Writing What You Know Pt. 01

The course was called "Writing Fiction," to be taught by novelist Susan Hicks at Cee Nova College. It was an elective course, taken mainly by English majors, but open to anyone who could demonstrate to Susan's satisfaction in a 100-word essay why they wanted to enroll, what they hoped to gain by being there. Ten students had made the cut, five men and five women, and all had been notified a few weeks earlier that two fiction pieces of roughly 1000 words each would need to be submitted to Susan's campus mailbox one week before classes were to begin. These submissions would not be used to prune the class further (a minimum of ten students was necessary or the class would have to be cancelled), but rather as a way for Susan to judge her students' abilities and where on the scale she might be able to comfortably start teaching them. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too close to the low end of that scale.

All ten had complied and within a couple of days Susan had read all the submissions. This was her third time teaching this course, and students all three times seemed to fit the same pattern: two or three showed genuine talent, two or three had very little talent, and the rest were spread across a wide spectrum. How wide that spectrum was determined the challenge Susan faced teaching the class. Fortunately, the spectrum this time did not seem so great; all had at least rudimentary knowledge of setting and character development, not to mention the fundamentals of grammar and usage.

Susan Hicks had three published novels under her belt, the first making it onto a finalist list of potential first-novel prize winners, only to lose out to a writer who hadn't published anything since, as she frequently groused to herself. Her other two novels received fair but very few reviews, and barely sold a few thousand copies. Therefore, she was typical of so many published fiction writers: talented but not supremely so, popular perhaps amongst a niche audience but far from a best-selling author, and thus needing an alternate source of income. And that's where teaching a course like "Writing Fiction" came in.

After reading both pieces of half-a-dozen students at random, one student, Carla Montgomery, stood out, not because both her pieces were exceptional, but because they were so different, both in subject matter and proficiency. One seemed so much better written than the other that Susan wondered if they were written by the same person. The lesser piece was a typical story about sibling rivalry, yet the superior one was almost pure pornography, about a woman who was obsessed with defecating in her panties. Susan was appalled by the subject, was surprised that anyone would even submit such a story, but the way Carla described the woman, her feelings and desires, the sheer exuberance she exhibited while imagining and then doing this deed, was impressive. In fact, no other story she read came close to capturing such clear-sighted insight into character as this story did. If one could just somehow flush away the fecal matter it could be a terrific story.

Susan had a folder for each student in which she kept their work, and had placed a separate piece of paper on top of the two stories in Carla's asking her to see her for a few minutes after class. Susan had learned by now not to try to imagine what her students would look and act like in class based on those first two stories; she invariably got it all wrong. Once a male student had submitted a violent war story set in Iraq, and Susan was sure a tough-looking marine-type guy would walk into her class the first day, only to learn the author of that story had never even been in the military but had taught kindergarten in a public school system before returning to school. So she stopped trying to put faces to those first stories. But she couldn't help wondering a little what that woman who wrote so well about someone relieving themselves in their panties would look and be like; maybe she would be wearing a nurse's uniform.

The class ran for 90 minutes and was held twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, at 10 a.m. The first day of class, a Tuesday, Susan arrived at her assigned classroom at exactly 10 o'clock. All the students were there already, a good sign; usually at least one or two came late. Some were chatting while others sat by themselves scattered around the room. No one was wearing a nurse's uniform, she noticed, which caused her to smile.

The first thing Susan did after introducing herself, insisting they call her by her first name, was to have everyone arrange themselves in a circle. This accomplished, she explained how she had read all their stories, made some general comments about them, and then read the names off each folder handing them out to the appropriate person. When she called Carla's name a blonde woman, very pretty in her mid-twenties, indicated it was she and took her folder.

Susan explained how the class would operate, how it was interactive, how they were expected to share their written work with the class with everyone offering feedback. Susan would contribute her ideas and expertise along the way; she would also collect the stories read and make further comments and suggestions on them. Because of the size of the class and the fact that it met twice a week, Susan said she wanted to break the class down into two groups, five students on Tuesday reading their work and five on Friday, with everyone else commenting both days. Students would have to prepare a work for presentation once a week that way. No one wanted the five men to go one day, the five women the other, another good sign, so Susan simply asked who had something ready to present on Friday and picked five of those at random. Thus the two groups were formed. For the remainder of that first day, Susan spoke a little bit about herself and then read a short passage from her second novel, opening it up for comments and criticism afterwards. Her students were reluctant to say anything at first, as Susan expected, fearful of getting off on the wrong foot, so she critiqued her own work, showing them how she hoped they would do it with each other. When the 90 minutes were up the class was dismissed and everyone left but Carla.

Susan went over to where Carla was sitting and sat in the chair next to her. "I just wanted to speak to you a little bit about one of your stories," she began. She paused, waiting to see if Carla would say anything, but Carla only muttered a meek "okay."

"I'm not here to censor anyone, and I want you to feel safe writing about anything you want, but I'm not sure I can help you if you are going to choose to write about pornographic subjects."

"What do you mean?" Carla asked. "Was it a terrible story, not well-written?"

Susan was surprised by that response, not expecting her to think she was criticizing the quality of her writing rather than the story's shocking content. "No, far from it. In fact, it was many times better than the other story you submitted."

"That's because I didn't really care too much about that brother-sister story, actually wrote it because I thought you might not like two stories about the same thing. But I've written other stories, or parts of stories, about people, usually women, who display a deep, all-engrossing craving for a sexual fetish I myself have become fascinated with recently known as scat that I hope might be, well, on the same level as the one you read. I know when I wrote them I was consumed almost by them; I felt lost in them, like in a dream."

More surprises for Susan, this time by the openness of this woman, how she revealed such intimate and, let's face it, questionable, matters about herself so nonchalantly. It seemed obvious to Susan that Carla's interest in her subject matter went beyond just an artistic, writerly one, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. She tried to picture this rather lovely looking, clearly intelligent young woman being involved in having excrement spread over her body to achieve sexual satisfaction, but it only made her feel ill.

"Trust me when I say it's thrilling for me to see someone so enraptured with putting words to paper, so to speak, like that, but that misses the point I made in class earlier. I told everyone that reading your stories in front of everyone else would be a major part of the learning process, and I don't see how I could let you read a story like that out loud in class."

"Oh," said Carla, very disappointed. "Are you asking me to withdraw from class?"

"My God, no!" cried Susan, shocked that she would jump to such a drastic conclusion so quickly. Three conversational exchanges had been made and each one produced a surprise for Susan in the way Carla reacted. She never felt so at odds with a student before, totally on different wave-lengths. "Far from it. I think you have real talent. I'm just hoping you can submit stories for sharing that everyone else wouldn't find disgusting. I think that would be much more productive."

"I don't think they're disgusting," Carla protested, not rudely, but with conviction. "Not the way I try to write them. I really attempt to make them as beautiful as I can."

There was no doubt that Carla meant what she said, which caused Susan to reflect on her comment. Thinking back to the story, Susan could see she had a point: she had taken great pains to make her central character as decent and normal as possible, just overly focused and sensitized to a practice that a vast majority would consider vile and what she, Carla, saw as ecstatic. Every day millions of people did things to their bodies, did things with their bodies with others that produced the same kind of ecstasy and no one would ever say one word against it, though they may personally not condone it. Susan herself often spent hours in bed with her lover Ginger, bringing each other to glorious heights of ecstasy with their fingers and tongues until both felt on the verge of bursting.

While Susan was mulling these thoughts over, Carla suddenly said, "I have an idea. How about if I share the kinds of stories you suggest with the class, but submit my other kinds of stories so just you can read them? I really want to make those stories as good as possible, and that's why I signed up for this course. I really want your help there."

Susan was silent for quite a while as she thought this over. Doing what Carla suggested didn't favor her in any way; in fact, it put an additional burden on her because she would have to prepare two pieces of writing while everyone else only had to have one. And it didn't make Susan's job more time-consuming since she would still just have the one story to comment on, just not the one she'd read in class. It all came down to the content of the pieces she was being asked to criticize and evaluate. Did she want to spend her time reading pornography; would showing Carla how to polish and "improve" such stories be worth her time and effort?

"Okay," agreed Susan finally, not at all convinced she was doing the right thing. "But I want to see some effort with the class stories and not just a lot of claptrap thrown together that you don't care about. If I see you doing that I'll stop reading the other ones."

Carla promised and seemed genuinely happy. She thanked Susan for what she was doing for her, looked forward to receiving her help, and left the classroom. Susan sat for a few minutes longer, contemplating her decision. I hope this doesn't turn into a regrettable disaster, she thought to herself. Then she smiled and pondered, Maybe she'll have other sexy things in some of her stories besides scat that I can relate to and get hot and bothered over, things I can share with Ginger. Now, that might make it all worthwhile!

***

Carla walked past the ladies' room as she headed for the doors to the building, thought for a moment of making a stop, but suddenly grinned and continued on her way to her car. It had been a good day so far, and she thought she would treat herself to something special. She had parked in one of the student parking lots only a few hundred feet from the building. When she reached her car, she tapped the trunk release button on her keychain, popping it open. She retrieved a folded piece of thin plastic from several she had there and took it with her. She opened the car door, threw her handbag and writing folder on the passenger seat, and arranged the plastic over the driver's seat, fastening it with a bungee cord she had wrapped around its back. She had done this so often that it took only seconds to accomplish.

When she finished she got in, locked the doors, and looked around. Often her mood at the moment dictated what she would do next. Being in such a good one, combined with the urgency that was building inside her bowels, she decided this would be the perfect time to indulge in one of her favorite activities: pooping in her panties. Why not commemorate the first day of class, especially one so positive and promising, with something that gave her such pure delight!

She looked down at the blue jeans she was wearing and thought about the light-blue silky panties under them. She did not have pantyhose on, so her deposit would not be very confined but would begin to spill out from her panties into the jeans quickly, especially if the amount she produced was abundant. She began to form a picture in her mind what it would be like down there in a short while after she started relieving herself, how much it would be (a lot, she hoped), its consistency (soft but not too soft and creamy), how it would feel oozing out of her ass and across her cheeks, and how that would take her breath away.

As she sat pondering these things, she saw Susan Hicks leave the classroom building and walk off to the left. As she felt her feces begin to slide down her rectum just before pushing through her sphincter, she touched her pussy through her jeans and rubbed herself. She imagined calling Susan over to her car, of inviting her to sit inside with her, then apologizing to her for the "awful" smell, that she had had a slight "accident"... only to hear Susan say, Oh, that's all right, Carla. In fact, why don't I join you, I need to shit as well and love the feel of it in my panties, too. It was such a delicious thought that as her shit flowed out of her asshole into her panties, she felt herself orgasm, her hand caressing her pussy.

She raised herself slightly off the seat to give her poop lots of room to spread out in. She unbuttoned her jeans to create even more room and to keep the flow unrestricted. She could feel it, soft and creamy and warm, ooze across her ass cheeks; it was a huge amount, too, thanks to the third cup of coffee she had before leaving for class that morning. Great stuff, that coffee! she giggled to herself. When she was finished going, she sat down slowly but firmly on the seat, feeling her shit squish all over her ass. It would have been impossible for her bikini panties to contain the pile she made, and tried to picture her shit leaking out the sides. The inside of her jeans would be stained, and she was glad they were dark blue and not a light color. She closed her eyes and sighed softly, "Oh yes, that feels so fucking wonderful." She sat for several minutes rocking back and forth sideways, mashing her shit into her skin. She had peed for a bit, but was able to make herself stop so as not to make too big a mess in the car. She began thinking ahead to the fun she would have when she got home playing in the mess she made.

She powered the windows down halfway, deciding to add more risk and danger to her actions. She hoped her smell might attract some attention, but there were only a few other students around, all eager to get in their cars and drive away. Take a whiff you people, she said to herself, don't you wonder where that shitty smell is coming from? Can you imagine it might be from my car and this dirty, filthy girl sitting in it? Nothing to Carla could be more thrilling than sparking that kind of attention, other than the feel of her shit on her skin. About fifty feet away two slightly older women were getting into a car. Carla imagined calling over to them, Excuse me, ladies. Do you have a minute? Let me tell you about this huge shit I just made in my panties that's spreading out magnificently across my entire ass, fuck, it feels so fucking wonderful! You ought to try it, really. You would just love it, I'm sure. She cackled at the thought of saying just that, but, of course, did no such thing.

Realizing no one was around to enjoy the rank smell with her, she closed the window capturing it inside the car for her own pleasure. She took several deep breaths savoring the sharp odor. Wondering what damage might had been done to her jeans, she put her hand under her ass and felt around. She could feel her hand become wet and sticky, and when she pulled it out to look at, saw it was brown. She put her hand up to her nose and sniffed deeply. Wonderful, she thought. Perfect.

But now what would she do about her filthy hand? She was going to wipe it on her pant leg, but then had a better idea. Her blouse was a pullover with three buttons along her cleavage; under it she wore a lacy bra. Looking around first to make sure the coast was clear, and using her clean left hand, she reached under the blouse and pushed the bra up releasing her breasts. She then took her dirty hand and put it under her blouse and onto her tits, massaging the shit into them. It was like an electric current passed through her, that feeling of the poop on her skin combined with the risk involved and the thrill of doing something so naughty. It wasn't a lot, so she reached under her ass again in order to dirty her hand some more. She wished she could put it inside her jeans, but their tightness and the angle at which she sat made that impossible.

She took what she could get, however, grinding her ass onto her hand as much as she could, and then wiping it again on her tits. Satisfied for the time being, she pulled her bra back onto her breasts and only then wiped her dirty hand on her jeans leg. Before she wiped all of it, however, she put a glob of poop onto the tip of her index finger and, using the rearview mirror, applied it to her lips like a lip balm. Such a pretty girl, she thought, laughing, puckering her lips and making several kissing sounds at the mirror. Finally, she used part of her blouse to clean between her fingers. She held her hand to her nose again, and, although it was mostly clean, she could still smell her poop on it. She started the car and drove away.

All the way home, which was about a fifteen-minute drive, she rubbed her ass along the seat, feeling her shit squish into her skin. The delight it created was incredible. As she got closer to home, she began to think about where she would park, how long it would take to get from the car to the front door, would other people be around in her apartment complex, and exactly how obvious was the shit stain on her jeans. Her most deviant side hoped it was very noticeable and very odoriferous as well; she even wished she had stained her blouse more than it was and maybe had smeared some on her arms or face and not just her lips. Yes, her face, a nice smudge on her chin or one of her cheeks; she wished she had done that before when she had the chance. Maybe when she got out of the car she could swipe her ass dirtying her hand and touch her face with it. These thoughts had her excited and thrilled.

Her more rational (and boring) side thought she would have to use the lightweight nylon jacket she always kept hanging on the headrest of the passenger seat just for the purpose of covering herself, that no one would be around to discover her dirty little secret, and no humiliating and embarrassing incident would occur. When these thoughts pervaded her mind she entertained them only briefly before jumping back to the other, much sexier and sensual ones, where she tried to keep her thoughts focused.