The Scat Lovers Ch. 20

Warning: As the Series title indicates, scat play is a factor here. Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone, though they are somewhat interlinked and are populated by recurring characters. Click on my username to find previous chapters easily.

Heather lay naked on her stomach on a beach blanket in front of the campfire while Greg sat next to her, also naked. It had been dark for several hours now, and the air was very still and humid. They had found the perfect campsite at a resort near the tip of Cape Cod: secluded, well-sheltered, and near the ocean. It wasn't a resort that catered to nudists, though it might just as well have been, since one could lounge around in that state of undress at one's campsite and not have to worry about privacy, especially after dark. Heather was thrilled with the prospect of going home without tan lines.

Greg held a stick and used it to feed marshmallows into the flames. They each ate three, all brown and sticky (though Greg preferred holding his in the flames until they caught fire and turned charcoal black). But then Greg, ever the inventive type, thought of a better idea. What if after retrieving the marshmallows from the fire he quickly, while they were still warm, pushed them off the tip of the stick into Heather's ass and then had her pop them out (or would poop be a better word) into his mouth? She got all excited about this plan, and said, "Yeah, baby, let's do it!"

Greg put another marshmallow on the end of the stick while Heather got on her knees. He held the stick over the fire watching the sweet ball of fluff turn brown. When it was just right, he told Heather to spread her cheeks apart and he knelt next to her. He took the marshmallow off the stick with two fingers, waited a few seconds for it to cool off a bit, and placed it against her rosebud. Then he slowly pushed it in.

"Hmmm," moaned Heather. "It feels so warm. Push it in deeper." He inserted it the full length of his index finger and then put his mouth to her anus.

"Let me have it, love," he told her, licking all around her sphincter, even sticking his tongue inside of her. But nothing happened; it wouldn't come out.

"I think it's stuck in there," Heather said, laughing. "Maybe it's too gooey."

Greg smiled and after probing a few more times with his tongue, said, "Well, there's only one thing to do now, and that's stick more marshmallows up there."

"Stuff me like a Christmas goose!" howled Heather, thrilled about having several marshmallows forced inside of her.

This time Greg put three marshmallows on the stick at once and put them all near the fire. When they were brown and oozing sweetness, he popped them off one at a time and pushed each one up her ass. "How does that feel?" he asked when he was done.

"Wonderful!" she replied. "But they're going to make me want to shit. I can feel it already." Greg's tongue was plowing into her asshole as she spoke, trying to reach the marshmallows and maybe getting them to exit her.

"This might turn out better than I thought," he said. The heat from inside her ass was further melting the marshmallows, and their sweet white juices were beginning to leak out of her. It looked as if someone (he thought of himself, of course) had just come in her ass and this was his creampie leaking out.

"It might be the only way to get those marshmallows out of there," she added. "If I take a shit that'll push them all out for sure... along with some other good stuff."

"Maybe we should go in the tent and tend to that," Greg said. "I would say do it right out here, but I don't want any sudden surprises, like some other camper out for a midnight stroll who got lost."

Heather agreed and they went into the tent. A plastic tarp was already stretched out across their sleeping bags, and a small battery-operated lantern hung from a tie near the back of the tent. Heather switched on the lamp, creating a soft cozy radiance, and Greg got down on the tarp. She laid down on top of him, one leg across his waist, her lips next to his. She kissed him, and he held her head so their kiss would linger. He fondled her breasts with one hand, and she began to stroke his hardening cock. She swung her legs deftly around his head after a while and straddled his chest in a 69 position. She put his cock in her mouth and he licked her pussy.

"Mmmm," she sighed, angling her pussy so his tongue strokes would be most beneficial. "I want to know who taught you how to use that tongue on a woman so expertly."

"No, you don't."

She was in rather a talkative mood, he could tell, and not yet sexually focused. He didn't mind, and knew his patience would be well-rewarded. With her body stretched out on his, the side of her head now resting against his cock, her lips touching him, she said to him, "I bet it was some much older woman, in her forties no doubt, and from Paris, France, with a name like Jovette Chanson who had fifty lovers though you were her favorite by far. She had medium-length brunette hair and green eyes and perfectly smooth skin, and knew everything there is to know about everything having to do with sex, bar nothing. She made you spend hours licking her pussy, exploring every fold there was. She commanded you, demanded you perform like a champion. She taught you how to make her come over and over." She licked the length of his cock, biting it gently.

"Ah, my secret is revealed," he declared jokingly, in-between gentle kisses of her labia. "But that was just the half of it. It was her ass she taught me really to administer to and serve, to relish with all my being. It was her shit she taught me to love and crave."

"Oh, fuck, now you're making me super hot," Heather gushed, planting a big kiss on his prick. "More, tell me more."

"Isn't there something else you'd rather do right now than listen to old stories from me?"

"Like what?"

Greg couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, I don't know. Do marshmallows ring a bell?"

"Sure, but what's the hurry? They'll still be there after you tell me how you worshipped Jovette Chanson's shit, what it tasted like, whether she shared with you or made you her toilet slave. Did she like you to smear it anywhere on her in particular, on her tits, say, like I do?"

He could see her sphincter expanding and then closing again as she readied herself for her release. She reached her hand back and touched her opening with her middle finger, pushing it in slightly. The sexy talk, the wish for him to be as filthy as possible regarding this so-called Jovette Chanson, was just a way to further inflame her already raging imagination, her desire. "I'm close to shitting but not quite there yet. Keep talking, love, tell me more, it's so sexy."

Greg sighed and shook his head a tiny bit, but then continued with his tale. "Three times a week I was her receptacle for her morning shit. It was an elaborate ceremony she conducted with me. She would enter the room in a long flowing gown, usually happy and cheerful, though sometimes pensive. She would sit in a fancy arm chair next to me as I lay on my back on the floor, naked and with my hands tied in front of me. She would chat with me about anything that popped into her head, sometimes telling me about her other lovers, scat parties she might have attended, how her gorgeous body had been covered in shit from several partiers, her mouth filled to overflowing with their waste."

'"I am a slave, too, like you,' she would say, 'to the true and only master, shit.'"

"Oh, fuck, Greg," uttered Heather. "That's so fucking nasty hot. I wish I was there and could worship it with her!" She rubbed her pussy against his mouth and chin just a bit harder, her finger penetrating her asshole a little deeper.

"I wasn't allowed to say anything unless asked a direct question, and then she would say, 'Speak,' and I could talk. One sentence only, maybe two, or she would cut me off and tell me to be quiet. After a while she would remove the gown, under which she wore nothing, except maybe a pair of black stockings. I had never seen her in underwear of any sort, ever. She would walk around my body in a circle, chatting away, and then squat over my face. The variety of her actions was great: sometimes she would face forward, sometimes back; she'd piss in my mouth and then get up or immediately shit in my mouth right afterwards; she'd stand straight up and shit on my face from a standing height or she'd hold her asshole right to my mouth and empty herself rubbing her ass and pussy all over my shitty face. Weeks would go by where nothing would be exactly the same."

"Here it comes, love," Heather suddenly interrupted. "I can't hold it any longer. You can tell me more of your story later. Is right on your chest, okay, Greg? Look at my asshole" (and she spread her cheeks apart so he could see completely) "see it come out? It's fucking huge, I can feel it. Huge. Better than Jovette Chanson's shit ever was." The turd flowed out of her in a long cascading rush, pushing the four soggy bits of marshmallow before it, spiraling across his chest like a thick brown snake. Following was a soft drizzle of pee lasting a few seconds.

When she was done she said, "There's still more. Where..."

She felt his hands suddenly on her hips. "You know where, love." And she moved back a bit so her ass was over his mouth. He licked her asshole, tasting remnants of her first log. As usual she tasted sweet and earthy, and he licked all around and inside her ass, drenching her. She broke off a piece of the turd that lay on his chest and put it in her mouth, savoring the taste. She wanted her own shit in her mouth as she proceeded to fill his. A few seconds later her second log began to emerge from her rectum and slowly into his mouth. He blocked his throat with the back of his tongue so he wouldn't choke and felt her log slide in. Again a small stream of pee flowed next onto the shit in his mouth and down his chin.

She lifted her ass off his face and moved back a bit more. Looking into his face upside-down, she wanted him to see her with the piece of log in her mouth, and when he did, she removed it and put it on his forehead. Then she moved her mouth over the log that extended from his mouth and sucked it like a cock, but not too hard, so it wouldn't break. Colors seemed to explode behind her eyes, her imagination, her taste buds, her passions all combining in one gigantic lightning burst. She reached down to his chest with her hands and buried them in the shit there, rubbing it across his chest.

She picked up two of the marshmallows and brought them to their mouths. She removed the log from Greg's mouth and said, "These still look decent enough to eat. Here, you take one, I'll eat the other." She popped the marshmallows in their mouths and they both chewed them and finally swallowed.

"As good as S'mores without the cracker," Heather asked, "or better?"

"Better, definitely," Greg replied.

She reached back down again to the pile of shit on Greg's chest and smeared most it there and on his torso. She knelt up straight and spread the large amount of shit that accumulated in her hands on her tits. She loved the way anything soft and creamy felt being applied to her breasts, especially warm buttery shit. Occasionally, with her eyes closed as she moaned ecstatically, she would hold them to her lips and lick her nipples, then rub them on her cheeks.

When her breasts were thoroughly massaged and totally covered all the way up to her chin, she brought her hands down over her torso to her pussy and smeared the shit all over herself there and between her legs. Then she turned around, took his cock in her hands, and guided it to her pussy. "Fuck me, baby. Get inside of me and fuck me." Both gasped with pleasure as his cock slid into her wetness. He fucked her slowly and passionately at first, and then quickened his pace. Soon he rolled her on her back, his cock still deep inside of her, and mounted her. She wrapped her legs around his back and pulled him into her with them.

"Fuck me, Greg, fuck me hard with that cock of yours. I'm so fucking filthy hot right now, just keep fucking me in all this shit."

He knew that Heather was about to lose it all, go to a place where only pure emotion existed. She was breathing like she just ran a marathon, rubbing her tits with as much shit as she could find, smashing her body into his, ramming her fingers down her throat. "Yes!" became her mantra, repeated over and over. He put his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back and buried his face in her neck, licking her intensely.

"Yes! Fuck me, I'm there, right..." and before she could say another word, she climaxed and shivered. He could feel the muscles inside her pussy grab and release his cock as she orgasmed.

"I want to make you come, baby," she whispered into his ear between swipes with her tongue, her mind racing with images of exactly what she wanted to do to him. "I want to make you come on my face, in my mouth, with my tongue up your ass, I want to eat your asshole, fuck your asshole with my tongue and make you come in my mouth. Get up here! Do it!"

He moved up to her face and she pulled his ass down onto her mouth and thrust her tongue up his hole, reaming him all around and deep inside. She grabbed his rock-hard cock and jerked him against her face. A few seconds later he exploded, streams of creamy white cum flowing onto her face and into her mouth. She sucked and licked him until he couldn't hold his position any longer and collapsed onto the floor of the tent next to her.

A short while later, using a flashlight to guide them, they made the short trek along a narrow sandy trail to the beach and into the water to clean off the shit on their bodies. They would make this excursion several times over the next three days and nights, sometimes just to enjoy the beach, but at least once every night to clean themselves after engaging in passionate scat play.

They returned to Boston and three days later Greg was arrested by the authorities, charged with bank fraud. He pleaded innocent, but was convicted and spent 10 months in jail before new evidence came to light that overturned his conviction. By this time Heather had relocated to New Jersey, Greg's circumstances becoming lost to her. Years went by and then she heard that he had been released, had got his life back on track, and also now lived in New Jersey. Memories of all the wonderful times they'd spent together, especially their scatting adventures, began to dance before her. Could their relationship be salvaged, rekindled, or had too much water flowed over the dam for that? She was conflicted over what to do. Following is her account of what transpired.

****

Since before I first met Gordon (all related in Chapter 13), I'd been trying to decide whether I would attempt getting back together with Greg. I had learned he was living in New Jersey, so distance would not be an excuse to avoid him. Part of me felt ashamed and guilty for not sticking by him after his sentencing, though I didn't have much choice in the matter at the time. I saw him as much as I could during the trial, but just as he was declared guilty and sentenced, I was offered a new position in New Jersey, a major promotion. I remember telling him about this, the despair in his eyes, but also his telling me to go, not to waste a good opportunity like that. I told him I would miss him, and I remember him joking, as only Greg could do, echoing Bogart's line to Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, "We'll always have Boston." What would he think of me now if I suddenly appeared before him? Would he hate me?

Of course, there was one thing that we had that was very special; in fact, it practically fused us together: our total dedication to and love for the scat fetish. I did miss that with him, sometimes desperately. When I first came to New Jersey I tried to connect with others who claimed to share a passion for that fetish, but no one satisfied me (until I met Gordon, that is). Being with Greg again would no doubt mean our scatting together would recommence, and that would be a major incentive for seeking him out. I still hadn't made up my mind what to do when suddenly I had it made for me. I went to a nightclub with some friends one Saturday night and out of the blue there he was.

I recognized him almost as soon as we walked in. He was talking with a small group of people, his arm draped around the shoulders of a pretty woman with curly brunette hair, in her late twenties, it seemed. He looked towards us as we crossed the crowded floor and I glanced at him again; I could tell by his surprised look that he recognized me right away. I told my friends I'd be right back and walked over to him. He stared at me as I approached him and took his arm from around the brunette's shoulders.

"What a surprise!" he said, holding out his hand to me. I looked in his eyes and saw no daggers, a relief. I then looked at his hand, held out for me to shake, and had to smile to myself, thinking of the things that hand had once done to me. But I took it and held it until he let it go. He introduced me as "Heather, someone I knew well during my Boston days" to Denise, the woman he was with, who, not surprisingly, didn't seem too thrilled to meet me.

"Someone mentioned to me not too long ago that she thought you were still with Canterbridge here in New Jersey," he said.

"Yes, still with that company," I replied. "I just heard recently that you had moved here as well." He looked as handsome as I remembered and didn't seem to hold any kind of grudge against me. Doubts that I had about reconnecting with him began to fade, as we talked mainly about his prison release and subsequent moves. I really wanted to talk with him at length, but Denise was getting impatient with the attention he was showing me. Who could blame her?

Just before we parted, he mentioned the name of the bank he worked for and where the branch he worked at was located, hinting strongly that I should call him there if I wanted to talk some more. I said I would. We spent the rest of the evening mainly with our own friends, though he was in my mind most of the time. I wondered how close he and Denise were. Were they lovers? Probably, I thought, from the way he had his arm around her, but since then I hadn't seen them act like they couldn't get enough of each other. More like good friends. Or was that just wishful thinking?

And, of course, I wondered if they engaged in scat together. Did he find someone in Denise who took him to the same heights he had enjoyed with me? To greater heights, perhaps? I entertained that thought for only a few seconds, however, before dismissing it: I was aware enough of my own skills and abilities, not to mention passions and inclinations, to believe that wasn't possible, unless she was from another planet or something. To both soothe and boost my ego and self-esteem, I remember thinking to myself how I, Heather, and probably not you, Denise, have had my tits buried under Greg's shit while sucking on a shitlog right from his ass. I felt a sudden surge of power deep in my stomach as that image danced in my mind. The filth of it startled me in a thrilling way. He might be fucking you, but not while you're covered head to toe in his shit like I have been. That exhilaration only I've experienced with him. At least that's what I imagined. (That 99.9% of the world at large would think my bragging to myself in those terms was just madness didn't bother me in the least.)

A few days later I looked up the bank on Google and got the phone number. I called and asked for Greg, and they patched me through right away.

I said "Hello" and told him it was me. "That was a quick connection," I said. "I was expecting to hear a lot of Muzac before getting you."

"Nah," he replied. "I told my receptionist that I expected a call from a sexy woman and to put it through right away."