As you suckle on the janitor bigfoot's thick, shit-slimed digits, you take another whiff of that last fart from him. It really fucking reeks! It's not rancid, but it's musky and powerful, strong enough to choke the air. As well as stinking to high hell, another fart from the janitor's swelling backside confirms that the changing room is getting warmer. Between the farts and your sweaty bodies in such close proximity, within minutes, it's like a sauna. Sweat oozes from your every pore, only intensifying the room's malodorous stench.
The ex-janitor's transformation completes with a guttural, shit-smeared belch, allowing you to inspect the real deal. He's thick, gray-furred, with hands and feet larger than an average forearm, and a belly that dwarfs your own. In fact, you'd say that if you're the average bigfoot, then this guy could be your father. For lack of knowing his actual name, you settle on calling him such. At least until you get out of the costume.
Dad lifts one leg and rips another massive, fuming fart, spittling shit onto the foggy mirror behind him as he does so. Once a dim grin of satisfaction crosses his face, he plants the raised foot right back into the shitpile you two made.
Not to be outdone, you focus on your gurgling gut. Luckily, it seems the costume provides your every scatological need, because you fart so loudly that it cracks the changing room mirror. Or maybe the stink did that. Who knows, really. The important thing is that Dad seems way more focused on inhaling your ass-gas than thinking he'll ever out-fart the alpha bigfoot again. You sniff proudly, half-gagging, knowing that victory is yours!
But seriously, it's time to exit this changing room before you both run out of oxygen. You do so, dragging your reluctant furry father behind you. He really doesn't want to leave the vile comforts of his rebirthing place, but with a commanding glare, he follows meekly. You two leave a trail of shitty and sweaty footprints as you walk, but don't get far.
Another customer of the store comes out of the adjacent changing room. He looks like a lumberjack, an older man, with a scraggly black beard and wearing red flannel. If it weren't for the unfortunately humanish features and lack of fur, he could be a bigfoot himself. You're unsure if it's a costume, or if he didn't even get the chance to try on anything yet.
"Guhnhmduhh, umhuhfartsss..." The man's eyes are entirely glazed over, cock in both hands. You watch as you and Dad's stink spirals and infests the lumberjack's nostrils, as if searching for a host to take over. "Stinnkkkyyyyyy farrrtttyyyyy, ggheeeehheheheh..." In a captivating display, the lumberjack drops to his knees and sprays cum all over the pile of shit you two made. Your collective farts stop assaulting the poor man, but it's too late for him. Spiral-eyed and smiling dopily, he snorts at the tainted air, until his gaze settles onto you. You fart, clouding the air behind you. You take a whiff, Dad takes a whiff, and the lumberjack crawls on all fours to suckle on your big toe, cleaning the shit from it. From the look in his eyes, there is only the expectancy of orders. You can see yourself reflected in his glassy-eyed giggle, and you realize how well-equipped you are to give him what he needs.
The clatter of merchandise behind you pulls you from self-contained fantasy. It's a husky father, and his gangly teenage son. They're practically shoving each other aside to get a closer inhale of that last bit of gas from you, and with them comes a sudden epiphany: your bigfoot farts can control men's minds! As the center of a harem you've quickly started building for yourself, you debate your next move.