Beverly

Beverly

Author's Note: This is a story about scat. That's shit for those of you who may not be up to date on your euphemisms. Spoiler alert. It's about a man's descent into a very dirty world and his wife who guides, encourages, and ultimately controls him. If that image is offensive, then please, PLEASE, move along. There's nothing here for you. But if you like this story, then leave a favorable comment. As of now, I'm not sure if there will be more about Beverly and David. So, Gentle Reader, I leave it in your hands. Shall I follow them or let this one go?]

Prologue

It's funny how things can spiral out of control, isn't it? Just about the time you think you have it figured out, you think things are under control, then, well they aren't. And you're left wondering how it all got to this point.

I write this, sitting here, knowing I'll go through with it. I'm frightened and disgusted with myself. But that doesn't stop my cock from being so goddam hard it hurts.

I guess that'll teach me to be nosy.

This is how it all began.

Chapter One

It all started a little over a year ago. I came home and found Beverly's computer on. Looking back, I suppose I wonder if she meant for me to find it and read what was on it. We had been married for 21 years then and were still kind of reveling in having our son off to college and we were experimenting.

Call us empty nesters if you want, but we were young and enjoying the things we hadn't while Roger grew up. Beverly got pregnant at 17 while we were still in high school. Yeah, yeah, I know. Stupid. But we were young and in love and both came out of middle-class midwestern families so we got married and nobody questioned that Roger seemed to be full-term even though only seven months separated our anniversary and his birthday.

So we spent our last couple of years as teenagers, then our 20s, and into our 30s being parents. Mom and Dad helped by allowing us to set up an apartment in the basement, and Mom provided a babysitting service. We got through high school. Bev got a job in a bank and I went to college.

It's funny, you know. I was pretty much a "C" student through most of high school. I've always been a bit of a test hog and so I kept up my passing grades without the inconvenience of studying, Which was important since, like all boys of that age, pretty much the only thing that mattered to me was whether I would get laid. Since I had a wife now, and with the baby out of the way, free access, I could spend my time studying.

Four years later I walked across the stage with fancy ropes on my gown indicating my Magna Cum Laude status and collected my Bachelor of Science: Education (Secondary Social Science) degree. Three months later I started my job as a teacher, all of four years older than many of the kids in my classes.

Now, here it was, fifteen years farther down the calendar, sitting down in front of my wife's computer, looking at lines of words and some amazingly graphic images on some website called Chatropolis. I had never played these particular games but it didn't take a keen analyst to realize this was one of those sex chatrooms we've all heard of.

What I saw was:

DragonLord23 says to MaggieMay: Do you really suck cock in front of hubby?

Naughtyboy (SWM) says to MotherMayI: Please Mistress.

Picture of a fat woman with her legs spread, pulling her labia apart.

HotBevvy2232 says to ScattyCathy: PM, please.

ScattyCathy privately whispers HotBevvy2232: Sure baby. I dont like sharing in lobby eether.

[Author's note: My fingers are getting tired so let me make HotBevvy2232 "HB," and ScattyCathy "SC," and privately whispers "PW," okay?]

There was more of that. DragonLord23 and MaggieMay shared her love of sucking dick with the world. MotherMayI steadfastly refused to reply to Naughtyboy. Liz (MWF 62) offered herself to OldGuyMinn for "anything he'd like." And the pictures. Jesus, who knew there could be that much variation in women's pussies and assholes? I looked at a couple of dozen, no two alike.

And the thing is, HotBevvy2232 was my wife. Oh, I know, there are plenty of Beverlys out there, but how many have a telephone with the last four digits "2232?"

Here's how it went for several lines. I'll ignore the others in the chat room and focus on HB and SC.

HB PW SC: I can't stop thinking about what you said.

SC PW HB: Oh, hun u really shud try it

HB PW SC: I tried yesterday after we chatted. I reached back and drug my fingers through it. I was going to taste it but I couldn't.

SC PW HB: y not

HB PW SC: ((giggles)) I couldn't get past the smell.

SC PW HB: pussy

HB PW SC: LOL Not pussy, Honey. Poopie.

SC PW HB: *g*

HB PW SC: How do you get past it?

SC PW HB: o u get used to it

HB PW SC: ((giggles)) Isn't that a line from Road House?

SC PW HB: cud b. try a hot dag bun and mustard

HB PW SC: A Turd Dog Sandwich then?

SC PW HB: ya tasteeeeeeeee

"Oh, fuck," I thought, "they're talking about eating SHIT!"

I felt hands on my shoulders and damn near shit myself. She CAN be quiet when she wants to be.

"It's just internet bullshit," she said, her fingers working that magic she did on my shoulders. My dick, already hard, started throbbing.

She leaned over and nuzzled my neck.

"Now stand up," she said, "and let me get signed off."

So I stood and she sat and it was my turn to put my hands on her shoulders, making her groan a little as I started the massage she enjoyed.

And her fingers got busy.

HB PW SC: Back. Had to pee.

SC PW HB: dija wipe

HB PW SC: ((giggles)) And sniffed.

SC PW HB: LOL Hun, u shud try it

Bev leaned her head back and looked up at me. I gave her an upside-down kiss, my hands staying busy on her shoulders.

HB PW SC: Careful, HOS.

SC PW HB: Hubby's thare?

HB PW SC: Yes Cathy. Hubby Over Shoulder.

SC PW HB: wats his name

Bev leaned back again and looked up at me. I surprised myself by nodding.

HB PW SC: David

SC PW HB: hey david tel hr ud try

Bev froze. I froze.

I watched myself. It was like those out-of-body experiences any science fiction/fantasy fan has read about. I watched myself like I was watching a movie, but I knew what I was doing too. I bent slowly, almost hearing the argument going on inside my head, like hearing someone talking in the next motel room. I couldn't make out the words but there was clearly an argument going on.

"I'd try," I whispered into her ear, my lips so close I knew she would feel warm little puffs with each syllable.

HB PW SC: Oh, God. Gotta go.

Your chat session has ended.

She stood then and turned to me.

"David," she said, "it's all just internet bullshit."

"That's not how it looked," I said.

I kissed her.

"It looked like something you had been thinking about. It sure as hell looked like you and ScattyCathy had been, what do you call it, 'chatting,' for quite a while about it," I said.

"Oh, you know," she said, a soft giggle in her voice, "I mentioned once what you and I have talked about so many times. You know, 'good sex is often messy but never dirty.' And, well, she started talking about, well," and she blushed, "THAT! And, well, it's interesting, you know? Would that be not dirty?"

As she talked I was watching her face, her mouth mostly, I loved the way her full lips moved when she talked. I always have.

You see, that's the thing of it. We may have "had" to get married, but I love her. Hell, I love her more today at 39 than I had when I was 18 and she got knocked up. And she was right. We had decided, long ago, that good sex was often messy but never dirty.

What do I mean? Well, here's an example. She'll swallow if I ask her to, which I do sometimes. But she prefers the facial and hair conditioner when I pull out and guide my ejaculation. And the time I sent her into the 7-11 store for a six-pack of Coors with my semen dripping from her cheek and showing in her hair she had been a damn wildcat for the next week.

My point is, we had always been, well, "adventurous" sexually, and since we sent Roger off to college we had been pretty freely exploring.

"Would you like to try it?" I asked, "In real life?"

Her eyes got big and those four horizontal lines on her forehead, her "I'm thinking" lines showed me, better than words could, that she was thinking about it.

Well, so was I.

We had never been into scat play or anything like that. Oh, I enjoyed tickling her feet so much she got the giggles and peed a little. But what she had been chatting with ScattyCathy about, that went FAR beyond anything we had done before.

"David," she said, "it was just internet bullshit."

"So far," I said, and I realized that I DID want to try it. But I'm not a rapist so I went on, "But I'll ask again. Would you like to try it in real life?"

She held my eyes for a long ten-count.

"Are you certain?" she asked, her eyes doing that twitching thing as she focused on first my right and then my left eye. She only did that when she was fully concentrating on a person, usually me.

"No," I said, chuckling, "but I'm certain I want to try."

She held my eyes for another long ten count and then smiled.

"Come along, dirty boy," she said, taking my hand and leading me upstairs to the bedroom.

Okay, I was nervous. Hell, I was scared. But I was grinning too.

When I reached for the top button of my shirt she caught my hand.

"My idea, my show," she said, "I'll do the work."

Her fingers were trembling a little as she worked on my buttons but soon enough she had my shirt laying on the floor. I just stood there, letting her undress me. She dropped to her knees and untied and got my shoes off of me before reaching up, still on her knees, and undoing the button of my jeans.

She bent forward, kissed my belly button, and then unzipped and pulled my jeans down, taking my boxers with them.

She looked up at me then, smiling.

"David," she said, serious now, "If you'd prefer I'll just take you in my mouth. We don't have to do that other thing."

But I knew I wanted to.

"No," I said, "I WANT to try it."

"Pervert," she said, but she was smiling as she stood.

I watched her undress.

It's always a treat to watch my Beverly undress.

She's pushing 40 pretty damn hard and she's had a baby. Just one as it turned out. Roger is our only. She didn't do a striptease, she just undressed. And I enjoyed every step.

As she unbuttoned her blouse I could see the big, blue-veined breasts Roger had given her - she was barely a B cup when I knocked her up, but now she overflows her D cup bras - with the stretchmarks across the tops of her breasts and her belly as she undid more buttons were decorations on her lovely body. Her waist was a memory, but she wasn't fat. She was what the romance novel writers might call matronly. Not fat, but thick.

When she unhooked and shrugged the bra off her breasts sagged. Well, she was damn near 40 and had breastfed our son. Well, okay, I got my share of that thick, delicious milk myself. Her areolas were very large, covering the bottom quarter of her big breast, and her nipples were like inch-long bratwursts centered on the oversized areolas. She has good tits.

She pushed down the slacks she wore, some sort of loose, flowing material. She's past the tight jeans age, and the panties with them. Her thick muff of dark hair showed under the small roll of her belly. Bev watches her diet but I figure about 50, when menopause strikes, she'll have that full-blown belly apron, a truly fat girl's natural modesty.

She's one of those FUPA women. You know, Fat Upper Pussy Area. Her mons veneris, that beautiful doorway to a woman's sex, was full and prominent. We had tried shaving her once but the skin there had rashed up badly. Christ, I had used as much Desitin on her as I had on Roger's diaper rash. So now, that full bush showed.

Her thighs, like the rest of her, were heavy. Not fat, just heavy with some incipient cellulite dimpling. No thigh gap, that's for sure, and high on her inner thighs she was very smooth where her chub rub removed the hair.

Naked now, she smiled at me.

"Last chance, David. Are you sure you want to be a dirty boy?" she asked.

I put my hands on her shoulders, lightly, and looked into her eyes.

"I want to at least try," I said.

"Okay, then," she said.

She moved to the side of the bed and grabbed one of the six pillows, folded it in half, and put it about in the middle of the mattress. I watched as she crawled up onto the bed, placed a second pillow so she could lay her cheek on it, settled her hips onto the doubled pillow, reached back, and spread her cheeks.

"Okay," she said, "your show now."

My mind can be a strange place sometimes.

In a non sequitur of epic proportions that weird attic I call my mind started calling up all of the slang I had ever heard for an asshole. In order, I thought, "poopshoot," "brown eye," "rosebud," "starfish," "stinkstar," and "balloon knot." All of those in just a couple of seconds.

And what I saw was definitely a balloon knot. The smooth circle surrounding it was stained very dark and that thick coarse hair around the smooth circle had captured a little dingleberry.

My reaction was interesting.

My first thought was, "Damn, Bevvy, we need to work on your personal hygiene."

My second thought was, "Oh, yummy."

I bent forward and caught it between my teeth. It was stuck firm to that hair and she yelped when I jerked my head, pulling hair out along with the tidbit. On my tongue, it felt strange. Not hard like a marble, well, maybe more like a frozen pea, but not soft either. There was absolutely no taste or smell.

I swallowed it.

My cock was so goddam hard it was aching and throbbing.

But nothing was happening so I studied her asshole. There was pubic hair, not thick like on her pussy, more like what was on her calves. There was that perfectly smooth, hairless circle, almost setting up a bullseye around her asshole. Her anus itself made me understand the slang term "balloon knot." There was a small, puckered circle, centered exactly in the middle of that smooth circle. And right in the middle of the puckered circle was the little wrinkled bulge, the balloon knot.

Bev and I had never been particularly old-fashioned when it came to sex. Anal was part of our regular "menu." But this was the first time I actually studied it.

I can't say it was beautiful. Hell, I can't even say it was attractive. But I felt an urge, almost a compulsion, to kiss and lick, especially the tiny balloon knot in the middle.

So I kissed it.

And I licked it.

When I felt that little bump, the head of the balloon knot, I damn near swooned. It wasn't the fact that it was her asshole. It wasn't even the fact that I thought I would be eating at least a little shit. It was the pure intimacy of doing something with her, with both of us participating, that was so completely taboo.

I licked some more then, searching for the taste but there was nothing there. Just that amazing sensation of my tongue running over that little muscular protrusion.

And I knew, far below the level of thinking, down there at the level where we had so much trouble keeping the damn dog out of the cat's litterbox, way down at some weirdly atavistic region of my consciousness, that I wanted to taste her, well, there's no need to be euphemistic about it. That I wanted to taste her shit. Not that hard little dingleberry. I wanted the real thing, fresh and warm, firm but not hard. I could imagine it. I mean, who hasn't smelled their own? I could imagine the smell. I could even imagine the feel of it in my hands or in my mouth. But I couldn't imagine what it would taste like.

So I licked and kissed and started probing with my tongue, thinking I would, you know, "stimulate" her.

"David," she said softly, her fingernails scrabbling against the sheet, "are you certain?"

I kissed the inside of each buttcheek, that white stripe where no suntan ever develops, and then crawled up to sit on the tops of her thighs, my cock nestled between her cheeks, and bent forward to whisper, "Please."

Before she responded I scooted back down and went back to licking and kissing and generally making love to her asshole.

I felt the change in her breathing. Not the more rapid breathing I associated with sexual arousal. This was a more relaxed breathing. And as her breathing eased I felt her bulging against my tongue.

I pushed myself up then, sitting back on my heels, and watched.

Fascinated.

Captivated.

I knew enough biology to understand that I was seeing the powerful anal sphincter muscles that held everything in starting to relax.

My breath caught.

"Don't do this," my grandmother's voice yelled in my mind. She's the voice of my conscience.

But I was far past listening to my conscience.

I could tell, somehow, don't ask me how because I just don't know, but I could tell she wasn't pushing. It was just her body's natural peristalsis slowly eliminating what she no longer needed. What emerged first was dome-shaped and glistened slightly, the mucus membranes lining her anus for lubrication were working it seemed.

The smell was there, but I didn't find it offensive. I found it earthy and, on some level, somehow, comforting.

But it didn't stop there. I was prepared to take a single bite but it kept, well, "emerging" is the word I suppose.

Soon, there was enough that I could tell it was going to fall so almost instinctively I reached down and caught it.

"Oh God," I thought, "it's warm and soft," as it filled my hand.

And it kept emerging until it doubled and I had to use my second hand or let it fall.

Her asshole was stretched as it kept coming. It was brown and firm, warm, and that shiny slick coating, almost a membrane, made it hard to hold onto. And it kept emerging.

I watched, fascinated, as she finished. Her asshole squeezed and pinched off the turd, now tripled, heavy, and warm in my hands.

I watched as she squeezed, pushed out a final little brown worm, squeezed again, and then relaxed.

I couldn't believe it.

I held about two pounds of shit in my hands and yet her asshole showed only a tiny brown smudge.

So I licked it.

And there was no taste.

None at all.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, her body had taken what it needed. This was just, well, think of a banana. If Bevvy was a banana, what I held was just the peel.

She squirmed around and sat up, facing me.

"Well?" she asked.

"I guess my nerve failed," I said.

She smiled and dipped her finger into the pile in my hands.

"Open wide," she said.

I did.

It was warm and soft and tasteless. Well, there was a hint of saltiness but that's it.

"Now you," I said, offering the pile.

She grinned then. Not a smile, a grin, almost a predatory look, and dipped two fingers deeply into the pile.

She stuck them in her mouth and slowly pulled her fingers out, holding them with her lips in that way only a woman can pull off, making it look like she was sucking my cock.

"Will you still kiss me?" she asked.

I kissed her, a full-on kiss, my tongue probing, meeting hers, feeling the residue there.

"The question is," I said, smiling as I lifted that warm pile of shit, still holding its shape, looking like soft sausage freshly ground. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, and took a big bite. I knew I was smearing my chin and lips and I liked it, I chewed, it felt like Braunschweiger to keep with the sausage metaphor, swallowed, smiled, and said, "Will you still kiss me?"

"Oh fuck," she breathed so softly I could barely hear before her hand was behind my head, pulling me to her. It was a good kiss. Hell, it was a great kiss. This was a level of passion I hadn't felt from her in years.