The Scat Chronicles Pt. 01

Beware! The following story contains graphic depictions of sex involving feces. All characters in this story are eighteen years or older and are entirely fictional. Any similarities to actual persons are entirely coincidental. Enjoy!

*****

"I know your secret. I know you're a nasty, sick fucker," the girl in the clip says.

Ricky and his wife Morgan sit naked against the headboard of their bed, holding their gaze on the flat screen TV as a ceiling fan above whirs slowly, thrumming in a pleasant, forgetful kind of way. The nameless teen in the clip projects out in 47 inches of high definition, spitting out words in heat. "I know exactly what you want. I know all about sick perverts like you. You want to watch me take a shit, don't you? You want to watch me drop a nasty, stinky fucking log . . . mmm . . . I just know it."

His senses are on high as they caress each other; each gently teasing the others body as the girl spreads her legs and slowly runs a clear glass dildo up and down the pink folds of her shaved sex. "Mmm . . . that's right. You want to watch me smear shit all over my body, all over my tits and my face. I bet you'd love to watch me eat my shit, wouldn't you?"

He trails his fingers across his wife's nipples, the fleshy nubs pointing straight up like his cock, his stiff pole twitching and bubbling up pre-cum as Morgan gives his balls a squeeze. The girl flips onto her side, brings her knees in toward her chest, and pushes the toy against her pucker, easing the tip into the tight hole and moaning, then going in just a little and pulling out again. "I've got to shit so bad. I've been holding it in all day and cutting nasty farts just to relieve the pressure."

Need floods his body and Ricky thrusts his pelvis upward. Pulling her hand away, Morgan brings her palm up to her chin and fills the depression with a pool of saliva. She slops it over his head and shaft as she strokes him fast and hard, and he returns the favor by sliding his hand across her tight stomach and down to the wet slit between her legs, her landing strip feeling soft against the pads of his fingers, her cunt slippery with drool.

The girl takes her time, patiently sliding the dildo in and out and working her asshole open. With each push and sharp exhale she goes just a little deeper, until the dildo is buried to the hilt in her rectum. "I fucking love a hard cock in my ass," she grunts as she slowly pulls it out and holds it to the camera for inspection. Brown smudges streak the once clean surface, and she puts the toy up to her nose, giggling. "Smells like shit." She runs it across her lips, parts them and gingerly touches the tip with her tongue, teasing her viewers. "Tastes like shit, too. I love the taste of my own stinky shit. I bet you'd like to taste it, wouldn't you?"

Ricky abandons his wife's clit for her hole. He slips his fingers inside the warm channel, and she draws a deep breath that she lets out as a purr while the girl returns the dildo to her ass and pushes it in again, squirming a little and biting her lip. The pressure inside must be intense, he thinks. He wonders if Morgan feels the same pressure right now. She ought to; they've been waiting all day for this moment, and he knows for a fact that she's denied the imperative to evacuate her bowels.

With his fingers jammed in her cunt, Morgan pushes some gas into the protective vinyl sheets beneath them. The fart smells; not a lot, but it's there. He retreats from her pussy and slides down to her asshole, and with his digits well lubed with girl-cum, he easily drops his middle finger into her shitter, making her tremble as he pushes past her sphincter muscle until he can feel a soft, warm mass pushing back.

The girl is fucking herself hard now; the dildo caked in shit as she rams it over and over again into her ass. She pulls it out all the way and shoves it into her mouth, shutting her eyes as she fellates the toy, gagging a little as she overcomes the taste and smell of her feces.

She pitches the dildo to the side, gets on her knees, spreads her cheeks wide, and lets out a long, juicy blast of air. A creamy brown rope slithers out of her asshole and plops on the white towel that she's laid down beneath her. They shift positions now as the girl sits down and prods the freshly laid pile with her fingers. Ricky gets on his back, and Morgan straddles his cock, impatiently grabbing his dick and lining it up with her fuck-hole. Their moans twist together into a single lustful melody as she lowers herself onto him, the feeling intense as his cock slides into her warm, wet deliciousness, hitting her deep in her core while she grinds down on him.

She rides him in a wave of grunts and short, heavy breaths, pouncing up and down, her tits bounding, her face contorting in fits of pleasure. They speed up, slow down, and speed up again, and then suddenly she rises up off of him. He knows right away that the time has come, that it's time for her to answer nature's incessant call. She inches her sweaty body forward, reaches behind, and pushes his cock up against her asshole as he cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the girl, who has a glob of shit on the tip of her tongue, wagging it at the camera. Switching back to his wife, he listens to her moan in ecstatic release as she lets go, her body taking over and pushing out a massive log.

The turd can only move so far of its own accord. It butts up against his shaft and she has to push out the rest. She nearly attacks her clit as she unloads, her knuckles pushing into his lower abdomen as she rubs herself furiously. Sticky warmth engulfs his shaft and a beefy stink hits his nostrils as she comes instantly, crying out and shaking like a possessed woman.

The clip now over, silence reigns for a moment as Morgan collects herself. With care, she climbs off of him, and he's greeted by a sizable shit-load mashed into his pubic hair. He grabs the soft lump and pulls it apart, handing her one piece as he places the other in his mouth.

While he chews on his wife's shit, she smears her portion over every inch of his throbbing cock, coating his head, shaft, and cum-swollen balls with her filthy caresses. He savors her taste like a French cheese left out to reach its full, ripe potential, while she ventures further out, spreading her feces over his stomach, all the while licking her lips at the smelly mess that she's created. Little time is wasted as she wraps her mouth around his now brown cock head, going down deep and then coming up and squeezing and tugging at him with her jaw muscles.

Morgan bobs her head up and down on his pole, sucking him rapidly and stroking his shaft with her tongue as she does so. His urges get the better of him, and he grabs the top of her head and sets the pace himself. She lets him take control; lets him hold her head still and use her mouth like a nasty fuck toy.

"Unnngggg," he grunts, pushing her head off as he feels the pressure deep inside mount to extreme levels. She stands up, still shaky from her own orgasm, and drops down on the carpet as he gets into position above her. With ferocity, she focuses her efforts on his engorged, drippy head, sucking it in quick, sloppy bursts until he loses control and explodes. Slowing down now, she shepherds him through every twitch and spurt, through every groan of unadulterated release, collecting a load so massive that her mouth nearly bursts at the seams. He trembles as she parts her lips and shows him the efforts of her work, letting some of his come drip down her chin for effect, and then with a wink, downing the rest in a single gulp.

* **

Brush, rinse, and spit - Ricky pops his head up from the bathroom sink and looks in the mirror with a self-satisfied smile. The man on the other side is glowing. "I need your help," Morgan says after giving a light rap on the door frame.

They're going out for the evening, to a dive called Sharron's Pub on the north side of town, where Morgan is planning on meeting two men. If all goes as planned, she won't be coming home, and Ricky is fine with that. The rules of their open marriage allow for endless dalliances, as many as they each desire.

Turning to look at her, he sees that she's naked from head to toe, and naked Morgan is a fine sight to behold. She has grayish-blue eyes that shimmer with her sharp intellect, an adorable pert nose, and rich auburn locks that fall past her shoulders in natural, long curls. She's in her thirties, but she's managed to retain the toned figure of her early twenties, with perky C-cups, smooth, long and slender legs, and a round, watertight ass.

He lets his eyes linger on her pussy for just a moment, then sets his toothbrush down and follows her into the bedroom where she holds up two dresses side by side. He points to one of them, a blue and white strapless sundress. "That one."

"I was hoping you'd pick that one," she replies as she poses with the dress in front of the tall mirror next to the TV. "It matches the sandals that I wanted to wear." Ricky can't help but smile. His wife is a study in contrasts. Their scatological games aside, Morgan is very much a woman's woman; delighting in all things fruity and feminine. There's nothing that she loves more than playing dress-up. As if to underscore her dual nature, she lifts her right leg off the ground, leaning to one side like she's executing some strange yoga pose, and trumpets a curt, dry blast. "Shit," she comments, looking back at him. "I'd better not do that tonight. I don't want to send them running."

"You never know," he says with a shrug. "You might have two shit-freaks like us on your hands."

He throws on some underwear, a buttoned-up short sleeve shirt, and a pair of well-worn jeans. His phone is in his back pocket, and he digs it out, figuring that it's a good time to check his email. "Anything interesting?" she asks.

"Same old stuff," he replies as he skims an email about an upcoming conference in Washington, D.C. As a leading scholar in his field, and a tenured faculty member at Indiana University, he's pretty well obligated to make an appearance.

"Is that one student still harassing you?"

"The one who was waiting by my car every day?" he confirms. "No, she transferred to another school."

"Good riddance," she replies as she digs around in the closet. Her voice gets lost amongst the many articles of clothing, fading as she pushes deep into the recesses and bends over, her gash peeking through her thighs. "I told you it was a mistake from the beginning," she says, emerging with a handbag in tow.

Ricky sighs. "I know. You were right."

"I could just tell that she was nutty. I mean, she was cute and all, but she could have gotten you fired."

He thinks back to the previous semester. The student in question was a girl in one of his survey courses. She was a sorority girl, and she was nothing if not tenacious, seducing him relentlessly until he finally gave in. Morgan was leery of her, and when his not-so-secret admirer turned into a stalker, his wife's instincts proved correct.

"Well, I won't make that mistake again," he says. "From now on, I'll stick to women that I have to pursue."

She slips into the sundress and turns her back toward him. "Zip, please." He obliges as she continues with her thoughts. "And, it just doesn't pay to fool around at work. There's really no need for it - not when you've got all the girls at The Electric Moonlight."

The Electric Moonlight is an eighteen and over strip club; it's his favorite place for picking up women. He's not like his wife, who puts careful thought into her partners, sometimes spending weeks researching her hook-ups online. He likes to play it fast and loose, picking up trashy, slutty types and bringing them home for one night stands.

"Speaking of which," he says, "I might head over there after you meet these two guys at Sharron's."

"Alright," she throws off absentmindedly as she gives herself another look-over in the mirror.

"Maybe I should go with the other dress?"

He rolls his eyes at his wife's never ending ability to waiver back and forth over the "perfect" article of clothing. "I'll be downstairs watching TV. Just come down when you're ready to leave."

A half an hour passes and they're out the door. It's seven thirty in Bloomington, and their upper-middle class neighborhood on the south side is bustling with the trappings of early July - scratchy cicadas, the squeals of little children, distant lawnmowers rumbling, and the sharp bite of freshly spilled chlorophyll.

They hop in the car and Ricky hits the buttons for the two front windows, rolling them down as Morgan plugs her phone into the console and thumbs through her music library. She finds the perfect song - "Cherub Rock" by the Smashing Pumpkins.

A solitary, long drum cadence introduces a clean metallic guitar. A baseline completes the driving rhythm before a heavily distorted, saccharin cacophony descends while the two pull out into the street. Ricky turns it up, letting his soul swell with the sound of his youth, and as the sweet evening air rushes over his face, he transports back to the days when he would loiter on the steps of his high school, sharing laughs with his buddies and basking in the endless summer sun.

The drive to Sharron's takes them up Walnut and past the courthouse. There, a local group is setting up a banner that advertises the annual Jazz Festival. Meanwhile, diners and shoppers lazily traverse the town square.

It's not long after they park the car in front of Sharron's that the two are climbing the well-worn, creaking staircase to the second-floor landing of the two-story building. A bouncer lets them in, and Ricky heads for the bar as Morgan veers to the ladies room. He finds two empty stools, takes a seat, and swivels around to spot Morgan just as the bathroom door swings shut behind her. A woman dressed in a short, floral print skirt, denim jacket, and a white tank top sprints in next.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks, raising his voice slightly to compete with the din.

Ricky spins around. "A couple of glasses of wine, please. Any red will do." He sits patiently, twirling a faded cardboard coaster on the epoxy-finished bar top as he waits for his wife to return.

"You won't believe what happened in there," Morgan observes when she finally comes back.

"This chick came in after me - "

"The one in the tank top and dress?" he interrupts.

She nods her head. "That's the one. The poor thing must have eaten something that disagreed with her."

"Diarrhea?" he inquires.

She gives another nod. "Big time. She was farting like crazy and shitting so much. And, it smelled so bad! Christ it was hot; I had to fight not to diddle myself. I wish you were there. You would have loved it."

"Did your two guys make it?" he asks, switching gears.

"Yup," Morgan says, pointing across the room.

Ricky studies two clean-cut, young men sitting at a booth near a pool table, each shrouded in warm light from a vintage, stained-glass lamp dangling above. "Well, they don't look like serial killers."

She smacks his arm. "Don't say things like that. It's not funny."

He sips his wine and chuckles. "It's a little funny. Go knock 'em dead," he encourages with a slap on her rear end. "Oh, and I forgot to mention that you look amazing, by the way."

"Why thank you." She pecks him on the cheek.

"Don't leave until I give you the signal, OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill," he replies.

"Are you still going to the Electric Moonlight?" she asks as she picks up her wineglass and takes a sip.

He checks his watch. "I think so. I think I'll leave you the car and walk."

"That's a good mile at least," she advises. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Uh huh. It's really nice out. I could do with some fresh air. Plus, I'd rather you drive separately, just to be extra safe."

"I wish they'd hurry up and get your car fixed," she comments, referring to his black Audi that's been in the shop for over a week now. "Sharing one car is a pain. Oh, do you need some cash?"

He pats his pocket. "I came prepared. You go have fun now."

They kiss one more time, and she's off. A few minutes later, he gets a text: "Everything looks good. Going home with these two. Have a good time tonight. Love you."

If Morgan feels good about the two men, then so does he. Satisfied that his wife is in good hands, he throws back the last of his wine, tosses some money on the bar, and heads out with one thing, and one thing only on his mind.

***

It's a straight shot down Walnut to the Electric Moonlight, but Ricky cuts west to the newly added walking trail before pushing south toward the club. He joins the flow of foot traffic, evenly dividing his attention between the pavement beneath his feet, passers-by, and the gorgeous, deep blue sky, seemingly endless and with nary a hint of cloud to be seen. He makes it as far as the corner of South Morton and West 1st street when he sees that one of his laces has managed to untie itself.

Sitting on one end of a metal bench, he bends over to the re-tie the shoe, feeling the structure beneath him move slightly as somebody else joins him. Ricky thinks nothing of it. He's about to get up and continue his journey when the person waves a slip of paper in front of his face. She's a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, and his first thought is that he's seen her somewhere before. "Do I know you?" he asks.

She doesn't say a word, but keeps waving the paper around instead. He cautiously takes it out of her hand, running his thumb over the thickened edge where the paper is folded over, and unfolds it with a sharp crinkle to read what it says. The words are scratchy, but legible: "No talking, or you will ruin it. If you're down for a quick fuck, then follow me. I will defend myself if necessary."

He tilts his head and looks at her incredulously. Who the hell is this woman, and why does she look so familiar? More to the point, is she crazy? He opens his mouth to speak, but she puts her forefinger on her lips and shakes her head slowly. No talking. She uses the same finger to point to an apartment complex catty corner to where they're sitting.

He looks down at the paper and thinks, aware that the window on this opportunity is shutting fast. She doesn't look crazy. She looks completely normal. In fact, she's quite attractive - more so than any of the girls at the Electric Moonlight. Still, looks can be deceiving. What would Morgan do? He knows the answer to that one. Morgan is the cautious one of the two, which means that it's his job to take the risks. He looks over at the single-story apartment building. Somehow, the fact that it's stationed within a stone's throw from the bench puts him at ease.

With adrenaline sparking his skin, he stands up and sticks out his arm, signaling for the girl to lead the way. She smiles and hops up, and in no time at all, he finds himself stepping over the threshold of a small, sparsely decorated one-bedroom apartment, his pulse racing with the thrill of the dangerous and unknown as she shuts the door behind him.

The walls are taupe and the lights are bright, and for the first time, he sees the girl clearly. She stands with perfect poise, a breathtaking specimen of the female species. Her hourglass curves and sizable breasts are on display beneath a pair of tight black leggings and a mauve tank top. She has silky dark brown hair that's twisted into a bun at the top of her head, and long, dark lashes that tease seductively upward from dewy hazel eyes. More than anything else, though, Ricky finds himself drawn to her alabaster complexion, her sumptuous lips, and her ever so slightly rosy cheeks.

And then it hits him.

Of course she would look familiar - it was only a couple of hours ago that he and Morgan were watching this girl eat her own shit online.