0 comments/ 4293 views/ 1 favorites Mouche By: Serafina1210 Mouche is a character who appears frequently in my BDSM stories. Readers there seem to be fond of her, and some have asked me about her background. I've been reluctant to write about that, though, for several reasons: first, her story is rather somber compared to what I usually write; second, most BDSM readers aren't terribly fond of her kink (coprophagia); and third, that kink, like many paraphilias, began in childhood, a fact that presents delicate storytelling issues on a site like Literotica, which prohibits depictions of underage sexual activity. Still, Mouche's story has been preying on my mind, and I decided at last that I had to tell it - here in the Fetish category, where up to now I've published only humor pieces. She's an eighteen-year-old college freshman as the story begins. Length: circa 19,400 words (novella). Tags: Lesbian sex, Straight sex, Threesome, Oral sex, Anal sex, Coprophagia, Urolagnia, Slavery, Bondage, Flogging. 1. Mr. Billings Mr. Billings was gorgeous. Not the kind of gorgeous that gets you a chili pepper on that Rate My Professors website, but the kind Amanda liked. He was thin, almost willowy, and pale, with delicate features: a single blue vein shone through the translucent skin of his left temple. Amanda stared at the vein, entranced. "Ms. Kaplan!" said Mr. Billings, abruptly waking Amanda from her reverie. "Yes, sir?" "What do you have to say about Dickens's portrayal of Dora? Amanda was disoriented; she'd lost the thread of the discussion. She said the first thing that came to mind. "She's really pretty, sir." Amanda blushed as her classmates laughed and quickly stifled their laughter. This kind of thing had been happening to her as long as she could remember. She'd blurt an answer to some question, and it wouldn't be just the wrong answer, but totally the wrong kind of answer. Do that often enough, and you get a reputation for weirdness. That reputation had dogged Amanda from K through twelve, and now it looked like it would follow her clear across the continent. Well, she was weird, and in ways her classmates could scarcely have guessed, though her desperate parents knew it all too well. They'd been struggling with it practically her whole life, sending her to a string of psychiatrists, and on one occasion, which was still a barely healed wound in her memory, committing her to St. Joseph's for two weeks. By her senior year of high school her compulsions were under control (her psychiatrist, Dr. Fuller, wouldn't use the word "cured"), and her parents relaxed their vigilance. They encouraged her to apply to East Coast colleges: it would do her good, they said, to experience another part of the country. Amanda would have been happy to go to San Francisco State, but when Fordham accepted her, her parents insisted that she go. Her mother flew with her to New York with the air of a marshal escorting a prisoner, helped her settle, and left her with a perfunctory embrace - she hadn't kissed her daughter in years. Dr. Fuller had told her she had to continue her therapy in New York and provided a list of good psychiatrists in the Bronx, but Amanda hadn't gotten in touch with any of them. She stopped taking her Luvox, too, not liking the way it kept her up at night. Her parents, relieved in their daughter's absence, didn't press her about getting a psychiatrist or ask about her medication. She was eighteen and not really their responsibility anymore. It's not that they didn't care - they were just exhausted. She'd soon started to backslide. It was harmless enough at first - nibbling bits of wax from her ears or wetting her fingers in her stream of urine and licking them: what was the harm? She loved to masturbate, and there was surely no harm in that. She had done it less while taking Luvox, but now she sometimes spent hours at it, alternately rubbing herself and licking her fingers. She loved tasting her wetness as much as she did the orgasms. Her sex was so close to her anus: what was the harm in touching herself there, maybe dipping a finger in a little way and sucking it? On one memorable day, she'd put a finger way inside her, and there had been a spot of brown on it when she'd drawn it out. She'd stared at the spot, mesmerized, for a full minute before putting the finger in her mouth. The bitter taste and the smell had been faint but detectable. That was late October; this was the first Monday after Thanksgiving. She'd spent the break at home with her parents, and at Thanksgiving dinner they'd told her they'd be traveling over Christmas, and they had sublet an apartment in Manhattan for her to stay in while the Fordham dorms were closed. "Go see some shows," her father had said heartily. "Have a good time." She'd understood the underlying message, though; you could accuse Amanda of many things, but lack of sensitivity would never be among them. She'd gotten back to her dorm room on Sunday afternoon: her roommate, with whom she interacted little, wasn't there yet. She'd gone to the bathroom, peed in her coffee mug, and drunk it down thirstily. "Dora is beautiful, of course," said Mr. Billings patiently. "Hers is a fragile, impractical beauty, though. What more can we say on this subject?" He called on a student he could count on to repair the damage Amanda had done. "A word with you, Ms. Kaplan," he said after class, and when she approached him, he said, "Do you have a moment to talk?" She nodded. "Come to my office: it's just down the hall." He waved her into a chair on the other side of his desk. His office door stayed open, as was proper. Mr. Billings was painstakingly correct in his relations with students. "I'm concerned about your performance in this class, Ms. Kaplan," he said. "Your first and second papers were poor: I'd like to see you do well on the last." She couldn't take her eyes off that vein. It was as if she could look through it into his body, see not only the blood pumping, but all the fluids and substances coursing inside him: food being digested, sugar suffused into the bloodstream, waste flushed out, liquids and solids churning through the intestines, glands secreting miraculous chemicals here, mucuses there, moisture conveyed to the skin's surface . . . "Ms. Kaplan," said Mr. Billings, "you seem distracted. Are you all right?" "I'm sorry," she said. She couldn't think of what else to say, except - well, she couldn't say she loved him. She fled, leaving an astonished Mr. Billings staring after her, mouth agape, and returned to her dorm room, where she closed herself in the bathroom and sat on the toilet. After she was finished, she stood for a long time staring at her feces, wreathed in toilet paper, floating . . . With a wrenching act of will, she flushed it all away. She returned to her room, shaken, knowing that she couldn't hold out much longer, but unable to make herself look at Dr. Fuller's list of psychiatrists. "Ms. Kaplan!" said Mr. Billings after class on Wednesday. She approached him and said, "Yes, sir?" In a low voice he said, "Your behavior in class concerns me, Ms. Kaplan. You seem in a trance. Is everything all right? We have an excellent counseling service here . . ." "It's okay, Mr. Billings," said Amanda. "My parents . . . they'll be traveling and I won't be spending Christmas break with them, is all. I'm kind of working through that." "What are you doing for the break?" "They found a sublet for me in Manhattan . . . in Washington Heights." "Will you have a roommate?" "No." It was unsettling, her stare - so direct and unblinking. "A boyfriend, or a friend? Someone local should be in touch." "There's no one, sir." "Give me your cell phone number and the address of the sublet. Someone local should know where you are. I'll call once or twice to check up on you." "Thank you, Mr. Billings." She tore a page out of her notebook and wrote out the address and number in a neat hand. Of course he wouldn't call: he'd want no part of her troubles, any more than her parents did. Amanda didn't do well on her papers and exams. Her mind wandered. Instead of studying, she'd go to the bathroom with her mug, pee in it, and stare into the urine for the longest time before drinking it. She managed to resist that other thing, but it took everything she had . . . she spent a lot of time in the bathroom, just staring at it. She failed two courses, got one D and two Cs, one of them from Mr. Billings, who she suspected had raised her grade out of pity. She'd be on academic probation at the very least: with a record like that, they might not wait till the end of her freshman year to dismiss her. She moved into her sublet - a nicely furnished studio apartment whose owners were spending the holiday in Spain. She went to a neighborhood grocery, bought a large supply of frozen entrées, and stayed in watching TV. It was on Christmas Day that she broke. Her parents were . . . where were her parents? Australia? Austria? Or maybe in California just pretending to be away. They didn't call, and she didn't try to call them. She ate a frozen dinner, undressed, and watched TV - the show scarcely registered with her. She masturbated, pausing frequently to lick her fingers, as she usually did. She wet her finger and worked it into her anus, as far as it would go. She felt something in there: she dug at it, and when she pulled the finger out there was brown under the nail. She resolved not to do it. She went to the bathroom, washed her hands thoroughly, and sat on the toilet, intending to flush it away. But it wouldn't hurt just to look, would it? She got off the toilet, crouched, and defecated on the floor. She stood, turned, and looked, fascinated, wondering why everyone was so repulsed by this. She had never been able to make herself feel that revulsion. Here was the end product of so many of the body's miracles! The food she had eaten yesterday had gurgled in her stomach, been kneaded into a mush, and shoved into her intestines, where it had been slowly processed into the sugars and nutrients that were pulsing through her arteries now, feeding every cell, sustaining her - and here was the result, laid out in front of her, brown and firm, a work of art created by her body. She knelt for a better look. The smell was strong in her nostrils; her mouth watered. Her bottom was dirty: she put a finger there, felt the slick pastiness of it, and pulled the finger away to look at it, the tip brown. She put it in her mouth and licked it clean, savoring the strong bitter flavor. She cleaned her bottom that way, wiping herself with her hand and licking and sucking her fingers. She sat and looked at her shit. There wasn't all that much of it, really, just two medium-sized pieces. She picked up the smaller one: it was warm with her body's warmth and heavy with her body's moisture. She smelled it and nibbled the end. She put it down. She should call one of the psychiatrists on Dr. Fuller's list. They'd be unavailable today, though: she'd call tomorrow. She picked it up and took a bite - a good mouthful - moist, soft, aromatic, and so . . . what she needed right now. She took another bite, and another, till the first turd was gone. It had been so long since she'd felt this good. She picked up the other turd and crammed it into her mouth till she could hardly close her lips. As she held it on her tongue, the room seemed to fade around her, and she became lightheaded. Everything that mattered in the world was there in her mouth. She chewed it slowly and swallowed it little by little as it dissolved in her saliva. She felt euphoric, in a trance, empty, as if everything that made her human had left her, and she didn't have a thought, didn't know who she was, didn't feel anything but the smell, the flavor, the strange sense of her inside being outside, her digestion working in a beautiful circle. She squatted again, strained, and produced a little turd, which she smeared all over her face. She licked her fingers. Her phone rang somewhere out in the apartment. Bedside table. She had a vague sense that she should get it. She stumbled out of the bathroom, found the phone, and stared at it for a few seconds, struggling to remember how to work it. She answered with a slurry "Hello?" Mr. Billings's voice said, "Ms. Kaplan?" "Mmm." "Are you okay? You sound strange." "'M'okay," she said. "'S'just . . ." "Have you been drinking? Using drugs?" "Nn . . . Nn," she said. "Don't go anywhere," he said. "I'm just a few minutes away. Don't leave or do anything." "Nnggh," said Amanda, and fell asleep on the floor. Mr. Billings didn't usually take an interest in his students' personal lives. If he spotted one who seemed to need help he'd alert a dean, who'd provide academic counseling and refer the student, if necessary, to the university's counseling service. He wasn't sure why he hadn't done the same with Amanda Kaplan. Perhaps he had a vague sense that he really could help her. She was pretty - slender, fair skinned, and black haired, with delicate features and a melancholy manner that he found appealing - but his mind wouldn't go any further. He liked to think he was immune to the charms of undergraduates. It was just human decency, that's all. If she was okay - maybe she'd just been sleepy when she answered the phone - then fine. If she was sick he'd take her to the hospital; if on drugs, he'd contact the counseling service. He'd do the right thing, and that would be that. She buzzed him into the building without using the intercom. When she answered the door, he was shocked. She was entirely naked, and groggy, as if she'd just woken up - as in fact she had. Her face was smeared with something brown, and the powerful smell of it told him unambiguously that it was shit. You must decide for yourself whether it was very good or very bad luck that it was Mr. Billings who found Amanda in this state; certainly the outcome would have been different if it had been any of her other professors. He was concerned, as anyone would be, for her well being. But he wasn't repulsed: instead he was aroused, his blood racing and his penis stirring. In an instant the professional wall that separated his personal life from those of his students vanished, like a force field switched off. He rushed into the apartment and closed the door behind him. "Amanda!" he exclaimed. "What have you been doing?" "I'm sorry, sir," she said, sat down on the floor, just inside the door, and began to cry. He squatted beside her. The smell was so strong - he breathed deeply. He reached out, put a finger under her chin, and lifted her head to make her look at him. "What have you done?" he said quietly. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, her voice a faint whisper. "I couldn't help it." "Did you . . . did you eat it?" he asked, hardly daring to hope it was true. "Yes, sir," she whispered. "I'm so sorry." "Let's get you cleaned up," he said briskly, put a hand under her elbow, and made her stand. He looked around, spotted the bathroom, and led her there. "Sit down," he said, pointing to the toilet, and she sat meekly on the closed seat cover while he drew a bath. He found a washcloth and cleaned most of the shit off her face before he let her get in the tub. She was stunningly beautiful - how had he not seen it before? Her eyes dark and wide, so sweet and trusting. He handed her into the bath and questioned her as he washed her face. "Is it just feces?" "No, sir. Everything that comes from the body." "Urine?" "Yes. And earwax, snot, sweat . . . sometimes blood . . ." "I see. Just yours?" "Just mine," she said sadly. "You've wished you could have it from other people?" "Yes," she said in a small voice, ashamed, unable to say that she'd been fantasizing about him. "How long has this been going on?" he asked. "Ever since I can remember," she said. "I've been in therapy all my life." Mr. Billings stared at her, struggling to think clearly. "Have you ever considered the possibility," he said at last, "that it's not an illness, but something else - just the way you're made?" Amanda stared at him. He had such a pretty face: the blue vein was still there, so beautiful. "No," she said. "I'm not saying it's so," he said, "but just suggesting it as a possibility - something to think about. Everyone is hiding some kind of strangeness - some kink. Some people suppress theirs, and some don't. We keep it private, and that's the right thing to do, but it's nothing to be ashamed of." Amanda couldn't assimilate what he was saying: it was too radical a change in her way of thinking. But he was so kind, so gentle . . . "Sir . . ." she began. "Have you cleaned yourself underneath?" he asked, handing her the washcloth. He watched hungrily as she reached between her legs. He pressed down the lever to let the water out of the bath. "Perhaps," he said, his boldness now making his heart thud, loud and rapid, in his chest, "the right thing to do is not to extinguish your kink altogether, but rather to find the boundaries of what you can do safely." He was terrified as he said this, but forced himself to look into her face. He was a good bit older than Amanda, he was beautiful, he was kind . . . she couldn't quite take in what he was saying, but she trusted him. "Yes, sir," she said. "Come here," he said, and held out his hand. She took it, and he guided her out of the bathtub. He lifted the lid of the toilet, said, "Sit," and was thrilled to see how readily she did as she'd been told. "Do you need to pee?" he asked. "You can if you need to." "Thank you," she said, and peed, still looking into his face. The sound of her urine splashing into the toilet overwhelmed all his senses and his intellect: he couldn't think, but only act. He unzipped his pants, pulled himself out, and took aim at her. He was going to tell her to open her mouth, but stopped himself when he saw that she was already staring at his penis, mesmerized, mouth open - not wide, but enough. He could scarcely believe this was happening. He had more than a hundred piss and shit videos, which fueled his masturbation fantasies, but this was a live girl who wanted him to do what he most wanted to do. He peed. His urine splashed against her chin, and he adjusted his aim to get it in her mouth. The room was quiet except for the liquid softly hissing through the urethra, then the splash, the acrid smell rising: it was strong and its heat startled her, and the gurgling, drain-like sound in her mouth aroused her, the knowledge that this was somebody else's pee - Amanda was an other-directed person. She swallowed the wonderful acrid urine, trying not to lose anything. She couldn't quite keep up: some escaped her and ran down between her small breasts, over her belly, through her pubic hair, and into the toilet, where it made a lovely splash. Mr. Billings was sorry when his pee ran out: he'd have saved it up if he'd had any inkling. But he was aroused now - he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to. He picked her up - she weighed almost nothing - and carried her out to the bed, where he laid her on her back, spread her legs, and thrust into her. She was still, almost limp, but wet and ready, and he slid in easily. He had no idea that he was taking her virginity: she'd long ago broken her hymen masturbating, and she was so passive, just letting it happen, aware that she was without protection but too timid to say anything. He felt good inside her, and his eager thrusts stimulated her clitoris. Yes, this was good, but she wanted . . . Mouche She wanted what he wanted. After only a couple of minutes, he pulled out of her, knelt by her head, turned her face towards him, and thrust his engorged penis into her mouth. The sight of her lips around his shaft, her eyes above fixing him with a solemn stare, was so powerful that he came within seconds, a long, throbbing orgasm. He pulled out of her and watched, knowing she'd swallow his semen. She did, too, looking as if it were the best thing in the world, and then waited quietly for whatever would come next. His arousal plummeted, and shame rushed in to fill the void. What had he done? He petted her hair and said, "Are you all right?" She couldn't speak: she just stared at him dreamily. She was more than all right. If she'd been euphoric after eating her own shit, this was way beyond. And now she could intuit the truth of what Mr. Billings had said while she was in the bath: how could something that felt so wonderful be bad? She reached between her legs and touched her clitoris. She rubbed herself gently and just stared at Mr. Billings - at his pale, thin face, the blue vein, the marvelous things she could sense, almost see, smell, and taste, inside his body. He surveyed her, arousal returning to him already as he watched her masturbate, body moving languidly as she stimulated herself. She was so pale, so thin, so needy. And he knew what she needed, her deepest desire - he could give her that. With a tender look he picked her up again and laid her on the tiled floor beside the bed. He squatted above her: her breath came in short gasps as she stared at his anus just above her, and he lowered himself slowly till he felt her lips touch him. She tried to put her tongue in but couldn't, he was too tightly closed, but knowing what he wanted to do, she was patient, and he was too, waiting to feel it moving inside him, and meanwhile enjoying the sensation of her tongue wetting his sensitive tissues. He was getting tired holding this position by the time he felt the feces moving within his rectum, the stretching inside as it descended into his anal canal. His heart rate doubled in a second. It wasn't too late to stop: this wasn't a pornstar or whore, but a college girl, innocent and trusting, maybe not quite right in the head: he looked down at her fingers, moving between her legs, sensed her breath, hot in his crack. It wanted to come out now: he didn't have to do it, exactly, but only to lift himself up a little and let it happen. His anus opened and distended and some brown shit peeked out. She opened her mouth under him, so excited, and put out her tongue: she could just touch it, smell it, taste it. He let it out as slowly and gently as he could, not wanting to overwhelm her. When he felt the turd emerge from him and could sense it was partway out, he tensed his muscles to pinch it off. He waited, and - yes! - felt her lips on him, around it . . . She bit it off and held it in her mouth. Oh, it was better than hers. The flavor of it - she couldn't say how - was so much richer, the excitement of taking it into her mouth just as it slid out of him, warm as his body . . . she chewed and swallowed. She sighed. Hearing her sigh, Mr. Billings pushed, and the rest of his turd slid into her. He climbed off her and watched - God, but her mouth was full! She chewed like a child with too much gum, holding his gaze all the while, and swallowed. Wild with arousal, he climbed over her face again, wasn't careful now, didn't try to aim, but just shat, let it all rope out of him as fast as it wanted to come. He wanted to make a mess of her, to see it all over her beautiful face. She couldn't take it all, it came so fast. When her mouth was full, she bit it off and reached up to take the rest in her hands; but he was off her, eyes glazed, taking it from her, smearing it thickly all over her face, her breasts, her belly. It was too exciting: chewing and swallowing, she touched herself again, not thinking about her shitty hands, and rubbed herself as he thrust his fingers into her mouth and she sucked the shit off them. Still excited, he straddled her face and put his hard cock in her mouth - an inch or so of him was all - and jerked off there inside her, just a few seconds, till he came again, less this time, but it was good, the semen and the shit mixed up in her mouth. He sat beside her and watched her masturbate till she'd come. Then he took her to the bathroom and supervised her cleanup: scrub face and genitals, brush teeth, use mouthwash. He cleaned his penis and wiped his ass with a fresh washcloth. "You can't take care of yourself," he said. "You'll spend the rest of the break with me, and I'll make sure you're all right till the dorms open." He took her to his apartment in the Bronx and kept her there with him. She didn't go out at all, but sat alone while he went to the office or the library. And when he was at home, she was his toilet, drinking all his piss and eating all his shit. She was happy, and she was sure she was in love. 2. Hard If Amanda was in love, Mr. Billings was in torment. A sincere Catholic, he soon discovered that masturbating while having filthy fantasies was very different from actually living them out. He knew he should send her to the counseling service or refer her to a psychiatrist. He believed he was destroying her. But now that he had succumbed to temptation and was using her as a toilet several times a day, how could he save her without destroying himself? He couldn't save her; the best he could do was stop doing what he was doing to her. And the best he could do for himself was put as much distance as he could between the two of them. And so when a dean phoned him on the second of January to ask his opinion about Amanda Kaplan - whether she should be given another semester to try to bring her grades up - Mr. Billings said that he had given her a C in a fit of generosity, and a D would have expressed the quality of her work in his course more accurately. He was quite sure she would never earn a degree from Fordham: if it were his call, he'd say the most charitable course would be to cut her loose immediately. The dean wanted to know if Mr. Billings knew of any extenuating circumstances - psychological problems, say - that, if addressed, would make a difference in her academic performance. Mr. Billings said he knew of none. And so some keys were pressed on a keyboard in the dean's office, and an email was automatically generated. That evening, Amanda cried in Mr. Billings's sympathetic arms. "I don't know what to do," she sobbed into his shirt front. "Go back to your parents, pull yourself together, and have another go at a different college," said Mr. Billings. "I can't go back," she said. "They don't want me." Mr. Billings held her and said nothing. A week later he said to her, "You need to get out. I'd like to take you to a party down in Chelsea this evening. It's a party for people like us - people with kinks. I promise you'll have a good time." The party was terrifying. The room was full of strange people with wild hairstyles, extravagant tattoos, and bizarre costumes of leather or latex. There was strange equipment too - crosses, frames, tables and other things with people bound, cuffed or chained to them. People were doing strange and frightening things: spanking people, whipping them, or having sex right out in the open. Once Amanda saw a woman bending over a bound man, scoring thin shallow cuts on the skin of his chest. She turned away, stomach churning. "Can we go home?" she whispered to Mr. Billings. "Don't worry," he said, scanning the room as if looking for someone. "Everything will be all right." He held her hand tightly and they circulated, watching the scenes while Mr. Billings kept an eye out for the man he was supposed to meet here. The meeting had been difficult to arrange, involving carefully worded queries directed to online acquaintances who shared certain of his interests, visits with a special browser to sites on the dark web, and finally a wary negotiation with a man who identified himself only as Hard. Amanda was frantic by the time Mr. Billings spotted Hard. He didn't look particularly hard: he was heavyset, with a round face that would have been cherubic but for his beard. Mr. Billings recognized him by the beard and his leather pants and leather vest, under which he wore no shirt. Mr. Billings approached him and said, "Hard?" "You're Squeers, then? And this is Amanda," said Hard, looking her up and down. "She'd better be what you said, because I came here all the way from fucking Queens." "She is, and more," said Mr. Billings. "On your fucking knees, babe," said Hard. Amanda clung to Mr. Billings's arm. He gently detached her and said, "Do as he says. Everything will be all right." He put his hands on her shoulders, and she meekly allowed him to guide her to the floor and turn her to face Hard, who was unfastening his tight pants. She turned and pleaded, "Please, Mr. Billings. I don't want to." "I thought you were my good obedient girl. Aren't you my good girl?" He turned her head back towards Hard and said, "Now open your mouth for Hard, Amanda." She'd always obeyed Mr. Billings; she trusted him. She opened her mouth wide and tried not to see Hard's penis just six inches from her face. People were gathering to watch as Hard pissed into Amanda's mouth, filling her to overflowing so the piss spilled out of her onto her sweatshirt. Bending over her, Mr. Billings said, "Swallow it, Amanda; show Hard you can do that." It was horrible to drink the piss of a stranger, but it was unthinkable to disobey Mr. Billings, who had done so much for her. She closed her mouth and swallowed as Hard's piss splashed on her lips. She swallowed again and again until finally Hard wetted her face - forehead, nose, eyes, cheeks. When Hard was empty he started to put himself away, and Mr. Billings said, "She'll eat your shit, you can come in her mouth . . ." "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," said Hard. "She'll do." "Mr. Billings?" said Amanda, very frightened now. "Shh, Amanda," said Mr. Billings, and then said to Hard, "Let me just talk to her a minute." He led her aside and said, "You can't go on staying with me, Amanda. If the university found out, I'd be fired. Hard will take care of you." "But I don't know him, Mr. Billings," she said. "If you can think of anything else to do, then you're welcome to do it. You say you can't go home. I can't keep you, and I can't turn you out onto the street, so I've made this arrangement for you." "But Mr. Billings . . ." "There's nothing to discuss, Amanda. I don't have any choice." She gave it up. He led her back to Hard, who handed him an envelope. Then he turned away. Amanda stared after him as he crossed the room, opened the door, and left without looking back. "C'mon, Amanda fucking Kaplan," said Hard. "We got a long way to go." He took her by the elbow and led her from the room, collecting their coats on the way out. He marched her briskly for what seemed many blocks to the subway station at 23rd and 6th, where they waited forty-five minutes for a train, the urine smell rising from the soaked shirt under her coat and Hard muttering threats of dire punishment if she tried to bolt or made a scene. They rode the train for another forty minutes until they were very far from any neighborhood that Amanda knew or had even heard of. Hard lived on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise apartment building, in a messy two-bedroom apartment with cheap furniture. When he'd closed the door behind them, he said, "You ain't tried to run yet." "I don't have anywhere to go," said Amanda. "I don't have anywhere to go, Master," corrected Hard. "Well, maybe you don't, but I ain't taking no chances. C'm'ere." He led her to one of the bedrooms, which held a big cross like one she'd seen at the party and what looked like an exercise bench with strange fittings on it. Against one wall was a grimy futon and against another a cabinet. He went to the cabinet, rooted around in the jumble of stuff inside, and came back with a collar and a small but sturdy padlock. "Take your clothes off," he said, and watched impassively as Amanda stripped. When she was naked, he fastened the collar around her neck and locked it with the padlock. "Master?" said Amanda tentatively. "What is it?" said Hard impatiently. "Did you buy me from Mr. Billings?" "No. I bought you from a dumbass called Squeers. He didn't tell you nothing about this?" "No, Master." "It ain't complicated. You were his slave, he sold you, and now you're my slave." "I wasn't his slave, Master." "All right, then, you weren't his slave, and he sold you, and now you're mine. It comes out the same fucking way, since I paid good money for you." Amanda didn't know quite what to say about that. She was pretty sure she didn't want to be Hard's slave, but it wouldn't make any difference to say so. She stood and waited, regarding him with curious eyes. "C'mon," he said, and led her by the chain to the bathroom, where he allowed her to piss and shit, though he insisted that she flush it away, unlike Mr. Billings, who had allowed her to do pretty much what she wanted with her own body's wastes. "It's fucking disgusting to eat your own shit," he said. "I don't want you doin' that in my place." He led her back to the futon and padlocked her chain to a ring in the wall. He gave her a frayed blanket and left her for the night, taking her clothes away with him. Amanda lay awake for a while thinking about her situation. Oddly, she didn't mind terribly being chained to the wall. There was something comforting about it, as if she were being relieved of a burden she'd never really wanted. She was tired, and she fell asleep quickly. The room was bright with sunlight when Hard woke her. "Up you get, Amanda," he said, unlocked the wall end of her chain, and led her to the kitchen, where he made some instant coffee and pulled a box of chocolate-covered donuts out of a cabinet. "Hey, looks a little like shit, don't it?" he said as he put one of the donuts in front of her on the plain linoleum table-top. "I'm fucking tired of calling you Amanda," he said, spraying crumbs as he talked. "Three fucking syllables - it's like I've spent half the last day saying your name. You know what you are? You're a fucking fly. They like lay their eggs in shit, and then their babies eat it. I'm gonna call you Fly because you eat shit." Hard left her chained up naked on the futon while he went out for the day; he left a box of crackers and a bottle of water within reach, but no books, magazines, or TV. She found it surprisingly easy to pass the time masturbating and playing with her ass. When she needed to pee, she carefully piled the crackers on the futon, shook the crumbs out of the plastic bag inside the cracker box, peed in that, and drank it. In the afternoon she defecated in the bag and ate that. Hard returned in the late afternoon with a garbage bag stuffed with Amanda's clothing. He had with him a black woman, at least six feet tall, who looked at her curiously. Hard sniffed the air. "What you been doing?" Amanda stared at him and didn't answer. He picked up the cracker bag between a thumb and forefinger and examined it. "Lookit this, Fan," he said, and handed the bag to the woman. She sniffed at it and bent to examine Amanda more closely. The girl put her in mind of a starving elf. "You got shit on your face, Fly," she said. "You been eatin' your shit?" Amanda nodded. Fan was sturdily built, with twinkling eyes and sensuous lips. She wore her hair in thin braids elaborately piled on her head, blond and red strands twined with the black. She was very pretty, and dangerous looking too, though she seemed pleased with Amanda's answer. Hard said, "I told her she wasn't supposed to eat her own fucking shit." "Ain't no harm in it," said Fan. "I wouldn't know about that. But I told her, and she done it anyway. There's got to be consequences." Fan looked at Amanda thoughtfully. "You got a point there. Tell you what. Why don't you leave that to me, since you gonna leave her with me anyway." "I dunno. You're kinda soft, Fan." "Don't you worry. I ain't gonna let her off easy." "Okay. But I want to hear her scream." "You'll hear her, Hard." 3. Fan "Just leave me the keys to them locks," said Fan. "Don't you let her run, Fan," said Hard. "She ain't no runner," said Fan. "Look at her: she meek as a lamb." "What you know about lambs," Hard grumbled, but he gave Fan a key and left the room. Fan was right: Amanda had little thought of running: she still had nowhere to go, and besides, she liked the big black woman. "You wait here a second," said Fan, and got a packet of moist wipes from the cabinet. She used one to clean Amanda's face, and then she unlocked the chain and took it off her collar. "You don't know nothin' about being a slave, do you, Fly?" Amanda shook her head. "Thing is, you step outta line, you gotta be punished. That's the rule. But there's punishment and punishment. Hard, he be knockin' his slaves around. Me, I believe in finesse, and you got the look of a girl do what she told. You understand what I'm sayin'?" Amanda nodded. It was hard to imagine disobeying Fan, who radiated power. "Then you don't need a lot of punishing. But Hard listenin' so it gotta be loud." Fan crossed over to the cabinet, opened it, looked up and down for a few seconds, and brought out a whip with a red handle and many black strands. "This gonna hurt some, but mainly it gonna be loud. Do I got to tie you up?" Amanda shook her head. She was surprised not to be afraid. "Okay, lean over that bench there." Fan nodded at the exercise bench. Amanda went to it and bent over, putting her hands on it. Fan liked the look of this girl, so thin and white, her bottom narrow and almost bony, waiting for her punishment with eerie quiet. Fan thought she probably hadn't been whipped before, really whipped, so she started with a light blow, like brushing her bottom with the whip. Amanda gasped, more for the suddenness of it than for any pain, and Fan said, "You better make noise for Hard, baby." Making the right kind of noise wasn't easy, even when Fan started to hit hard enough to sting and the slap of leather on tender skin was echoing in the room. Maybe if the pain had been worse - but Amanda had known way greater pain than this: being rejected, being sold, knowing almost everyone in the world would think her repulsive if they knew about her kink. But Fan didn't think she was repulsive, and Fan wasn't disappointed in her. Amanda could sense her pleasure, and the sensation was heady. "Gimme a scream," Fan hissed as the whip swished through the air. "Cry for me." Fly's quiet was unnerving. She wanted to stop, but couldn't until Hard was satisfied the girl had been punished. Amanda did her best, screaming with every blow, and as stinging gave way to burning she was able to do it with conviction. She was pleased with herself when Fan said, "That good, Fly." And then it was over. Fan lifted Amanda off the bench and sat with her on the floor, holding her like a baby. Amanda studied her brown eyes and the curve of her smiling lips and felt a connection to her - a thing she hadn't felt for a very long time, even with Mr. Billings. They were quiet for a while. Then Fan gently moved Amanda off her lap, stood, and pushed her black pants down. Her skin was deep brown, smooth, and glossy, and it seemed stretched tight over her, as if her body were bursting with the stuff of life, which filled Amanda with longing. Fan's mound was shaved, each of her outer labia had two steel rings in it, and her long inner labia protruded darkly. Amanda had no experience of women's genitalia, other than her own: she stared, entranced. The statuesque black woman was beautiful. Mouche Fan smiled and said, "You ever ate a girl out before, Fly?" Amanda shook her head. "No, Mistress." "You can say, 'No, Fan.'" "No, Fan." "Ain't you the innocent one. Well, you better get yourself ready, girl. Ain't no training wheels on this nigger's cunt. Lay down on your back." Fan rubbed herself to get her juices flowing and looked down into Amanda's dark wide eyes, so scared and excited, little breasts rising and falling, gazing between Fan's legs and feeling rather than seeing the glands secreting their slick fluid. The little submissive's hair was black and abundant, her lips thin but deliciously curved. Her face, so still and passive, filled Fan with so much pleasure that she leaned over and gave it a solid slap before sitting down heavily on it. The shock of Fan's slap lasted only a moment: it was a far bigger thing when Fan sat on her face. Amanda loved to lick her fingers when masturbating; now Fan's big wet sex smashed against her lips was a transcendent thing. Amanda opened her mouth and tried to lap up as much of her wetness as she could: she wanted to be flooded with Fan. Fan's amply proportioned ass covered her face, and her anus squashed her nose: Amanda breathed deeply, taking in the musty, yeasty smell of it, imagining that she could catch some small whiff of the wonders inside. Fan bore down and rocked, scrubbing sex and ass vigorously on Amanda's mouth and nose. The big woman pictured to herself the delicate, pretty face under her, and arousal burned in her: yeah, this girl was the ultimate fuck-toy. She repositioned herself into a squat so she could press her asshole down on the girl's mouth: she could feel her eager tongue wetting her. Amanda was in heaven: she'd never felt this way giving Mr. Billings oral sex, or when he pissed or shit: this was a whole new order of pleasure, to be engulfed in this great woman's crotch, drenched in her sex, enfolded in her glossy bare ass! It went on and on, Fan being in no hurry, but patiently rocking, sliding, bouncing on Amanda's face till at last she came with soft and quiet moans. Fan climbed off Amanda and regarded her with interest. "What you called, Fly? I mean your real name." "Amanda." "Amanda what?" "Amanda Kaplan." "What kind of name's that? German?" "Circassian." "What do you mean Circassian?" "Circassia used to be a country, but it's in Russia now. A long time ago people thought Circassian women were beautiful, and men kept them as" - she groped for the word and found it - "as concubines. Sex slaves." Amanda hoped Fan wouldn't ask any more, since she'd exhausted her store of knowledge on the subject of Circassia and Circassians. "Well fuck," said Fan. "You a Circassian slave, just like the old days. C'm'ere, babe." She hooked a finger into her collar and pulled her into the bathroom. "Lay in the tub, little slave girl," said Fan, and Amanda stepped in and lay down. Fan straddled her with her feet under her armpits, pulled her labia apart with long dark fingers, revealing the lovely pink inside, glossy with damp, and pissed. Fan's stream was yellow and pretty, and it struck first between Amanda's breasts, warm and strong. Fan rotated her pelvis to move the stream upwards over Amanda's neck and chin, into her open mouth. Amanda stared, rapt, at Fan's gaping vagina, her tiny dark urethra, the piss gushing out of it, the clitoris above, the labia with its rings: she felt faint, it was all so beautiful. She gulped down the bitter, acrid piss, not wanting to lose any. As Fan's stream slowed, it changed from a stream to a spray and wetted Amanda's whole face; then it was a trickle, dripping between her breasts: and her head was foggy, and the world seemed to fade around her: the only things that existed were Fan's dark thighs, her fabulous dark sex, which she was letting go of now, labia closing up, rings quivering. Amanda gazed past Fan's mound, her smooth stomach, her breasts, to her strong black face, her gorgeous lips, her alert brown eyes. Fan said, "I like you, slave girl," turned around, and squatted over Amanda's face. Amanda could sense Fan's arousal, her muscles working to push the shit through the narrow anal canal; she could see Fan's anus distend and widen. There was a moment of suspense. Would it be soft or hard? Would the end be pointed or rounded? Smooth or lumpy? How would it smell? Oh, how would it taste? She had loved Mr. Billings's bottom with its lean cheeks and lightly downed anus: but she loved Fan's way more - hairless, the crack so deep, the dark anus perfectly round and so tight. Fan's urine squirted onto Amanda's breasts as she strained. Amanda watched Fan's anus open and waited. Mr. Billings's shit would sometimes come slow, so she could bite off mouthfuls as he strained, and sometimes fast, piling up on her face. Fan's came fast, and it was soft and rich. It almost jetted out with a soft squishing sound, filled her mouth in seconds, and piled up on her face. Fan emptied herself and turned to look at what she'd done. The girl was chewing and swallowing behind the wet brown pile, pushing Fan's shit into her with the fingers of both hands. She was twice as beautiful as before, with shit on her thin, hollow face: and what was that in her eyes, a sort of haziness? The bitch was in subspace, just from eating shit. When the girl had gotten it all down, there was shit all around her mouth, like a child who's eaten a chocolate bar. Fan bent down and with a finger carefully scooped up the residue and gave it to Amanda to eat, and all the while she was gazing up at Fan with dazed and adoring eyes. The girl was too good to be true. Fan grabbed her by the hair and hauled her out of the tub. She bent over, held her ankles, and said "Wipe my ass for me, Fly." Amanda knelt behind Fan and licked her ass, face deep in her crack, loving the warmth and closeness, the smell, the taste, the feel of Fan's glossy anus on her lips. It was a little stretched, and she could dig in with the tip of her tongue to clean up the last smears of her shit. Hard was lounging on the futon when they were done in the bathroom. "You try her out, Fan?" he said with a grin. "She'll do," said Fan. "What you want for her?" "You know what I want, Fan," he said. "What you pay for her?" said Fan. "I'll give you twice that." "Never you mind," said Hard. "Dumb shit that sold her to me didn't know half what she was worth. You ain't got near enough money for this one. But you got somethin' worth just as much." "You can't have him, Hard," said Fan. "You gonna abuse him." "Lookit this girl. You ask her how old she is? She's eighteen fucking years old. When did you ever have a toilet slave that young? Your last one her tits was dragging on the ground." Fan looked at Amanda with lust in her eyes. "C'mon, Fan," said Hard. "You don't even like boys. When's the last time you took a dick just for the fuck of it?" "I like him, and he gonna go real high when I find the right buyer. He real pretty." Amanda watched them haggle. She'd never wanted anything in her life as much as she wanted Fan to buy her and take her home, but she knew better than to say anything: it wouldn't help. Besides, they were having fun bargaining, and why else had Hard brought Fan here but to sell Amanda to her? She stayed quiet, and hoped. It took a good half hour, but finally it ended up exactly where they all knew it would, when Fan sighed and said, "Okay, you can have him. C'mon, Fly." "I better go with you," said Hard. "You're one slippery bitch." They waited while Amanda dressed and then trooped back to the subway. They rode several stops back towards the city and walked a couple of blocks through a neighborhood of dreary brick apartment houses. Amanda had no idea where she was. They entered a three-story building and walked up to the third floor, where Fan let them into a plain but comfortably furnished living room. A slender, pretty boy of about Amanda's age or a few years older was sitting on the sofa watching TV. He looked up at them nervously. "You going with Hard," said Fan. "Get your shit together." "You said you wouldn't," said the boy. "I didn't make no promises," she said. "I can do what you want," he said. "I can satisfy you. I swear it." "No you can't. Hard'll be good to you. Go pack up your shit." "Listen, Fan . . ." "Just do it." He sloped off towards the back of the apartment. They stood around awkwardly till he came back holding an overnight bag and looking crushed. Hard handed Fan the plastic bag with Amanda's things, but he was staring all the while at the boy. "You gonna be all right," said Fan. "You go on now." The boy said, "Fan, I'm - " "Go on with you," she said, and turned away. Amanda watched Hard leave with the boy. "Fan?" she said. "What is it, Fly?" "What's going to happen to him?" "Sooner or later he gonna run. They always do. Hard one mean son of a bitch - he be always beatin' on his boys. He gonna be all right, though: don't worry your pretty head about him." 4. Love Fan microwaved some frozen lasagna. Amanda hardly noticed what she was eating: she couldn't stop thinking about Fan's body and the gifts Fan had given her. The lasagna was flavorless and unappealing, and she ate little of it. Over dinner Fan told Amanda her duties. "I got a toilet in the bathroom, and you gonna use that, but as long as you're here, I don't use it. You gonna be my toilet. You got that?" "Yes, Fan," said Amanda. She liked saying "Fan." "When you ain't being a toilet, you gonna be my sex toy. Anything I want you to do, you gonna do it." "Yes, Fan." It was late by the time they were done with dinner. Fan said, "We gonna do our bathroom stuff and go to bed." She took Amanda to the bathroom and took a shower with her. Amanda washed Fan's back. Being in the little shower stall with Fan's solid, fit body was exciting. She couldn't stop looking at her ample breasts with their prominent nipples and big dark areolae. After the shower, Fan let her drink her piss again, this time standing while Amanda knelt between her legs. Fan brushed her teeth and made Amanda brush her teeth for a long time and use a strong mouthwash. Amanda was still naked when Fan took her to her bedroom. She stared at Fan's breasts, numb with desire. Fan noticed this. She cupped her breasts and said, "You like these, Fly?" Amanda nodded. "C'm'ere, babe, and give 'em a suck." Fan's nipples got even bigger when Amanda sucked them, and Fan breathed heavily and held her head in place - not that Amanda needed her to: she was happy doing it, though she liked being restrained. Fan's hands were strong, and they made her feel safe, even when they guided her down slowly, over her muscled stomach to her mound and her sex, which was so wet. Amanda lapped up the wetness and breathed in Fan's womanly fragrance, sensing the sustaining generosity of her body. Holding Amanda's head firmly in place, Fan came, and she continued to hold her there till she was ready to piss. Afterwards Amanda lay beside Fan in the dark, savoring the taste of her urine and masturbating with delicate fingers, so still and quiet that there was not the least possibility of disturbing Fan's rest when she came. She drifted off to sleep then, feeling contented. She cared nothing for her freedom; she gave no thought to the loss of her possessions - her computer and books; it no longer seemed extraordinary that she'd been sold twice within twenty-four hours. Instead her last thought, before sleep embraced her, was of the rings in Fan's labia. Amanda was happy with Fan for more than seven months, till nearly August. She herself rarely went out, though Fan often did, keeping irregular hours. One of the few times Amanda left the apartment was after Fan got a tattoo, an elaborate scrollwork vine that crossed her back above her buttocks. Amanda was fascinated, and begged Fan to let her just stare at it for a while. Fan was glad to show off her tattoo to her slave, and when she noticed that Amanda was masturbating while looking at it, she said, "You oughta get you a tattoo, Fly." She told her the address of the tattoo parlor where she'd gotten her vine, but Amanda couldn't work up the nerve to go, even though it was just three blocks away. Finally Fan took her there herself and watched her get a tattoo of a fly above her left breast. Amanda's troubles began - or, more accurately, resumed - on the day in August that Fan didn't come home. She went out, as she often did, after dinner on a Friday night. Amanda went to bed alone as she did when Fan wasn't in by bedtime. Usually, when that happened, she woke up beside Fan in the morning. But on Saturday morning Fan wasn't there. She wasn't there that afternoon either, or that night. Amanda started to worry when she woke up alone on Sunday morning. She tried calling Fan's cell, but there was no answer, and the whole day passed without Fan returning her call. There was food for several days in the refrigerator and cabinets - a lucky thing, since Amanda was now doubly terrified to go out - but her worry left her little appetite. Consuming her own waste was little comfort - it just made her miss the way Fan made her feel safe. By Monday morning Amanda was beside herself. She was alone in the world, with no one to appeal to for help. She couldn't very well call her parents: how would she explain her situation? She couldn't call Mr. Billings, who had sold her. She had never made any friends either in California or at Fordham. In her desperation, she considered looking through Fan's things for Hard's phone number. She was saved the trouble when Fan came home on Monday afternoon. She ran to her and threw her arms around her. "Fan," she sobbed. "You still here, babe. That good," said Fan, who had a bedraggled look and an unwashed smell. "Where have you been, Fan?" asked Amanda. "I was so worried!" "Never you mind. Get us something to eat while I take a shower. Then we gonna play." Amanda microwaved a frozen dinner, and when Fan came to eat she looked like her old self. After dinner it was fine to have Fan's generous body again: Amanda had been so afraid of losing all the wonders it produced for her. In the bathroom a little later, lying naked on the cool tile floor covered with shit while Fan sat beside her and petted her black hair, Amanda was sure she'd never been happier. "I love you, Fan," she said. Fan was startled. She'd been preoccupied with her own troubles - having to drum up money for a bail bondsman, the necessity of hiring a lawyer, the uncertainty about her future - and she hadn't been thinking much about her slave. She'd missed her, of course, as you miss a possession you value, but only now did it strike her that Fly was her dependent, a person with needs every bit as important and urgent as her own. Fan suddenly felt burdened by a sense of responsibility for Amanda, but warmed, too, by her humanity and her devotion; and Fan realized in a flash that she felt a similar kind of devotion towards her little submissive. Fan said, "I got a treat for you," and led her back to the bedroom, where she laid her out spreadeagled on the bed, and tied her hands with soft cord to the headboard and her feet to the legs under the foot of the bed. Fan slid two fingers into Amanda's vagina. She paused a few seconds, smiling, and then fucked her hard, shaking her thin body. Within seconds Amanda was writhing and moaning, not sure whether this was worse than the whipping or the best thing that had ever happened to her. She sobbed, "It hurts, Fan, please," and tried to squirm away, but she could move only a few inches this way or that, and Fan was relentless, her long, powerful fingers so deep, her palm jamming hard against Amanda's clitoris while with her other hand she kneaded Amanda's shit-smeared breasts, pinching her hard, erect nipples and slapping her face, leaving shitty fingerprints on her cheeks. Fan was all motion, looming over Amanda, grinning, showing her teeth. "No, please, Fan, stop," Amanda cried; but somewhere down below the pain happiness shone inside her. Whatever this was, it was for her, it was Fan, it had to be right. In spite of the pain, maybe because of it, Amanda's arousal was soaring, till when she said "Please, Fan," she didn't know herself whether she was begging her to stop or begging for more. And then she knew it was more she wanted, and her breasts were heaving, and her pelvis gyrating, and she was seconds from orgasm. Fan stopped, got off the bed, and went into the bathroom. Through the thin door Amanda could hear the shower. It seemed a long time before Fan came out again, wearing her white robe, which Amanda loved because it set off her silky dark brown skin. Fan sat on the edge of the bed and said, "How many times a day you be comin', Fly?" "I don't know, Fan." "Three times? Maybe four? You be always playin' with your cunt." Amanda was so unselfconscious with Fan that she hardly thought about it when she masturbated: it had become like twirling her hair or nibbling the end of a fingernail. "Something like that, I guess, Fan." "Well, you ain't comin' no more today." Fan left the room, and a few minutes later Amanda heard the television out in the living room. "Fan?" she called, but Fan didn't answer. Amanda wished she could touch herself to pass the time, but being tied up, she couldn't do it. She wasn't sure what time it was. She was starting to have to pee. "Fan?" she called again, but again Fan didn't answer. Amanda couldn't hear well enough to tell what program Fan was watching. Time passed, and the pressure in Amanda's bladder grew. "Fan? I have to pee!" There was no answer. It was getting unbearable. Amanda decided to pee on the bed. The mattress pad was waterproof, since their play was often wet, so it would do little harm. Amanda's pee, puddling under her, was uncomfortable by the time she heard the television turned off. Fan appeared in the doorway. "You a mess, baby," said Fan. It was true: she was caked with dried shit and lying in a puddle of urine. "I had to pee," said Amanda. "I gotta pee too," said Fan, climbed up on the bed, and straddled Amanda's head. Fan only let Amanda catch a little of her pee in her mouth: instead of aiming right into her the way she usually did, Fan wetted her face all over. It ran off her and puddled under her head. Then she sat down beside her and rubbed her clitoris. Amanda squirmed under her touch. "Fan?" she said. "Hm, baby?" "Why are you doing this?" "I'm givin' you a treat, like I said, Fly. Ain't you havin' a good time?" "I don't know, Fan." Amanda was confused. She didn't know why Fan was leaving her tied up and not letting her go to the bathroom, but she decided to trust her. "You need to shit, Fly?" "Yes, Fan. But I don't think I can go like this." "Un huh," said Fan. She untied Amanda's ankles and lifted her legs up high. "See if you can go now," she said. It took Amanda a while to move her bowels in this unaccustomed position, but finally she felt her anus stretch, and the shit slid out of her. "That good, baby," said Fan, tied Amanda's ankles again, scooped some shit from between her legs, and smeared it over her thin body. "That feel good, sweetie?" said Fan. The shit was warm and slick, and Amanda liked the smell of it and the feel of Fan's hands on her body. "Yes, Fan." Fan massaged her everywhere till Amanda felt herself reach a new pitch of arousal. If only Fan would touch her sex! "Can I have an orgasm, Fan?" "No, baby." Fan took her hands away and stood up. "Please, Fan?" "Don't want you never to ask for nothin' twice, babe," said Fan. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. Amanda heard the sink: Fan was washing her hands. Then she came out of the bathroom, crossed the room and left, turning off the light as she went.