Me, Myself, and Teri Pt. 01

Since lunchtime that warm summer Friday I had been looking forward to quitting time and the beginning of the weekend. Yes, I know, who isn't doing that on a Friday! Like most I hoped there would be no last-minute emergencies that would require me to remain late or come in on Saturday. It's not that I had elaborate plans for that evening, or for the weekend in general, but since mid-week I'd been planning a treat for myself that I wanted to indulge in that night. It's what I did on most weekends and lately it had become somewhat of an obsession.

I have a scat fetish, have for a very long time, and on the weekends like nothing more than getting as filthy and repulsive and perfectly overspread with shit as I can. That probably sounds pretty crazy and degrading, except for me it's amazing and rapturous and thrilling, and can take me to the absolute heights of bliss and ecstasy. Just mentioning that word 'shit' triggers a stirring in my loins that leads often to a near river of juices saturating my panties, if I'm wearing any, or coursing down my legs if I'm not. My plans for that evening involved engaging in a solo scat session in which I would literally bathe myself in shit, cover my body completely with it, wallow in it mixed with my piss until I brought myself off with as many orgasms I could muster, maybe even lose count of. Someday I should video one of these sessions so you could see just how carried away I can get, how elated I become smearing and spreading handfuls of shit over every inch of my body and then stuffing my mouth full with it as I come over and over. Someday.

Midway in the afternoon my boss, Cora, asked for a report I was working on, so I went to her office to deliver it. I knocked and entered and found Cora sitting at her desk. She was older than me, happily married with three kids. "Any exciting plans for the weekend, Jenna?" she asked.

I hesitated for a moment, trying to detect anything in her voice or on her desk that might portend disaster for my weekend plans. "No, not really," I finally answered, "unless you're about to ask me to work overtime, then I have plans to fly to the Hamptons to party all weekend with a group of A-listers. I'd quit before even thinking of cancelling them."

Cora laughed. "Your job is safe -- no need to work through the weekend. I can't say I admire your loyalty to the company, however."

"Oh, I think I've proven that enough times." Both of us were aware how faithful and reliable a worker I was, which made this bantering just the lighthearted joking it was. We had had enough friendly conversations at lunches or social gatherings for Cora to know of my bisexual proclivities, but nothing of my being a slave to the scat fetish. I figured most at the office at least had suspicions of the former about me, but no one the latter. That, I decided a long time ago, would be the way it should remain.

On the drive home I had the usual Friday after-work debate with myself: living room couch or bathtub. Should I engage in my planned solo scat session on my black leather sofa or in the bathtub? Last time I had used the tub, so my thoughts were leaning toward the couch. I went through the list of pros and cons of each location in my head, all of them fully engrained having contemplated them so often. But I would think of each one carefully, mostly as a way to focus my attention on my need and desire to scat, not wanting to think of anything else. It was a craving that could and would consume me, and I would have it no other way.

It had been Wednesday evening since I last had a bowel movement (which I'd done in a plastic container and saved), and indications throughout the day, especially the several times I felt a need to defecate that I had to restrain, were signaling I could expect a good-sized deposit later that evening. That put me in a very good mood, excited about what I had planned.

I parked in my usual spot and climbed the stairs to my apartment. It was a one-bedroom unit and was one of several located above a row of shops. Once inside, I went to the bedroom and removed my clothes, everything except my panties. Then I went to the kitchen. I grabbed a large single plastic drop cloth from a package of six, and carefully placed it over my leather sofa and partly on the floor. I took a roll of packing tape I had in my desk and taped the cloth to the back of the couch to keep it in place for when I soon would be gyrating around slathering myself with shit. I knew from experience if I didn't do this the drop cloth would slip and slide all over and the couch would become a mess. Not the end of the world, but one less thing to have to clean up afterwards.

I had decided on the drive home that I would make a butter beans and chorizo dish for supper, and that's what I did next. It would take about 10-15 minutes to prepare without too much bother.

While the food was cooking, I went into the living room and turned my laptop on. I had connected it to a larger display monitor for the purpose of watching porn in the comfort of my couch. Almost exclusively scat porn. I spent a few minutes searching for the site I wanted, which contained saved favorites, and then went back to the kitchen. When the food was done, I dumped it in a bowl, poured some wine, and went to the couch. I was going to eat while watching some of my favorite scat vids, but I suddenly had a vision that made me laugh. I thought how a vast majority of people, maybe just about everybody, would be appalled, sickened even at the thought of eating while gazing at scat porn. Mainly these would be videos of someone taking a huge shit, probably in someone else's mouth or possibly on the floor or in their own hand so they could spread it on their body. This made me laugh again, only harder, because this was exactly what I was about to do myself, eat and watch.

"You are just one fucking degenerate sicko, Jenna," I said to myself aloud, giggling. "And don't you just love it!" I clicked the computer on and sat on the sofa, bowl propped at mouth level. Sure enough, the first images to grace the screen were of a lovely blonde woman holding a large turd, at least 8 inches long, to her mouth, licking it and then sucking on it like a beautiful cock. Into my mouth went a forkful of hot chorizo, which I devoured with as much relish as the blonde did her tasty log. When I had emptied the bowl except for some leftover tomato sauce, the urge to begin getting dirty started to overtake me.

Glancing at the bowl still in my hand, I dipped my index finger in the sauce and wiped it on my nipples. They turned a bright red and hardened into diamond points as I circled my finger around each one. Then I lifted each tit to my mouth and tongued the sauce off, biting each nipple hard. I could feel my pussy getting wet as my desire intensified. I closed my eyes and envisioned that soon my own shit instead of tomato sauce would be covering my tits, my tongue licking through it ecstatically. This I could hardly wait for.

I continued to watch several videos of girls shitting and spreading it on their bodies or having scat sex with another girl. In almost every video where there were two (sometimes more) girls, one model defecated on the other, often in her mouth; even when it was a solo scene the girl usually put some shit in her mouth. The more extreme they became the more I liked it. These were my favorite scat videos, and depicted girls willing to do almost anything, and by the end were completely covered and wallowing in shit. Exactly what I liked to do.

As I watched I began touching myself, my tits with one hand, my cunt with the other. My panties were drenched by now, and as I fingered my slit through them, I pondered whether to remove them or leave them on for a panty poop. I changed my mind half a dozen times as my finger moved in and out of my sopping cunt, zeroing in on my clit. Then I saw a girl on one of the videos completely naked, her ass over the edge of a chair; she took a massive dump in her hand and wiped it from her cunt to her tits, moaning loudly the whole time. That sight, combined with her probing fingers, not only produced a mini climax in me, but convinced me to get naked, too. Off came the panties.

"Okay," I said aloud. "Let's get this show on the road." I went to the kitchen and took a large pitcher from a cabinet and placed it on the small coffee table near the sofa; this I would piss in if necessary (it always seemed necessary). Then I went to the bedroom and found my favorite double-ended dildo, one end for my cunt, the other for my asshole, both ends for my mouth. From the bathroom I grabbed a fluffy towel in case any pissing got out of hand. All systems were go, and the countdown about to conclude. My heart was pounding in anticipation, as was always the case at this moment.

I stood on the couch, my ass against the backrest, holding the pitcher up to my pussy. I hadn't peed since lunchtime, and the relief I felt when I finally began pissing into the pitcher was most pleasant. When I finished the pitcher was about half full. I brought it up to my lips and took a healthy swig, making sure some spilled out down my chin onto my tits and belly. I swallowed the warm salty liquid and took another, sloppier gulp, arranging the towel with my feet to catch what cascaded off my torso. I rubbed the pee over my body and swallowed the second mouthful. I concentrated on wiping the piss on my cunt and lower belly, inserting my fingers inside of me. My juices were starting to flow, and I got into a deep crouch on the couch.

"Put your finger up my ass, girl," I said to myself, part of a little fantasy I had, where I imagined I was with another woman and I was talking to her. Someday I hoped to find another woman (or a man, that would be okay, too) who would enjoy getting dirty with me. So far it was just a pleasant thought and nothing like an obsession, though lately the idea seemed to be growing more powerful. I had dated a few women (and men), but nothing ever reached the scatting stage. There was one woman, Shirley, who was a lesbian, and once after we had made love and were feeling bold, we started discussing kinks we were interested in trying. I hinted at scat play in as roundabout a way as I could come up with, but Shirley was adamant it was something she would never do, same with watersports. We dated one more time before splitting.

I frigged my asshole deeply with my middle finger, pushing it in to the knuckles. After several thrusts I removed it and smelled it. I've always found the smell of shit entrancing, and held my finger to my nose for several seconds taking powerful whiffs. Then I stuck my tongue out and rubbed it across it. My finger was coated with dark-brown shit, and the need to taste it overwhelmed me. I licked all around it, my tongue turning black. As I sucked my finger the urge to defecate increased, until I could feel the massive load begin its descent down my rectum. Out it flowed onto the plastic sheet, first a seven-inch log curling into a giant letter 'C' followed by three smaller turds piling on top of each other. My shithole being evacuated felt wonderful, well worth the numerous uncomfortable times throughout the day I needed to force myself to ignore the urge to go.

I sat down on the couch, admiring the pile between my outstretched legs. I dipped my fingers into it scooping up quite a bit and brought it to my nose. I inhaled deeply relishing the strong odor. Then I wiped my fingers on each cheek before smearing my lips. That feeling of helplessness, humiliation, sexual yearning, and utter joy overcame me with each swipe of my face. Finally, I was engaged in what I had been dreaming about all day.

A kind of reckless abandon took over, and I began spreading my shit on myself helter-skelter. My tits were first; I loved caressing them and smearing them thoroughly as if my shit were a soothing lotion. They were soon buried in a thick layer as round and around my hands massaged my tits giving me pure delight. My range quickly expanded and shortly stretched from my belly to my chin. The smell grew stronger as the shit became more widespread, and it made me feel ensconced in the luxuriousness of it all.

My arms were next and they were soon covered in shit and then my legs. Finally, I sat cross-legged and spent an extra amount of time coating my feet. Each toe and then between got special attention until all was covered in black ooze. Then I lifted each foot to my mouth and sucked my toes. My lips sucked each one hungrily until all ten were clean, and then my tongue slithered between each one lapping up what fudge remained. When my mouth was half-filled with gunk, I dribbled it out onto my tits and cunt.

The pile was mostly gone by now, redistributed across most of my body. I lay on my back and conjured up my imaginary scat partner again, picturing her lying on top of me, sucking my shit-smeared tits and fingering my cunt. She was as covered as I was, and we loved rubbing our bodies into each other. I took some of the shit that was left and rolled it in my hands, spreading it out, and then wiped it carefully all over my face and into my hair. My cunt began humming, the need to caress it becoming overpowering. I smeared a big glob of poop on my lips and tongue and then ran my hands down my body, stopping briefly at my tits to give them a special tweaking, to my cunt. I fingered my labia and all between my legs, and then focused on my clit. I brought one hand back to my tits and, closing my eyes, massaged both my tits and my cunt until a massive orgasm overtook me. I rocked sideways left and right, sighing with relief, waves of pleasure washing over me.

I lay on the sofa for several minutes enjoying my afterglow. I then carefully scooped off any loose remnants of shit from the drop cloth and wiped them on the few relatively clean parts of my body I could reach -- my neck, waist, lower legs, and the back of my hair. Satisfied with how filthy I had made myself, at least for the time being, I got as comfortable as I could and turned the computer back on. For the next two hours I entertained myself with my favorite scat vids, sometimes pooh-poohing the models for not being as shit-covered as I was or as extreme as me, even of using fake shit when it looked suspicious. My hands, of course, roamed freely over the filth that covered my body pleasuring myself in all the right spots. It was a lovely evening, and I was reluctant to see it end.

[Part 2, in which Teri joins in the fun, will follow shortly.]