after your feeble body tries to pin him down for the last couple of minutes, and he rests his dick on your chest while he lies on top of you. He opens his mouth close to you, and whispers something sultry in your ear, his bad breath making you recoil quite easily. "Call me~" he whispers, followed by his manager's number, to set up a fight in the future. Then, he starts French-kissing (or should I say Italian?) you, his bad breath making you queasy from how it's being forced in your mouth. "Ey, gift from mama bird came," he said, before burping directly into your mouth twice; the first being a raunchy, loud burp while the second sounded more silent and crunchy. "Enjoy my hoagie, cuz," he said, before stepping on your chest, his size-11 feet making you heave a bit before turning around and squatting over your chest. "Now papa bird's gotta lay an egg, ya feel me?" He said, letting out a twelve-second, raunchy fart that sounded like a whole fanfare. A couple airy farts followed after, but nothing compared to the sheer musk of the first one.

PHHHRRRRRRHHHHHAAAAPPPPPPPPPPT!! Phhh..phh..h

You couldn't stop sputtering, and you eventually passed out as the scent of his eggy, hoagie farts filled the room. He continued to stay, perched on your ass, until the referee told him it was time for him to go. When you woke up later, he was gone with nothing but his musky jock strap in your face and his ass-sweat imprinted onto you heavily.