Deviant Mage Pt. 01

Disclaimer: This work contains extreme scat scenes and general mysophiliac filth. All characters depicted in sexual situations are 18+. This story is porn with plot, more plot than porn, and occasionally gets into heavy subject matter such as abuse and suicide.

The castle was nearly deserted, and that suited Lyran just fine. She knew that there was no one in this tower, and no one was likely to wander in. Most of her family had gone down to town on some sort of business (quite possibly shady, but more likely boring) and had insisted on taking a large personal guard with them, but they hadn't even thought to invite Lyran, their embarrassment of a daughter, to attend.

Castle Lan was under-staffed by default, and a proper escort for the Lanovins required that they strip the castle down to the barest skeleton crew of loyal Lanovin guardsmen, and that meant nobody but two men over at the gatehouse, and a single watchmen up on the keep. Someone actually had propped up a dummy behind one of this tower's arrow slits, to fool an especially stupid hypothetical enemy into thinking that the tower was occupied. Not that there was even the faintest chance of an actual attack.

The poor state of the castle's security was not ideal. As far as Lyran Lanovin, forth child (and blackest sheep) of the Deacountess of Lanovale was concerned, it was great. It meant that she had this whole tower to herself for the next couple of hours.

It would take an especially unlikely twist of fate for anyone to wonder where she was, too; she had been waiting for the Lanovins to announce an outing, and the previous night, she had snuck out onto the roof and had managed to pry loose a few shingles over the dining hall so the roof had started to leak (the woodwork in the ceiling had really needed work anyway. She had legitimately done everyone a favour by pointing out the roof's immanent failure before it collapsed), and nearly all the servants were now occupied with a large and complicated project for which few of them were qualified. She had covertly messed with a few measurements, so things would take longer, too.

All of that scheming, patience, calculated risks, and light sabotage. All to ensure that she got some privacy, and could reasonably expect to maintain that privacy for long enough to have some fun.

Filthy, filthy fun.

She had chosen a privy closet in the dawnward tower because it had a door that barred from the inside, it was extremely unlikely to be used by anyone, especially now (the gatehouse had its own privy closet), and any smell of shit lingering within the room after she was done wouldn't be considered odd.

And also, the window shutters were easily removable, the opening was large enough to wiggle out of, and in doing so she'd fall head-first to the courtyard below and die instantly upon landing. If Lyran's luck wound up being as abysmal as her mother insisted her tainted soul deserved (to paraphrase), and she wound up getting caught, then death was preferable to any renewed efforts to 'cure' her.

Thinking about the morbid little contingency in her plan was enough to make her hesitate. Was it worth the risk to keep doing nasty stuff like this? Then she chided herself for her hesitation, because the answer was a resounding 'yes', else she wouldn't have gone to all this trouble.

Her family, and her mother in particular, had done their best to beat the 'pervert' out of Lyran. Though they had left considerable scars (more mental than physical), her family's efforts had utterly failed to break her, and they didn't even realize it. Her will had won against the combined efforts of her whole family, they didn't even realize it, and that was her grim triumph; that the person that they'd sought to destroy was too strong for them to truly break. And today, she would prove it! Again! And it would be really fucking fun, too! Why was she being a coward all of a sudden?

Because, despite her best efforts, all those beatings had had an effect on her. That was why. And that, itself, ought to be an additional motivator to proceed, because she really felt she needed to get over that!

She closed and barred the door to the privy, set down the things she'd brought with her, and took a deep breath of cold air that already smelled faintly of her dirty body's odor. She smirked at that. Then she started to disrobe.

There were only a few places in the castle that were warm at this time of year, so she had been dressed for the cold. The dress she stripped off was a thick many-layered green and brown affair of reasonably good quality wool and linen, that was somewhat stained and grubby, but the fabric had a pattern that hid dirt relatively well. As she slipped the last of her clean-ish dress off, the air in the little privy closet grew thick with Lyran's previously faint unwashed reek. Her stockings and knickers hadn't been changed in over a year. They had been white when she'd first put them on, but they weren't anymore (especially not the much-darned soles of her stockings); they were now an attractive mottled greyish yellow-brown.

With delight, she took in deep breaths of her stink, savouring it and its nuances, heedless of the cold for now. She stroked the dirty cloth over her dirty skin, feeling how parts of her knickers and stockings were so saturated with skin oils and dry sweat (among other things) that they felt heavy and greasy. She loved the feeling of the utterly unwashed fabric against her skin, and how strongly she stank once she could let her smell free. She'd never bathed in her life; no one in Lanovale did, especially not the nobles, because it was their pride that they never looked dirty. Not even Lyran. Even though she wanted to.

Even after she had accidentally outed herself as a shit-loving freak, it didn't seem to occur to anyone that Lyran's sexuality was more complex than just coprophilia; that she enjoyed being dirty, and sought to be as foul as she could get away with being. That wound up being very dirty indeed, but still not nearly dirty enough. At least, not usually.

She folded up her dress, and laid it down on the stone floor. Then she sat down on it, spread her legs, and began to masturbate as she continued to enjoy the stench of her unwashed body. She reached into her stained underwear and stroked her hairy pussy. Ran her hands over her dirty flesh, which she lamented didn't actually look that dirty, despite all her efforts. Her body hair was sparse, her skin was a bit greasy, and with the occasional smudge of grime in places where dirt accumulated for whatever reason (such as her belly-button). Her long greasy black hair was done up in a complex braid, and she was going to have to leave it done up. She took off her knickers and stockings- there was black gunk between her toes and flecks of smegma in her pussy. Despite the chill air, she felt hot.

She plunged her fingers into her dirty pussy, heedless of deflowering herself, since her hymen was long-gone. (She had to forcibly suppress a sudden recollection of just what her mother had done to her once she'd found out about that.) She gasped in pleasure, eager to relieve her lusts. But also eager to go beyond just the pleasure that her mere fingers provided. She'd gotten good at sneaking a jilling when no one was looking. She'd gotten to the point where she found something exciting about the thrill of masturbating while no one else realized it, and that stupid cowardly little voice of 'reason' barely even butted in to tell her to stop. But here in privacy, finally, she got to properly indulge herself.

She stroked herself until she was on the verge of orgasm, and then finally released the turd she'd been holding inside her. The turd that she'd been storing, with difficulty, since breakfast. It had felt like a monster inside of her for most of the morning, and she was eager to set it free. She gasped in pleasure and relief as she finally was able to relax her anus, and as she shat, she rubbed her clit furiously. Still shitting, she grabbed a handful of the mess before it broke off, and slapped it onto her pussy, and then rubbed the muck into all her folds. Less than a minute of shitty rubbing later, and she orgasmed so hard she trembled, while poo continued to emerge sluggishly from her ass. She stroked her mucky pussy, and laughed a quiet laugh of nervous delight that probably didn't sound especially sane. She was still trembling from the thrill of finally getting to do this again. And she wasn't even close to done.

Lyran kept crapping; scooped it up with her hands, and smeared the lovely, warm, dark, creamy poo thickly onto her flesh. Despite her gleeful descent into deviant madness, she maintained the presence of mind to avoid getting any crap on the clothes she lay on. After all, that crap belonged on her.

She felt the poo in her bowels dwindling, and she eagerly plunged one finger, then a second, into her ass so that she could play with the remnants still inside her, spreading her fingers apart and stretching at her sphincter as she kept pushing the gooey remains of the turd out, relishing the sensations. Gods, she wished other people realized how good this felt!

She took that final little scoop of crap from her ass, plunged those two goopy fingers into her cunt, then thrust them in and out of her already soiled insides, depositing most of the crap inside herself. That wasn't enough! She gathered up some good-sized lumps of crap from around her belly and crotch, slopped it onto her pubic mound, then worked it into her mucky cunt with her fingers, one little bit at a time, until all that poop was inside her, a turd in the wrong hole. She kept masturbating, kept playing with her ass, and she came. She spread the filth upon her skin, stuck filthy fingers into her mouth and tasted the fresh crap on them (she could taste familiar notes of yesterday's supper), and she came. She toyed with her filthy nipples, she thrust her fingers in and out of her shit-filled cunt, and she worked the poo over every part of her body that she could soil without too much risk of getting crap on her clothes or in her hair. And she came, and came, and came. She was a wild, filthy beast who could only think of her deviant lusts! And those smug, scheming mother-fuckers she was stuck with as a family would never tame her!

She was dangerously close to losing track of time as she kept up her filthy self-pleasure, but she figured, by the time she finally tired (and by the time her various filthy holes were getting sore) that she'd been at it about an hour. Despite her attempts to keep them clean (which had been half-hearted at best), her clothes had acquired a few minor shit-smears, and she'd gotten some feces in her hair. Oh well, that would rinse out. She'd brought the stuff to clean herself up a little. But never mind that for now; she still had a good while to savour this experience.

She ran her crusty fingers over her soiled body, feeling how the thin coating of poo on her flesh had already mostly dried to a flaky crust.

She wanted to just leave that coating of dry crap where it was. She wanted to stay covered in shit like this for hours, or maybe even forever. She still didn't feel like she was dirty enough, since there was so much of her untouched by the lovely muck, and she wanted to get those places nice and soiled too. But the only way she could get away with doing shit like this was to not get too carried away.

Yes, what Lyran had just done absolutely counted as moderation.

She was starting to feel uncomfortably cold. Dammit, but probably just as well. She stood up, and clumps of semi-dry crap, among them being recognizable undigested food (why the fuck didn't mushrooms ever seem to digest completely?) fell from her. She stroked her crusty, sometimes gooey skin, enjoying it for the final few moments. She would have to clean up, but dammit, she didn't want to. She wanted the stink of shit to accompany her, to fill the castle. The very objections people would have to her stench would only be encouragement. Stroking her shitty pussy, she daydreamed about flaunting her stench to the world, but her shit-smeared flesh grew colder and colder until she abandoned that daydream to face reality. The reality where she wasn't a complete lunatic.

She started, reluctantly yet rapidly (to get it over with), to start cleaning herself up.

At least she could clean up without ever needing to use soap. That counted for quite a lot- the idea of soap just made her cringe.

She went to the chamber-pot, opened it (it was empty) and rubbed her hands together over it. Flakes of dry shit crumbled off her hands, until they were merely dirty rather than utterly filthy. With those almost-clean hands, she pulled her dress over to a corner of the privy closet so they'd be out of the way, and then rubbed at the crusty dry shit on her flesh, causing it to flake off and fall as a coarse brown dust onto the stone floor. Parts of her were still covered so thickly that the poo hadn't dried yet, like all the crap saturating her pubic hair and pit hair, so unfortunately she'd have to rinse those parts off. And she'd have to clean her pussy out too, or else she'd stink strongly of shit any time she got aroused- she knew that from... unfortunate experiences when she'd been younger. But Gods, thinking about how her pussy had a slug of excrement stuffed in it made her focus on the delightfully nasty feelings that entailed, and it threatened to make her horny again. She really didn't want to empty herself out. Fuck, she wanted to pack herself with as much shit as she could. (She'd done that a couple times, and had loved it, but then she hadn't had very much shit left to smear onto her body.) She wanted to feel utterly soiled, inside and out, and instead had to settle for these half-measures. And had to feel grateful that she even could consistently get away with stuff like this.

She squatted over the chamber-pot, and used her vaginal muscles to push the pussy-turd out of her and into the pot. She watched it fall, heard its pathetic splat into the pot, and felt like she'd just thrown away something precious. She then pissed into the chamber pot, getting her fingers wet with urine, and made some little whorls in the shit-residue still on her skin. She still stank magnificently of poo, and there were flecks of crap clinging to her in various places. She was going to leave a lot of that right where it was. But now came the part she'd dreaded; she went over to the door, where she'd left a wooden wash basin and a jug of clean water.

She filled the basin and, reluctantly, she rinsed her pits, pubic hair and pussy until they weren't obviously mucky anymore. So long as she didn't have to use soap, she could live with rinsing herself off this way, but she still hated having to do it. The cold water, and the chilly room, made her shiver. What manner of madman would want to subject themselves to an entire freezing bath? (She knew of at least two.)

Eventually, she deemed she'd done enough. There wasn't any still-moist crap on or in any of her body, and the residue of shit still on her flesh didn't have a strong enough smell that it would get through the many layers of her thick winter dress, at least so that anyone would notice.

She was sweeping up the poop-dust on the ground when she heard two distant notes of a hunting horn, announcing that her family was approaching, and that the servants had better be in a position to receive their lords. How nice of the Lanovins to give her warning like that. Lyran hurried her efforts, though they were mostly done. She'd brought a little straw whisk and iron pan with her, and thanks to them there wasn't a trace of poop-dust still on the floor.

She brought out a hand-mirror and looked herself over, feeling her face and hair for any clumps of crap, and she went over her dress as well for any errant brown smears. She found a couple, and scrubbed at them with a wet handkerchief, where the faint brown splotches mixed in with her dress's brown and green pattern.

She dumped the filthy wash-water into the chamber pot, rinsed the handkerchief out with fresh water, wrung it dry, disposed of that water as well, stuffed the hanky into an oilcloth pouch in her pocket, and gave the room a once-over. No, it did not look like she'd done anything untoward in here. She could tell, despite the dimness. The little room stank of shit, but that would fade, and it wouldn't be remarked upon. Good enough.

She unbarred the door, put a fresh pot back in the privy, put the the wash-basin in the to-clean pile, and she took a few good sniffs of herself. There was a faint hint of excrement to her stench, yes, but it was so faint that someone would need to be really close to her, with no other strong odors present, to notice. Since nearly everyone else in the castle was also smelly (just not as good as her), she was pretty safe.

Down on the ground floor, she cracked the tower's heavy fir and steel door open (she'd oiled its hinges earlier) and peered out through it into the castle courtyard. There was a good bit of activity around the castle, as various servants prepared the for their lords' return. The keep's giant main doors were shut, but there was a man-door set into one of the huge doors that was open, and she saw a couple servants scurry out of it on some sort of last-minute errand. There would normally be guards posted by the main doors, but those guards had been snatched up for the Lanovin ceremonial escort. Couldn't afford to show the commoners just how badly the people in charge were doing financially.

She shut the tower door behind her quietly, and very casually crossed the courtyard, heart pounding in her chest. This was probably the riskiest part of her plan. She had an excuse prepared for why she'd been in that tower and had a full chamber pot with her, but she wasn't certain it would be believed. She just had to hope that, if someone saw her crossing the courtyard, then no one would care. No one ought to care...

If anyone did notice her, no one gave her a second glance.

Across the castle yard from the tower was Castle Lan's main cesspool. The last, critical part of her cleanup plan was to dispose of this chamber-pot's contents, which was an entirely reasonable thing to be doing just before the Lanovins showed back up- but she always had to worry about anyone drawing certain conclusions about anything to do with her and shit. She approached a part of the keep's wall that had a stone privy chute going down from the second floor, under which was a big pit that had been bricked over. It had a tarred wooden hatch that was rarely kept properly sealed (and so an incredible smell wafted out) so that chamber pots could be dumped into it. As she very casually set her pot down and started to lift the lid off, she jumped a little as a pair of servants hurried over, each of them carrying the end of a wooden litter-like carrier loaded with jars full of piss and shit (Lyran was annoyed by the sanitized term 'nightsoil'), and she found herself inadvertently the head of a lineup.

She looked upon the servants with a look of relief. "Good servants, I would ask that you deal with this one too. I'm in a real hurry." She always tried to be polite to the servants, partially out of spite for those of her family who saw thought they were so much better than commoners, partially in the hopes that being pleasant would mean the servants wouldn't be inclined to snitch on her. The servant boys nodded to her, and she smiled a grateful smile upon them that wasn't actually fake, just not genuine for the reasons they'd think it was. Then she hurried over to the entrance hall.

That had been a bit of good luck right there, since now she didn't have to deal with cleaning the jar. It was nice when happenstance worked out- a good confirmation that the God Hethaltie obviously didn't care about her deviant behavior enough to administer divine punishment, even the subtle 'cursed fate' kind, she was supposedly due.