Vernon Dursley lay stiff in bed, his bloodshot eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as the night crept on. The room was quiet, save for the occasional soft rustle of sheets and the faint, rhythmic breathing of his wife, Petunia. Vernon loved her dearly, but as she lay there, twitching in her sleep, she resembled a bloated swamp creature exhaling the rancid gases of a stagnant bog.
The silence shattered with a wet, rumbling burst, the first of many. Petunia’s backside erupted in a squelchy, gurgling fart that was thick and moist, the kind of sound that was more liquid than air. It sloshed out of her with a sickening wetness, heavy and grotesque, splattering the quiet with a filthy, swampy slickness. Each fart was a new, swampy explosion, bloated and sopping, leaking out like a saturated sponge squeezed of its swampy muck, drenching the air with its sticky, nauseating presence.
Petunia’s sleeping face twitched slightly, her mouth slack, her nostrils flaring gently with each release, as if she were savoring the putrid swamp erupting from her. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, completely unaware of the repulsive bog she was manifesting beneath the covers. The farts kept coming, one after another, a relentless parade of wet explosions, each wetter and squishier than the last. They filled the air with a thick miasma of swampy stink, the wetness so palpable Vernon swore he could feel it clinging to his skin, seeping into the sheets.
The stench was unbearable—thick, suffocating, hanging in the room like a filthy vapor that clung to his throat. Vernon gagged, struggling against the swampy fog that seemed to coat everything in an invisible, grimy residue.
Petunia’s final fart of the night ripped through the silence with a sickening, wet splatter that drenched the room in an audible slickness, a grotesque sound that could only be described as swampy sludge erupting from the depths. The squelch was unbearably moist, spraying rancid droplets into the air, as if her backside had transformed into a leaking, festering swamp. The splutter was so wet and sloppy, you could almost hear the liquid splatter staining the fabric of her nightgown, soaking it through with the foul, oozing wetness that seemed to slosh and drip endlessly.
The sound dragged on, each squishy second more revolting than the last, as if her body were squeezing every last drop of bog water from the most putrid of swamps. It was a bubbling, sloshing explosion that made Vernon's skin crawl, each droplet imagined in his mind, staining the bed with an unseen but utterly felt dampness. Petunia’s nightgown surely bore the brunt of this swampy assault, the fabric soaked through with the wetness of her grotesque release, clinging to her like the muck of a festering bog.
As the final dribble of the fart oozed out, Petunia remained blissfully unaware, her lips twitching into a faint, satisfied smile, her body serene in the swampy aftermath. Vernon, however, was trapped in the vile, humid air, his nostrils assaulted by the thick, putrid stench that clung to him like a second skin. He buried his face into his pillow, desperately trying to block out the wet, sloshing nightmare that had become his nights, drowning in the unbearable swampy horror that his beloved wife had become in her sleep.