Beverly Ch 03 1

WARNING

[This is a story about scat. It is hardcore and filthy. If you find coprophilia troubling, then please do NOT read this. If you DO read it, don't leave a comment that calls it disgusting or something like that. You've been warned. But if you find the very dark side of love and romance interesting, maybe even exciting, certainly especially intimate, then hop aboard. Let's see what Beverly and David are up to.]

We were still breathing a little heavily when we got the giggles. It had been a very intense less-than-24 hours since I sat down at her computer and had a strange exchange in a chatroom. I suppose we were both riding a weird emotional high right then and this fit of uncontrolled and uncontrollable hilarity was the release from it.

This was one of those laughs you get sometimes on the very best pot. I couldn't draw a deep breath and my belly muscles hurt. And I couldn't stop.

It was affecting Bev the same way. She was laughing so hard tears were flowing freely, making little clean lines in the mess of her face and I found them to be so funny they brought a fresh wave. That set her off and we were just laying there, side-by-side, gasping as we struggled to get ourselves under control.

And there was the image again. The open-frame bedside commode, nothing more than four metal legs and a toilet seat. And I could see how the restraints would work. There would be two web belts attached to a very large collar and two to a smaller collar. The big one would be over my forehead and the smaller one around my neck.

"Where are you?" she asked. She was on her side now. My concentration on that image was so complete I hadn't noticed her moving.

So I told her. I told it all. Hell, I figured we were far past any secrets or deception or dissembling. I told her of the first image as I woke. And then this image, in more detail.

"My Bunko club?" she asked and that set us both laughing again.

After some time, seconds? Minutes?

After some time I managed to stop laughing.

"Yeah," I gasped, still struggling to draw a deep breath, "crazy, huh?"

And I realized she wasn't laughing anymore.

"You might be surprised," she said.

That brought me up short.

"What do you mean?" I asked, and even as I formed the words I felt my cock getting hard.

"You'd be surprised at what a dozen women without men around will talk about," she said.

I rolled up on my side, kissed her, finding the mixture of crust and puke and snot exciting, and said, "Tell me something that will surprise me."

She smiled and licked her lips, making a production of it.

"Welllllllllllllllll," she said, "You know Arlene?"

I thought a second and said, "Bottle blonde, big hair, boobs out to here?" and I held my free hand about a foot away from my chest.

"I KNEW you looked," she said, giggling.

"Those things are kinda hard to miss," I said.

She giggled and said, "Well, yeah, but here's what you don't know."

She paused dramatically so I kissed her again.

Her hand wrapped around the back of my head, holding me to her, and then whispered into my ear, "She wears a diaper."

Okay, that stopped me. I guess, as much as anything, I figured what Bev and I were doing was so private we'd never say anything to anyone about it, and here was something her Bunko club had talked about.

She got the giggles again and it was contagious.

So we laughed for a while and about the time I thought I had myself under control another wave hit.

"Okay, Prince Laughsalot, what now?" she asked.

"I was picturing Arlene coming to the Lady's room when you host your Bunko club," I said, smiling at her, "and that big ass settling on the toilet seat, her fingertips peeking into the seat hole as she spreads her cheeks before delivering the goods."

She held my eyes for a few seconds and then quickly rolled out of bed.

Her back, as she walked away, showed that oddly clean area right between her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back. The rest of her was pretty much covered in shit.

I laid back for a few seconds, smiling at the ceiling.

Then I rolled off the bed to follow her.

"Jesus," I breathed, looking back.

The sheets, I thought, were ruined. I couldn't see how they could be cleaned no matter how many times we ran them through the washing machine. Shit was smeared everywhere, thickest in about the middle but well distributed. The pillowcases were smeared with shit and sodden with puke. The sheets were wet with piss.

I smiled when I thought, "Nope, not changing them this weekend."

Then I laughed again when I started following her and realized she was leaving faint brown footprints.

She was easy to track.

I was surprised that she hadn't headed for the kitchen. I could use some coffee. But instead, the fading footprints led into the office.

She was sitting in front of her laptop, in that perfect posture of a good typist. Her back was straight, fingers positioned on that home row we all learn in about the third grade these days - asdf jkl;. As I watched her right hand moved to fiddle with the wireless mouse and the screen changed.

"Whatcha doin'?" I asked, laying my hands on her shoulders and looking at the screen.

And there was that rush as my adrenal glands squeezed a blast of hormones into my system.

On the screen was a very fancy commode setup. This was far beyond the basic four metal leg frame I had imagined. It was a wooden platform, I guessed from the scale of the white toilet seat located in the middle, it was about four feet across, and about a foot and a half deep.

It was a fine piece of furniture. The platform appeared to be dark wood, Mahogany was my first thought, very highly polished. Four heavy legs of matching wood supported the platform, and the front two had heavy cuffs attached. Directly under the seat, a box of the same wood reached the floor with a deep "U" cut. It took a few seconds before I realized the "U" cut was for a head.

She clicked on the little magnifying glass icon and zoomed in.

"Oh fuck," I breathed.

There was a rubber gasket lining the "U" cut and I understood at first glance it was so it wouldn't leak as it filled.

"I think," she said, smiling up at me over her shoulder, "that we'll need to put in some sort of overflow relief."

"What?" I asked, managing to pull my eyes away from the screen.

She giggled.

"We drink a lot of beer at Bunko," she said, "and I wouldn't want you to drown."

"Oh fuck," I said again, and leaned against her chair as my knees literally got weak.

"And, of course," she said, her impish smile odd in her darkly stained face, "when your

Halo

buddies are over I know there's plenty of beer flowing and I don't want to drown either."

"You want to do this, don't you?" I asked, nuzzling her neck, enjoying the scents and feel I found there.

"Oh, fuck, David, I don't know," she said, "but I know this," and she spun the swivel chair to face me, her eyes big, almost glowing against the dark staining of her skin, "What we did last night took me places I never imagined existed and I want to go there again."

"I know," I said, bending down and kissing her, letting my tongue trail across her cheek until I could kiss her neck. I inhaled deeply, enjoying her scents and tastes.

"But let's wait a while before we start making this a group thing," I said.

She pulled me to her then, her hands on my ass, forcing me to take a step forward or fall. I watched as she leaned forward. I thought she was going to take me into her mouth, and I felt myself starting to harden at that image.

But she didn't. Instead, she caressed my cock and balls, and my pubic hair where it was thickly laden with not-quite-dry shit, with her face.

She looked up at me and her smile was that of a devout nun who has had an epiphany, who has seen her Lord and is in the pure ecstasy of revelation.

"Yes," she said, "This is ours. Maybe someday we'll be ready to share, but for now, you're right."

I bent and kissed her then.

"Now," I said, "I

am

starved. Let's rustle up something to eat."

She giggled.

"Rustle up?" she said through the giggle, "Sure, Tex, let's rustle us up some grub."

"Big talk from a dirty girl," I said, stepping back and offering my hand.

"Your

very

dirty girl," she said, wrapping her arms around my neck, kissing me, and deliberately rubbing herself against me, smearing our messes around.

"My hard dick ain't feeding the bulldog," I said and slapped her on the ass, "Now get moving and feed me."

She giggled but started moving. I followed, watching.

"Whatcha got in mind?" she asked, standing in the kitchen.

"Nothing fancy," I said, "a sandwich or something before I take you back to bed. But I do need my energy."

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm," she said, drawing the consonant out as she caught her chin in the web between thumb and forefinger, striking a "thinker" pose.

I sat at the kitchen table, watching. The kitchen is her domain so I just stayed out of the way.

She was moving comfortably now, in her element, as she pulled a couple of paper plates out of the cabinet and got a loaf of bread out. She laid the bread, the black Russian rye I like, on the plates, the two pieces laid out like the pages of a book. Then it was into the refrigerator. She pulled out the package of very thinly sliced ham and the plastic envelope of cheese.

I couldn't help but notice the brown smears she was leaving wherever she touched.

"Ham and Swiss on rye," I said, smiling, "I feel like I'm at the deli."

She turned and grinned, her teeth glowing from her dark face, parted her knees, and reached down and dug her finger into her pussy where her natural warmth and moistness had kept things from drying out.

She held her finger up, showing me the heavy glob of shit and semen and her shiny white nectar.

"With a special sauce," she said and used her finger to lay it on the cheese.

She did that again for the other sandwich and then got one of the butter knives out of the drawer and spread her special sauce like butter.

I laughed softly as she got the squeeze bottle of

French's

mustard, laid a squiggly yellow line on each brown smear, and then covered the sandwich with the second slice of bread.

I watched as she reached up into the cabinet, and thought that pose was one of her best looks as she stretched a bit, giving her legs and ass a nice shape.

She brought down two glasses.

I suppose I should have seen it coming but I was still, well, not "surprised." I was "struck" when she parted her knees, squatted just a little, held the glass between her legs, and started filling it.

At that point, I couldn't have looked away if I had wanted to.

But I didn't want to.

I watched as she filled the glass, little spatters on the floor when she missed and then when it overflowed.

She smiled, when she was done, and placed one of the sandwiches and the full glass in front of me, just like she had thousands of times before.

In one of those odd

non sequiturs

my mind is prone to, I thought, "

We're probably both a little dehydrated,"

when I saw the dark yellow color of what she offered.

She went back to the counter and picked up her sandwich and the empty glass.

When she came back she sat, smiled, and put the empty glass in front of me.

"I'm thirsty too," she said.

I grinned, scooted forward, and filled it for her. When it overflowed I dragged the rim across my balls, leaving a thick brown line on the rim.

I chuckled as I pushed it across the table to her.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"I was picturing," I said, grinning, "adding some tequila and ice, running it through a blender, with that," I reached across and touched the brown ridge on the rim of the glass, "instead of salt. Maybe call it a 'Tequila Scatrise'."

She giggled, turned the glass until the brown ridge was to her, and took a drink.

She frowned.

"Yeah," she said, looking thoughtful, "a little tequila would be good."

I took a bite of my sandwich.

And I liked it.

There was still no taste to the spread she had added, any taste and scent was lost in the ham and cheese and mustard, but the sheer, well, "naughtiness" for want of a better word was the best sauce of all.

I noticed, too, that we were both chewing with our mouths open and, generally shedding the manners with which we had been drilled all of our lives.

That intellectual part of my mind that never seems to shut down was thinking it was probably part of our rejection of convention at work.

Regardless, as small bits of food, white bread and pink ham and yellow cheese wound up on her tits I realized I was getting hard. I looked down and saw that my lower belly and cock had the same sort of detritus on them. I just didn't have tits to catch it.

I lifted my glass and saw little brown specks swirling in her piss and started laughing.

"What?" she asked, a dime-sized, well-chewed piece of sandwich falling out of her mouth and winding up on her tits.

"I'll eat that later," I thought.

"I was just thinking," I said, swirling the liquid in my glass, "that if we got a glass of water in a restaurant with little specks in it we'd call a waiter and send it back."

I took a drink, savoring the salty bitterness of her body's waste.

She giggled at that and raised her glass in a toast.

We finished eating in silence, but not an awkward silence. A companionable silence of two people comfortable with each other, not needing to fill the air with sound.

She leaned back, the last of the sandwich gone now, and drained her glass.

She looked across the table at me, smiled a sweet smile, opened her mouth, and emitted one of the loudest, deepest belches I ever heard. This was no ladylike burp. This was a belch that would have made Greg, the belch champion of the group I played various games with, grovel and say, "I am not worthy.".

And then another of those uncontrolled and uncontrollable laugh fits hit us.

I found myself laughing and gasping and slapping the table.

And she was too.

And that is how our first meal in our new lifestyle ended.

We stood together, no words spoken, that telepathy only a long-married couple can achieve, and walked hand in hand back to the bedroom.

I couldn't remember the last time we had left dirty dishes, well, dirty paper plates and two glasses and one butter knife, in the kitchen.

But we did, along with brown fingerprints and hand prints in different places.

We crawled up onto the bed together. I was aware of the mess, but it didn't offend me. Where the sheets weren't dried and crusty they were wet, well, still damp, with piss and puke. The pillow was damp and smelled of vomit as we lay down, sharing it, kissing each other gently.

"I don't think," she said, giggling softly, "that this is normal."

I laughed at that.

"This," I said, "is the precise, mathematical opposite of normal."

She kissed me, a deep loving kiss, our tongues playing, almost fencing.

"Do you want to quit?" she asked.

I thought about it for a few seconds.

"Not until we've tested the limits," I said.

"Limits?" she asked, and the mood changed. We weren't doing foreplay anymore. We were just two people talking. Well, two people pretty much covered in human waste laying in a bed sodden with it, talking.

I lifted my head enough to see the clock on the headboard. It read 1:24.

"Bev," I said, "I don't know." I did some quick mental arithmetic and went on. "Until twenty-two hours ago I could not have imagined anything remotely like this. Now, let's see. I've eaten your shit. Drank your piss. Eaten a sandwich with shit and cum as a sauce. And I'm laying here, looking at your shit-smeared face wondering if I can maybe roll up a piece of toilet paper into a tight little cone and get your nose running really good so I can taste your snot. I'm thinking it will be fun to take a week's vacation, never bathing or showering, and tasting your toejam. I'm looking forward to your next period so I can taste you."

I brushed my fingertips down her cheek and then touched them to my tongue.

"And yes, I'm anxious to try out that commode. You first, but, well, that Bunko Club thing with the overflow isn't out of the question," I finished, finally winding down.

"I think you're right," she said.

I could see, watching her face, that she was thinking.

"What?" I asked.

"I think that I could get addicted to this pretty fucking easily," she said, meeting my eyes.

"I think," I said, rolling up onto my knees and bending to kiss her, "that I already am."

I began kissing my way down her body, licking up the bits of her sandwich that had escaped her mouth.

"Pervert," she said, her body already responding, "Now go down on me and make me cum like a fountain."

"Please, Br'er Fox," I said as I had dozens of times before, "not the briar patch."

Her pubic hair was caked in shit. I could smell it along with fainter scents of piss, semen, and overriding it all, that beautiful womanscent of her excitement.

I liked it.

Hell, I

loved

it.

I didn't just "go down" on her. That is far too gentle a term.

I ate her pussy.

No, still too gentle.

I used my fingers to open her up, showing how what we had been doing had kind of packed her pussy full and then I buried my face between her nether lips and

ATE

her pussy. I licked and sucked and swallowed noisily.

When she came, I sucked harder, drinking her pleasure along with the shit she squeezed out when her muscles contracted.

She had directed me to make her "cum like a fountain," so I didn't stop, even as I felt her orgasm.

I used my thumbs to part her labia and lift her clitoral hood, fully exposing that little button of pleasure, very pink in the surrounding brown. As I watched her belly contracted a little and a sudden gush of thick white cream poured out of her.

But she said she wanted to "cum like a fountain," so I kept at her clitoris, rubbing it, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. I know what she likes.

She was running. That thick white honey looking for all the world like I had cum inside her and she was leaking.

So I used my mouth to finish her.

I sucked hard, drawing her soft inner lips into my mouth. I loved the feel of them swelling.

I don't know how long I held her like that, sucking, almost nursing at her pussy, until she finally came like a fountain. She spattered my face, the salty taste of her love lubricant mixed with the more acrid, slightly bitter taste of her urine as she released, allowing her body the full enjoyment I offered.

I kept sucking and drinking until she finally collapsed.

When she was spent like that, laying back, panting, exhausted, I just climbed up onto her and slipped inside.

She was too spent to squeeze and I enjoyed her like that, loose, soaked, and sloppy.

She smiled when I came.

"I think," she said, "we'll need to clean up after all."

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"We need to do some shopping," she said, giggling and making a soft little mewing sound as I softened and slipped out.

"Shopping?" I asked, not following, proving, once again, that I'm not necessarily the sharpest knife in the drawer as they say.

"Yes, Sweety, shopping," she said. "We need that commode, at least a basic one, and some

Depends

and some adult diapers."

"Oh," I said.

"Oh?" she said, "That's the best you got? Start licking me clean, Baby."

So I did.

I started at her forehead, licking her, bathing her like a cat. I took my time. I couldn't see any reason to hurry. And besides that, I was enjoying what I was doing. I realized I was enjoying the tastes and the scents I was releasing.

At her breasts, the underboob sweat added a special saltiness to what I was doing. Her nipples were hard as I sucked them clean, my tongue massaging them against the roof of my mouth as if I was a hungry baby, nursing.