Diagnosing a Fetish Ch. 01

Warning:

The following story and subsequent series will focus primarily on the play and consumption of human waste, including feces and urine. If these topics do not interest you, I would not recommend you read further. Constructive criticism and comments are appreciated; however, I ask you not to rate this story poorly based on its contents alone.

All characters are fictional and over the age of 18.

Author's Note:

This story will be a VERY slow burn; don't expect explicit content in every chapter.

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"Um... Hello?"

God, this felt stupid. First, I had to embarrass myself in front of Dr. Litvak, and now I've burned that bridge only for a referral to another doctor. Although maybe that was a good thing after all. Not the embarrassment of having to explain myself, but it probably wasn't a good idea to keep the same general practitioner as Dave. Of course, I have to do all the work of finding a new doctor while he keeps Dr. Litvak, just like everything else in our shitty marriage.

"Yes, how can I help you?" the receptionist looked up from her computer.

"I- I have an appointment with Dr. Morse." I tried to sound confident, but my voice was lost in my throat. It was the first leaving my house in a week, and my body was suffering for it. Coming here was such a mistake, but I could do little now.

"Sure, just give me one minute."

Getting up from her desk, the receptions walked over to a stack of files in the back of her office. She was young; mid-twenties, by my best guess. From the badge on the front of her shirt, I knew her name was Tiffany, although the woman talking to her called her Tiff. If only I could go back ten years and be in her place. I envied her happiness, the woman almost blissfully unaware she sorted through the files while laughing with her coworkers. That wasn't something I had experienced for some time, not since marriage, anyways.

Tiffany -- or Tiff, I guess -- returned with a folder tucked under her arm and sat back at her desk. "So, since you are new here, your previous doctor Dr. Litvak has sent over your information. We have to make profiles for all our new patients, so, if you don't mind, I'm just going to go through it with you to make sure everything is up to date in our system."

"Oh, I'm not a new patient," I realized my hands were sweaty as I rang them together. I had avoided confrontation my entire life, and now it had been doused in it for the last four months. "I thought that Dr. Morse was a specialist. T-That's why I'm here; just for a one-time consultation thing."

"I'm so sorry, that's my bad. Dr. Litvak just had a note saying that he was no longer your G.P. I guess he assumed you would be taking Dr. Morse as your primary physician following today's consultation. It's no problem though," biting her lip, Tiffany began typing on her computer, "I can change it here for you."

Everything was always so complicated. This was supposed to be a straightforward appointment; Dr. Litvak set it up, and I just needed to show up; there wasn't supposed to be this much rigmarole. "So, she's not a specialist then? That's why I was coming to her. If she's just another family doctor... I don't know if that's what I'm looking for."

"Oh, no, she is a specialist, but also a general practitioner," Tiffany chuckled, "Sorry, I'm making this confusing. She is a specialist, but, as you can imagine, the patients who need her special treatment are rare. So, to make enough money, Dr. Morse works as a G.P. on the side. Now, I'll remove her as your primary physician. If you still want me to, that is."

"What?" I squinted, "Sorry." God, my head hurt. I could barely focus on what Tiffany was saying, her words turning into a jumbled mess that my brain could not interpret.

"Do you want me to keep Dr. Morse as your primary physician in our system?"

"Actually, you know what, just leave it."

"Leave you as a full-time patient? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I-I need a new doctor anyway." I forced a smile, but I'm sure anyone who saw it would recognize it as fake. Taking on a new primary practitioner without meeting them previously was a massive risk, but honestly, I was just exhausted. The ability to have logical thought processes like that had long since passed. No, now I just wanted an easy fix.

"OK, no problem."

No problem. So many young people always tell me 'no problem.' When I get groceries, when I go to the bank, anywhere, I know they mean well, but it's always infuriating. Everything is not a problem until it is, and even then, most people don't know because it goes against modern norms to tell people when something is wrong. That's partly why I've been miserable, and that's partly the reason why I stayed with Dave for as long as I did.

I guess Tiffany must've known that I had a problem; I was here after all. I wonder if she knew any of the specifics, though. She had my file, which meant she likely had the notes Dr. Litvak took in our final meeting. The notes that detailed all stupid, fucked up shit that had been going on in my brain. I didn't see all of them, but just enough when he stepped out of the room briefly. Just enough to see those two words scribbled across his page in pen 'mentally unwell.'"

All I can say is thank fuck the divorce had gone through by then. I could only imagine what would have happened if Dave was still in the picture, still trying to control every aspect of my life. I would've probably been in a mental institute by now. Locked up and called crazy by that ungrateful asshole.

"Well, I guess we will need to make that profile for you after all," Tiffany chuckled, "Is your full name Mallory Askren?"

"Byrd. It's Mallory Byrd... now," the pause didn't help to make the conversation any less awkward. I could tell from Tiffany's face that she was slightly uncomfortable, but she continued as if nothing had happened after some typing.

"And you were born July 17^th, 1987, in Camden, New York?"

"Yes."

"Is your current address 257 Myer Crescent, Auburn, Ohio?"

"Yes."

"Great, do you happen to have a health insurance ID card on you?"

Digging through my handbag, I pulled out my wallet and the subsequent card, sliding it across the counter. Tiffany took it without a word and entered the information into her computer. An average person likely would have filled the silence that followed with idle conversation, but I kept quiet. I instead busy myself by looking at the various pamphlets that adorned the counter, most of which were for some painful disease or another, and yet, I wished I was here for any one of them rather than the real reason.

"OK Mallory," Tiffany interrupted my self wallowing by handing me a clipboard, "I'm going to have you fill out these forms for Dr. Morse. When you go in, just give them all to her. Oh! Don't forget this," she handed me my insurance card.

"Yeah, right," I haphazardly dropped it into my handbag and took a seat. Looking through the forms, they all seemed pretty standard. More standard than I expected to be honest, given why I was here. However, they may have been for new patients rather than those coming for Dr. Morse's consultation; that made more sense. Either way, I began the slow and tedious process of filling them out.

When my appointment time came and went, and all the forms were finished, I quickly became bored. The nerves of coming here had briefly diminished while I was distracted, but they returned in force as my mind was left to stew in the quiet waiting room. I tried to distract myself by people-watching, but it only worsened the feelings. How many people here knew the reason why I came? If they knew what Dr. Morse did -- on the side, anyways -- then they could likely assume I wasn't here just for a checkup.

It wasn't difficult to make judgments. The man across from me, for example, was older, maybe sixty or seventy -- he was here for a physical examination. Same with the woman and her kid to my right; probably a checkup for the girl. Without kids and on the younger side, I stuck out like a sore thumb in the room. All I could do was not draw further attention to myself and hope to blend in, but my shaking hands and nervous composure surely weren't doing me any favors.

"Mallory Byrd?" A woman in nurse's smocks came from the door to the examination rooms.

"Y-Yes, that's me," I shakingly stood from my chair, taking a few steps forward before remembering the clipboard and quickly going back to grab it. Then, forms in hand, she led me down a short corridor and into an office at the end.

"Dr. Morse will be with you in a moment, but I'll start the basic evaluation for her," the woman smiled, "If you could please step on this scale for me."

Hanging my handbag on a hook by the door, I cautiously walked to the other side of the room and stepped on the metal plate. The nurse said nothing as she slid the metal bars on top of the scale, stopping once they were balanced and the metal arm hung horizontally.

"One hundred and fifty-three pounds," she jotted the notes on a piece of paper, "which is sixty-nine kilograms. Great, now I just need to measure your height."

Beside the scale was a tape measure on the wall that the nurse directed me to stand in front of. I felt strangely uncomfortable as if I was a kid getting my monthly checkup. Others may have openly made a joke about such an observation, but I made no mention of it to her. Maybe a few years ago, it would have been different; before Dave sucked out any youthful exuberance and extrovert characteristics I had left. Now I was happier keeping to myself.

"Five foot..." she paused, squinting while trying to read the small markers, "six inches." This information was added to the paper, too, the nurse making one last check before addressing me again, "Feel free to take a seat and relax while you wait for Dr. Morse," she smiled before leaving the room, closing the door behind herself.

Sitting down on the examination table, I let my head rest against the wall in a futile attempt to stop its pounding. Although the two aspirin I took this morning did nothing, so I'm not sure what drywall was going to do. Closing my eyes helped some, and soon enough, I was drifting off. That was, however, until the sound of the door opening jolted me awake.

"Oops, didn't mean to startle you like that," the woman who I assumed to be Dr. Morse apologized, setting papers down on her desk before taking a seat, "Not getting enough sleep lately?"

"No... I-I... I'm fine." The first thing I noticed was her almost inhumanly defined cheekbones. Dr. Morse was the face of youth, but I knew from my research that she was a couple of years older than me. The images online did her no justice, the closeups of her face leaving out the tall, thin, model-like body that stretched below it. Even under her loose-fitting lab coat, I could tell her figure was one most women longed to have. Perhaps not well endowed or hourglass-shaped, but gorgeous nonetheless.

"You don't have to lie, dear; difficulty sleeping is a quite common trait in recent divorcees. Your body becomes accustomed to someone sleeping next to you while you're married," she waved her arms around expressly, "And then when that space is empty, it can be difficult to relax. Then, of course, there is the additional stress and emotional strain that such a situation entails. It takes time to return to normalcy."

"W-What? How did you know about the divorce? Did you talk with Dr. Litvak?"

"Sorry, no. I realize it's not very professional, but I made some guesses. Recently moving, the name change in your file, the lack of a ring," she indicated to my hand, "Divorce seemed the obvious choice. Generally, we work based on facts and research in my field, but I find judgment and intuition can sometimes be beneficial, maybe even more so."

"Um, OK."

"Anyways," she took a breath, slapping her thighs, "I think it's about time we get started properly. Are those for me?" Dr. Morse nodded towards the clipboard in my lap.

I handed it to her, quickly shaking my head in annoyance at forgetting about the forms for the second time today. "Sorry, my mind has been a little mixed up lately, I chuckled.

"No need to apologize," she brushed aside a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from her messy bun, "Do you feel up for answering some personal questions? I find it beneficial to learn everything I can from my clients before starting treatment."

"Yeah, of course," I shuffled forward on the examination table.

"Great," setting the clipboard on her desk, she grabbed a notebook and pen, turning to a blank page before beginning, "So Mallory Byrd; how old are you?"

I squinted, taking a second to make sure I heard her correctly, "34?"

"And you're stilling living in Auburn?"

"I'm renting an apartment close to downtown, yes."

She made a quick note in her book, "Alone?"

"Yes," I was a little annoyed now, "I wrote all this information down on the forms Tiffany -- the secretary -- gave me. I talked to her about it too; she said she was putting it in the system."

"Oh yes, I know. I will look at that later, but for now, I'm interested in talking to you," Tiffany looked up from her book to flash me a quick smile. Seeing my confused face, she tried to explain herself more, "These documents and the computer system are a formality that comes with operating in a public doctor's office. I am not much of a fan myself, but they can be useful for my patients when working as their general practitioner. With so many people coming in and out, I'm sure you can understand how confusing it can get."

"I guess, yeah."

"But for more focused and private work, such as what I'm doing here with you, I like to connect on a more personal level. So, back to my questions, how long have you and your husband been separated?"

"Officially, we have been divorced for two weeks."

"Officially?"

"We haven't been together for a little over," I took a second to think, "I guess four months now, but the paperwork didn't go through until two weeks ago. I haven't interacted with Dave since I moved out, though."

"Dave is your husband?"

I nodded.

"Why is it that you two broke up?"

"I don't know, because he was a piece of shit, because he manipulated me constantly," I couldn't help but raise my voice as my agitation grew, "Long story short, he was an asshole. I shouldn't have ever married him, and I certainly shouldn't have moved out to the fucking middle of nowhere Ohio just because he wanted to."

"Would you say he satisfied you sexually?"

"What the fuck is this?!" I finally let my temper get the better of me, "I'm fucking exhausted, and my head has been pounding all day, and now you're accosting me with stupid questions, half of which I answered on all the forms you made me fill out. I've already had to deal with this shit with the marriage counselor and then the lawyers. This isn't why I came here."

"So, tell me, why did you come here?"

She called my bluff. Instantly my throat closed at the thought of attempting to explain myself to another medical professional. Dr. Litvak's notes flashed in my head briefly as I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the world. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked to my left, finding Dr. Morse sitting on the examination table beside me.

"I don't want this to be an attack or to make you uncomfortable," she smiled warmly, "If you are not ready to talk, then I understand, but being open to it will make what comes next so much easier."

"No... no, I- I need to talk about it," I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hands, hoping to wipe away the tears.

"So, let's talk."

"Recently..." I swallowed, "I don't know why, but... I have been... aroused... by pee and poo. I was just trying to ignore it -- and it was working, more or less -- but then, a few weeks ago, I was on the toilet..." My hands were shaking as I gripped the soft plush of the table below me, "I was um... going poo and then -- I don't know what happened, but I reached between my legs and caught some of it in my hand."

"And then what?"

I could only look at the floor as I continued talking, unable to face Dr. Morse, "I realized what I'd done and dropped it into the toilet before washing the rest off my hand."

"Would you say that you were aroused?"

"I- I don't know. I was disgusted, but..." I choked back tears, "I think I was initially, yes. I don't understand w-where this came from, and I hate myself for it. I used to be normal; now I don't know what I am."

"Mallory, I am a medical psychologist specializing in coprophilia and coprophagia. I have seen hundreds of patients in similar positions to your own; this is not abnormal. Sexuality is a difficult subject to understand, but almost everyone has fetishes that sexually arouse them. No fetish is more or less normal than another; just because one is less common, it does not make it worse."

"But why do I have it?" I wiped away the tears in my eyes as I tried to calm myself down. I was mad, anxious, and exhausted, but I didn't want to be some sniveling idiot who cried at the thought of facing hardship, especially not in front of my doctor.

"You said that this started recently, but how recently? Was this something you experienced while with Dave?"

The idea that I enjoyed anything sexual while married to Dave was laughable. I couldn't help but scoff at the suggestion. After our wedding night, we maybe had sex once a month, and every time it was Dave just going full force until he got his rocks off. Then I was left to 'finish myself off,' as he would put it. "No, my wants and needs were often left at the door with Dave," I sighed, "I didn't have my current fantasies being realized; the idea that I was developing new ones is almost laughable."

"Hmm..." Dr. Morse studied me as she chewed on the end of her pen, "I realize that your previous marriage is a difficult subject, and I've been asking a lot of questions about it; for this, I apologize. However, after talking to you, I believe that I have developed a rough theory as to why you've been experiencing these things as of late. Would you be open to hearing this theory?"

The fact that she was asking me first confused me slightly; this is why I was paying to see her after all. It's possible that her tentativeness was due to fear of setting me off, which led me to believe that what she was about to say would anger me. Still, I needed to know what was wrong with me. "Yes, of course."

"OK," she crossed her leg in her lap, flipping her notebook a few pages back, "I think that, as you explained, Dave was someone who restricted you sexually. Then, once you moved past the early stages of your relationship, the excitement and passion started to wear off. This left you wanting more while Dave was content with the bog-standard, vanilla sex. Then, of course, marriage only compounded this with you left frustrated and Dave all but giving up."

She looked up from her notebook briefly to gauge my reaction. Truthfully, I didn't know what expression was making at the moment. So far, everything Dr. Morse said had seemed to be right on the money. Then again, she hadn't said anything revolutionary, instead going into a little more depth on the information I provided. I wanted an explanation as to why my brain was functioning abnormally, so I gave her a slight nod to continue.

"Whether you knew it or not, I think that your current... problematic fetish, we'll call it, was already in development during this period. Your body was so accustomed to -- and bored of -- the limited, vanilla intercourse you were having with your husband that it yearned for something different. This is actually quite common, but with you, it just developed into a less common fetish," She gave me a warm smile, likely to put me at ease.