Beverly Ch. 02

[Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, I couldn't leave this one alone. It's not exactly autobiographical but my single experience with a woman who had a true scat fetish left me, well, "wondering" is a good word. In that case, my memory is a bit sketchy. These were the college years in the 1970s and, well, my "Swinging in the 70s" series IS autobiographical so feel free to check in on our lifestyle there. But my night with Linda was after God alone knows how many beers, how many joints of that not-very-good pot we used to get, and the special treat of some opium that one of our group had scored.

Linda, as I recall, was one of those big girls who had finally given up dieting and, I'm afraid looking back, was probably on her way to morbid obesity and an early grave. I don't know what happened to her, but I do know that when food was around it was kind of fun watching her eat, something she did with gusto. Anyway, she was a big girl, 20ish like my classmates making her very young for our group, most of whom were veterans with an extra 4 years on our clocks before we got to college or more mature yet, joining the group through one of the older, which is to say 30ish, couples from the trailer park..

She was the aggressor that night, but I didn't exactly fight for my virtue. She was big and blonde and cute and had the most enormous boobs I had ever seen. So I was flattered and happy to tell my wife I'd be home sometime the next day and accept Linda's offer to go home with her.

We barely cleared the door before she was, well, "at me." Very much the aggressor and I was enjoying it.

"Are you ready to try something new?" she asked.

"Hell yes," I replied, or think I did. Anyway, I replied in the affirmative, that much I know because of what happened next.

And what happened next was pretty much what I described in the first chapter of this story.

But that was the last time I ever went home with her. Oh, we would encounter each other at parties and stuff like that, but with her, a man was a one-time thing and my casual advances weren't actually rebuffed, but they weren't encouraged either.

That left me wondering what might have happened and, well, I think I want to explore it here.]

It was a good dream. The woman, not my wife, the Vice-Principal at my school if it matters, a woman so black she looked like she had just stepped off of a tall ship at Charleston or Savannah or Mobile or New Orleans with the slave collar keeping her in line, was playing with my erection and moving around to go down on me. She also tipped the scales at, conservatively speaking here, 285, and that was probably being kind.

My mind is a strange place. I have no idea why she would show up in my dream. Hell, I didn't even like the bitch.

As she took me into her mouth I came awake.

And it all came back to me in a sudden rush.

"Jesus," I thought, "did we really do that?"

But of course, we had. I could feel the way she was, well, "crusty," against me, not the soft skin I was used to, and I could feel the tightness in my own skin where, well, shit had dried.

And images just flashed through my mind as they do sometimes when you're waking up.

I could see myself lying on my back on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, my face centered carefully under the open-frame bedside toilet, anticipating her arrival.

snick

No.

I would be on my back on the cold tiles with a complicated set of restraints holding me, immobile, my face centered under the seat, waiting not JUST for Beverly, for her entire Bunko club.

snick

The image was replaced with her laying back on the bed, her legs spread, the white cottage cheese-looking discharge of her yeast infection running from her pussy and her saying, "Dinner is served."

snick

Now it was her period and I was lapping greedily at the bloody discharge as she relaxed and the brown pile grew between her legs.

snick

Now I was being waterboarded as she spread her labia, settled onto my face, covered my nose and mouth, and started peeing.

snick

"I know you're awake," she said, swinging her leg over so she straddled me and then took me back into her mouth.

She had straddled me, her knees by my ribs, my arms stretched above me.

The delta of her thick pubic hair was matted with dried shit. Her labia were covered with it. I worked my arms around and parted her labia with my fingertips. The mucus membranes lining her vagina had kept it from drying out, but she was still thickly stained brown.

The scent had dissipated, only a barely detectable earthy smell remaining.

And I realized how completely addicted I was as I pulled her down, hungry to taste her.

No, that's not quite right. It's not the taste I craved so desperately. I was hungry for the feel of it.

I lifted my head, my fingers digging into the soft pad of her hips, pulling her down to seal my face against her pussy.

And I probed with my tongue as deeply as I could.

Her nectar started flowing almost instantly and as much as I loved the taste and oily feel of it I knew I would never be truly satisfied again unless we were dirty as well as messy.

Deep down inside I shuddered at this bridge I had crossed.

But, God help me, I welcomed it too.

I could picture her lips on the shaft of my shit-stained cock.

She came twice, hard, my mouth filling with the thick salty, oily feel of her pleasure. I swallowed, greedily and noisily.

My hands were on her ass, feeling how crusty she was, the dried shit coming off in little flakes.

I spread her cheeks and began licking her taint. You know the old joke?

Oh. Well, here it is.

Q: What do you call that little area between a woman's pussy and her asshole?

A: That's her taint. T'aint ass and t'aint pussy.

The dried shit was thick there, and as I licked it started to soften and I could feel it smearing my face.

Suddenly, one of those weird non sequiturs that can happen in my mind hit with the clarity of a high-definition photograph. I decided, between long licks, that I would let my beard grow out and not wash it on what I had already decided would be our "dirty weekends."

And something about that image struck between my legs and I came.

Apparently, she was surprised because she coughed.

When she coughed I felt a little hot jet of urine on my chin and then dribbling down to puddle on that hollow under my throat, above my Adam's Apple.

And I knew there were still more bridges to cross.

I moved so that my mouth covered her pussy and started probing with my tongue. I'm not a doctor, but, well, I've looked pretty closely at Bev's pussy. So I was probing below the hard little button of her clitoris, seeking that tiny opening, her urethra. I wanted to taste the rest of her.

It was morning, and I was sure she needed to pee as badly as I did. I could feel her, just a tiny tension where I was touching with the tip of my tongue. I used my hands to gently spread her cheeks and then my fingertips to find that tiny little orifice, her asshole, and tickle it, not demanding, but encouraging.

Somewhere, deep in my mind, where I never really completely quit thinking unless I'm asleep and, I guess, even then I'm thinking somehow, otherwise why the dreams?

Anyway, somewhere, deep in my mind, I realized that what I was doing now, what I was seeking, wasn't really sex, I suppose, when you get down to it, that can be said about any fetish.

But what we did last night, and what I was doing right then, wasn't sex, the accompanying orgasms and ejaculations notwithstanding.

This was a completely different expression of our love and our acceptance of each other. It was intimacy beyond sex.

All of these thoughts were working somewhere deep in my mind as on the surface, in the here and now, my tongue kept touching and my fingers kept playing.

Just as I tasted the first little dribble of her hot, salty, acrid, bitter piss, my low mind, way down there just above the subconscious, had one of those "Eureka" moments that if you're lucky you might experience twice in a lifetime.

The more vile, the more disgusting, the more revolting, the more repulsive society would consider an act, the more perfectly intimate it was.

In our 21 years of marriage, I had been in the bathroom a few times when Bevvy was peeing and I had always been fascinated with that odd hissing sound she made. It was like her bladder was forcing urine out under pressure.

The was none of that here.

She just relaxed and her bladder started emptying.

But it was still faster than I could swallow and I coughed, making my eyes burn where it splashed and soaking my chest and her belly.

That seemed to trigger something in her and now she WAS pissing with the force that would make that odd hissing sound.

And I was being waterboarded.

I tried to swallow but the sheer force of what she was doing kept my epiglottis closed. Hot piss was forced into my sinuses and ran from my nose.

And my bladder let go.

I felt her reaction, the same as mine. She swallowed and then felt her cough, the sudden contraction forcing yet more piss through my nose.

As her stream slowed I could keep up and started swallowing, drinking her like fine wine. Well, maybe good beer is a better analogy.

I felt her mouth on my cock, sucking as she swallowed noisily.

I felt that sudden little tension, just a hint of change where my tongue was touching, as she relaxed and the tiny sphincter muscles settled into their normal state, holding her urine in.

So I licked, her piss had softened the worst of the crusty shit, and I licked that mat of her pubic hair, enjoying the salty, bitter taste of piss mixed with the pleasant aroma of shit as the crust softened and the scent was released.

My bladder was empty and those muscles reset when she released me, pulled her pussy away, and squirmed around until we could share a pillow, face to face.

"Oh, fuck," she said in her breathy, post-orgasm voice.

"Yeah," I said, "oh fuck."

Christ, she was a mess. Her face was covered in shit and about the front half of her hair was laden with it in thick masses that hung lank. Her eyes were white lanterns in the brown of her skin. Her teeth, when she smiled, glowed like we were under a black light against the shit brown of the surrounding skin.

I kissed her.

And she kissed me back with a desperation that surprised me. It was one of those kisses that only happen a few times in your life. I could feel the need coming off of her in waves as her fingers dug into my hair, as shit-globbed as hers, and her mouth moving against mine so hard it was almost painful, her tongue a living thing, probing and exploring.

And I kissed her back just as hard. My hand found the smooth skin of her back and traced down until I found the line where crusty shit began and then I traced that line with my fingertips. She shivered as I did that, but she didn't break the kiss.

She held the kiss for one of those timeless times. I could feel the desperation, maybe the despair or the hopelessness, I'm not sure, honestly, what she was feeling right then, slowly leaving her until it was a soft kiss at the end.

She broke the kiss and pulled away far enough to meet my eyes.

"Oh, fuck," she said once more, her fingertips brushing my forehead at the line where my hair was matted.

"David, I," but I stopped her with a kiss. Not a long, desperate kiss, just a gentle, loving kiss to stop her from speaking.

"Are you ashamed?" I asked.

"David, I," she started and I silenced her with another kiss.

"Are you ashamed?" I asked again, "Yes or no?"

She paused and I was struck by the fact that those parallel "I'm thinking" lines on her forehead showed up even through the layer of shit there.

I waited her out.

"No," she said at last, "but David, I," and I kissed her.

"Would you be ashamed if Roger walked in right now?" I asked.

Her eyes got big and she said, "Oh, God, YES."

So I told her of my "Eureka" moment.

When I wound down she lay still for a few minutes, thinking.

"So," she said, looking straight up at the ceiling, and as I watched her body twitched and she did sort of a half situp, "the more, how did you put it, 'vile, disgusting, revolting, repulsive society would consider an act, the more perfectly intimate it is,' is that right?"

I chuckled. Sometimes my bride's mind is almost as weird as mine.

"Yes, Bevvy, that's about it," I said.

She rolled up, showing the athlete she had been and the muscle control and body awareness she retained, straddled me, her knees at my waist, and bent down from that position to kiss me.

I could feel her body tensing and relaxing under my hands on her back, finding that line again where crusty shit met smooth skin, and I knew what was coming.

And I welcomed it.

"Open your mouth, Baby," she said, "We're about to test your theory."

She was starting to retch now, her mouth open, making that deep gagging sound we've all made when we were sick.

And my mouth was open, wanting what she offered.

She retched hard, I could feel her body, the way her back sort of arched in that involuntary way we've all done.

The first thing that came up was thick and clear and hung like a rope from her mouth. I lifted my head enough to catch it in my open mouth and then slurped it up like a strand of spaghetti. It was hot and slimy and incredibly bitter. My own body retched at the taste and the feel of it.

She pulled back, away far enough to focus on my eyes.

"Davey," she said softly, "are you sure about this."

I smiled, and said, "Kiss me."

Her lips were slimy with what she had already brought up.

And I liked the sensation.

When she threw up through the kiss it had exactly the same sour, bitter, acidy taste as my own.

I tried to swallow but it came too fast. My sinuses burned as it was forced through my nose.

I tried to swallow and keep my own systems moving in the right way.

But I failed and my vomit joined hers as we shared yet another disgusting intimacy.

I felt her hands, fingers interlaced, locking behind my head, holding me to her. I couldn't resist. I was being waterboarded with puke. I could feel it being forced out my nose and when I tried to swallow my own barf joined hers in a mess that was soaking our pillow now.

And still, she held me captive. I was drowning. I could feel the acid in my throat and my sinuses were on fire.

She finally broke the kiss, releasing me, and I gasped for breath, feeling like a drowning man must feel as he breaks the surface. I suppose that's a good description.

She was down to dry heaves then but, as we all know, dry heaves ain't really "dry" at all, are they? She continued to gag and retch noisily, and what came up with thick gobbets so bitter my stomach rebelled anew.

I rubbed her back and took what she offered into my mouth while she continued to retch and heave.

Finally empty, and spent, she collapsed on me.

"I don't think we should shower," she said softly, "do you?"

I chuckled.

"No," I said, "I think we should spend a dirty weekend."

And we did.