Mouche

She wanted what he wanted. After only a couple of minutes, he pulled out of her, knelt by her head, turned her face towards him, and thrust his engorged penis into her mouth. The sight of her lips around his shaft, her eyes above fixing him with a solemn stare, was so powerful that he came within seconds, a long, throbbing orgasm.

He pulled out of her and watched, knowing she'd swallow his semen. She did, too, looking as if it were the best thing in the world, and then waited quietly for whatever would come next.

His arousal plummeted, and shame rushed in to fill the void. What had he done?

He petted her hair and said, "Are you all right?"

She couldn't speak: she just stared at him dreamily. She was more than all right. If she'd been euphoric after eating her own shit, this was way beyond. And now she could intuit the truth of what Mr. Billings had said while she was in the bath: how could something that felt so wonderful be bad?

She reached between her legs and touched her clitoris. She rubbed herself gently and just stared at Mr. Billings - at his pale, thin face, the blue vein, the marvelous things she could sense, almost see, smell, and taste, inside his body.

He surveyed her, arousal returning to him already as he watched her masturbate, body moving languidly as she stimulated herself. She was so pale, so thin, so needy. And he knew what she needed, her deepest desire - he could give her that.

With a tender look he picked her up again and laid her on the tiled floor beside the bed. He squatted above her: her breath came in short gasps as she stared at his anus just above her, and he lowered himself slowly till he felt her lips touch him.

She tried to put her tongue in but couldn't, he was too tightly closed, but knowing what he wanted to do, she was patient, and he was too, waiting to feel it moving inside him, and meanwhile enjoying the sensation of her tongue wetting his sensitive tissues.

He was getting tired holding this position by the time he felt the feces moving within his rectum, the stretching inside as it descended into his anal canal.

His heart rate doubled in a second. It wasn't too late to stop: this wasn't a pornstar or whore, but a college girl, innocent and trusting, maybe not quite right in the head: he looked down at her fingers, moving between her legs, sensed her breath, hot in his crack. It wanted to come out now: he didn't have to do it, exactly, but only to lift himself up a little and let it happen.

His anus opened and distended and some brown shit peeked out. She opened her mouth under him, so excited, and put out her tongue: she could just touch it, smell it, taste it.

He let it out as slowly and gently as he could, not wanting to overwhelm her. When he felt the turd emerge from him and could sense it was partway out, he tensed his muscles to pinch it off. He waited, and - yes! - felt her lips on him, around it . . .

She bit it off and held it in her mouth. Oh, it was better than hers. The flavor of it - she couldn't say how - was so much richer, the excitement of taking it into her mouth just as it slid out of him, warm as his body . . . she chewed and swallowed. She sighed.

Hearing her sigh, Mr. Billings pushed, and the rest of his turd slid into her. He climbed off her and watched - God, but her mouth was full! She chewed like a child with too much gum, holding his gaze all the while, and swallowed. Wild with arousal, he climbed over her face again, wasn't careful now, didn't try to aim, but just shat, let it all rope out of him as fast as it wanted to come. He wanted to make a mess of her, to see it all over her beautiful face.

She couldn't take it all, it came so fast. When her mouth was full, she bit it off and reached up to take the rest in her hands; but he was off her, eyes glazed, taking it from her, smearing it thickly all over her face, her breasts, her belly. It was too exciting: chewing and swallowing, she touched herself again, not thinking about her shitty hands, and rubbed herself as he thrust his fingers into her mouth and she sucked the shit off them.

Still excited, he straddled her face and put his hard cock in her mouth - an inch or so of him was all - and jerked off there inside her, just a few seconds, till he came again, less this time, but it was good, the semen and the shit mixed up in her mouth.

He sat beside her and watched her masturbate till she'd come. Then he took her to the bathroom and supervised her cleanup: scrub face and genitals, brush teeth, use mouthwash. He cleaned his penis and wiped his ass with a fresh washcloth.

"You can't take care of yourself," he said. "You'll spend the rest of the break with me, and I'll make sure you're all right till the dorms open."

He took her to his apartment in the Bronx and kept her there with him. She didn't go out at all, but sat alone while he went to the office or the library. And when he was at home, she was his toilet, drinking all his piss and eating all his shit.

She was happy, and she was sure she was in love.

2. Hard

If Amanda was in love, Mr. Billings was in torment. A sincere Catholic, he soon discovered that masturbating while having filthy fantasies was very different from actually living them out.

He knew he should send her to the counseling service or refer her to a psychiatrist. He believed he was destroying her. But now that he had succumbed to temptation and was using her as a toilet several times a day, how could he save her without destroying himself?

He couldn't save her; the best he could do was stop doing what he was doing to her. And the best he could do for himself was put as much distance as he could between the two of them.

And so when a dean phoned him on the second of January to ask his opinion about Amanda Kaplan - whether she should be given another semester to try to bring her grades up - Mr. Billings said that he had given her a C in a fit of generosity, and a D would have expressed the quality of her work in his course more accurately. He was quite sure she would never earn a degree from Fordham: if it were his call, he'd say the most charitable course would be to cut her loose immediately.

The dean wanted to know if Mr. Billings knew of any extenuating circumstances - psychological problems, say - that, if addressed, would make a difference in her academic performance. Mr. Billings said he knew of none.

And so some keys were pressed on a keyboard in the dean's office, and an email was automatically generated.

That evening, Amanda cried in Mr. Billings's sympathetic arms.

"I don't know what to do," she sobbed into his shirt front.

"Go back to your parents, pull yourself together, and have another go at a different college," said Mr. Billings.

"I can't go back," she said. "They don't want me."

Mr. Billings held her and said nothing.

A week later he said to her, "You need to get out. I'd like to take you to a party down in Chelsea this evening. It's a party for people like us - people with kinks. I promise you'll have a good time."

The party was terrifying. The room was full of strange people with wild hairstyles, extravagant tattoos, and bizarre costumes of leather or latex. There was strange equipment too - crosses, frames, tables and other things with people bound, cuffed or chained to them. People were doing strange and frightening things: spanking people, whipping them, or having sex right out in the open. Once Amanda saw a woman bending over a bound man, scoring thin shallow cuts on the skin of his chest. She turned away, stomach churning.

"Can we go home?" she whispered to Mr. Billings.

"Don't worry," he said, scanning the room as if looking for someone. "Everything will be all right."

He held her hand tightly and they circulated, watching the scenes while Mr. Billings kept an eye out for the man he was supposed to meet here. The meeting had been difficult to arrange, involving carefully worded queries directed to online acquaintances who shared certain of his interests, visits with a special browser to sites on the dark web, and finally a wary negotiation with a man who identified himself only as Hard.

Amanda was frantic by the time Mr. Billings spotted Hard. He didn't look particularly hard: he was heavyset, with a round face that would have been cherubic but for his beard. Mr. Billings recognized him by the beard and his leather pants and leather vest, under which he wore no shirt.

Mr. Billings approached him and said, "Hard?"

"You're Squeers, then? And this is Amanda," said Hard, looking her up and down. "She'd better be what you said, because I came here all the way from fucking Queens."

"She is, and more," said Mr. Billings.

"On your fucking knees, babe," said Hard.

Amanda clung to Mr. Billings's arm. He gently detached her and said, "Do as he says. Everything will be all right." He put his hands on her shoulders, and she meekly allowed him to guide her to the floor and turn her to face Hard, who was unfastening his tight pants.

She turned and pleaded, "Please, Mr. Billings. I don't want to."

"I thought you were my good obedient girl. Aren't you my good girl?" He turned her head back towards Hard and said, "Now open your mouth for Hard, Amanda."

She'd always obeyed Mr. Billings; she trusted him. She opened her mouth wide and tried not to see Hard's penis just six inches from her face.

People were gathering to watch as Hard pissed into Amanda's mouth, filling her to overflowing so the piss spilled out of her onto her sweatshirt.

Bending over her, Mr. Billings said, "Swallow it, Amanda; show Hard you can do that."

It was horrible to drink the piss of a stranger, but it was unthinkable to disobey Mr. Billings, who had done so much for her. She closed her mouth and swallowed as Hard's piss splashed on her lips. She swallowed again and again until finally Hard wetted her face - forehead, nose, eyes, cheeks.

When Hard was empty he started to put himself away, and Mr. Billings said, "She'll eat your shit, you can come in her mouth . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," said Hard. "She'll do."

"Mr. Billings?" said Amanda, very frightened now.

"Shh, Amanda," said Mr. Billings, and then said to Hard, "Let me just talk to her a minute."

He led her aside and said, "You can't go on staying with me, Amanda. If the university found out, I'd be fired. Hard will take care of you."

"But I don't know him, Mr. Billings," she said.

"If you can think of anything else to do, then you're welcome to do it. You say you can't go home. I can't keep you, and I can't turn you out onto the street, so I've made this arrangement for you."

"But Mr. Billings . . ."

"There's nothing to discuss, Amanda. I don't have any choice."

She gave it up.

He led her back to Hard, who handed him an envelope. Then he turned away. Amanda stared after him as he crossed the room, opened the door, and left without looking back.

"C'mon, Amanda fucking Kaplan," said Hard. "We got a long way to go."

He took her by the elbow and led her from the room, collecting their coats on the way out. He marched her briskly for what seemed many blocks to the subway station at 23rd and 6th, where they waited forty-five minutes for a train, the urine smell rising from the soaked shirt under her coat and Hard muttering threats of dire punishment if she tried to bolt or made a scene. They rode the train for another forty minutes until they were very far from any neighborhood that Amanda knew or had even heard of.

Hard lived on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise apartment building, in a messy two-bedroom apartment with cheap furniture. When he'd closed the door behind them, he said, "You ain't tried to run yet."

"I don't have anywhere to go," said Amanda.

"I don't have anywhere to go, Master," corrected Hard. "Well, maybe you don't, but I ain't taking no chances. C'm'ere."

He led her to one of the bedrooms, which held a big cross like one she'd seen at the party and what looked like an exercise bench with strange fittings on it. Against one wall was a grimy futon and against another a cabinet. He went to the cabinet, rooted around in the jumble of stuff inside, and came back with a collar and a small but sturdy padlock.

"Take your clothes off," he said, and watched impassively as Amanda stripped. When she was naked, he fastened the collar around her neck and locked it with the padlock.

"Master?" said Amanda tentatively.

"What is it?" said Hard impatiently.

"Did you buy me from Mr. Billings?"

"No. I bought you from a dumbass called Squeers. He didn't tell you nothing about this?"

"No, Master."

"It ain't complicated. You were his slave, he sold you, and now you're my slave."

"I wasn't his slave, Master."

"All right, then, you weren't his slave, and he sold you, and now you're mine. It comes out the same fucking way, since I paid good money for you."

Amanda didn't know quite what to say about that. She was pretty sure she didn't want to be Hard's slave, but it wouldn't make any difference to say so. She stood and waited, regarding him with curious eyes.

"C'mon," he said, and led her by the chain to the bathroom, where he allowed her to piss and shit, though he insisted that she flush it away, unlike Mr. Billings, who had allowed her to do pretty much what she wanted with her own body's wastes.

"It's fucking disgusting to eat your own shit," he said. "I don't want you doin' that in my place."

He led her back to the futon and padlocked her chain to a ring in the wall. He gave her a frayed blanket and left her for the night, taking her clothes away with him.

Amanda lay awake for a while thinking about her situation. Oddly, she didn't mind terribly being chained to the wall. There was something comforting about it, as if she were being relieved of a burden she'd never really wanted. She was tired, and she fell asleep quickly.

The room was bright with sunlight when Hard woke her. "Up you get, Amanda," he said, unlocked the wall end of her chain, and led her to the kitchen, where he made some instant coffee and pulled a box of chocolate-covered donuts out of a cabinet.

"Hey, looks a little like shit, don't it?" he said as he put one of the donuts in front of her on the plain linoleum table-top.

"I'm fucking tired of calling you Amanda," he said, spraying crumbs as he talked. "Three fucking syllables - it's like I've spent half the last day saying your name. You know what you are? You're a fucking fly. They like lay their eggs in shit, and then their babies eat it. I'm gonna call you Fly because you eat shit."

Hard left her chained up naked on the futon while he went out for the day; he left a box of crackers and a bottle of water within reach, but no books, magazines, or TV. She found it surprisingly easy to pass the time masturbating and playing with her ass. When she needed to pee, she carefully piled the crackers on the futon, shook the crumbs out of the plastic bag inside the cracker box, peed in that, and drank it. In the afternoon she defecated in the bag and ate that.

Hard returned in the late afternoon with a garbage bag stuffed with Amanda's clothing. He had with him a black woman, at least six feet tall, who looked at her curiously.

Hard sniffed the air. "What you been doing?"

Amanda stared at him and didn't answer.

He picked up the cracker bag between a thumb and forefinger and examined it.

"Lookit this, Fan," he said, and handed the bag to the woman. She sniffed at it and bent to examine Amanda more closely. The girl put her in mind of a starving elf.

"You got shit on your face, Fly," she said. "You been eatin' your shit?"

Amanda nodded. Fan was sturdily built, with twinkling eyes and sensuous lips. She wore her hair in thin braids elaborately piled on her head, blond and red strands twined with the black. She was very pretty, and dangerous looking too, though she seemed pleased with Amanda's answer.

Hard said, "I told her she wasn't supposed to eat her own fucking shit."

"Ain't no harm in it," said Fan.

"I wouldn't know about that. But I told her, and she done it anyway. There's got to be consequences."

Fan looked at Amanda thoughtfully. "You got a point there. Tell you what. Why don't you leave that to me, since you gonna leave her with me anyway."

"I dunno. You're kinda soft, Fan."

"Don't you worry. I ain't gonna let her off easy."

"Okay. But I want to hear her scream."

"You'll hear her, Hard."

3. Fan

"Just leave me the keys to them locks," said Fan.

"Don't you let her run, Fan," said Hard.

"She ain't no runner," said Fan. "Look at her: she meek as a lamb."

"What you know about lambs," Hard grumbled, but he gave Fan a key and left the room.

Fan was right: Amanda had little thought of running: she still had nowhere to go, and besides, she liked the big black woman.

"You wait here a second," said Fan, and got a packet of moist wipes from the cabinet. She used one to clean Amanda's face, and then she unlocked the chain and took it off her collar.

"You don't know nothin' about being a slave, do you, Fly?"

Amanda shook her head.

"Thing is, you step outta line, you gotta be punished. That's the rule. But there's punishment and punishment. Hard, he be knockin' his slaves around. Me, I believe in finesse, and you got the look of a girl do what she told. You understand what I'm sayin'?"

Amanda nodded. It was hard to imagine disobeying Fan, who radiated power.

"Then you don't need a lot of punishing. But Hard listenin' so it gotta be loud."

Fan crossed over to the cabinet, opened it, looked up and down for a few seconds, and brought out a whip with a red handle and many black strands.

"This gonna hurt some, but mainly it gonna be loud. Do I got to tie you up?"

Amanda shook her head. She was surprised not to be afraid.

"Okay, lean over that bench there." Fan nodded at the exercise bench. Amanda went to it and bent over, putting her hands on it.

Fan liked the look of this girl, so thin and white, her bottom narrow and almost bony, waiting for her punishment with eerie quiet. Fan thought she probably hadn't been whipped before, really whipped, so she started with a light blow, like brushing her bottom with the whip.

Amanda gasped, more for the suddenness of it than for any pain, and Fan said, "You better make noise for Hard, baby."

Making the right kind of noise wasn't easy, even when Fan started to hit hard enough to sting and the slap of leather on tender skin was echoing in the room. Maybe if the pain had been worse - but Amanda had known way greater pain than this: being rejected, being sold, knowing almost everyone in the world would think her repulsive if they knew about her kink.

But Fan didn't think she was repulsive, and Fan wasn't disappointed in her. Amanda could sense her pleasure, and the sensation was heady.

"Gimme a scream," Fan hissed as the whip swished through the air. "Cry for me." Fly's quiet was unnerving. She wanted to stop, but couldn't until Hard was satisfied the girl had been punished.

Amanda did her best, screaming with every blow, and as stinging gave way to burning she was able to do it with conviction. She was pleased with herself when Fan said, "That good, Fly."

And then it was over. Fan lifted Amanda off the bench and sat with her on the floor, holding her like a baby. Amanda studied her brown eyes and the curve of her smiling lips and felt a connection to her - a thing she hadn't felt for a very long time, even with Mr. Billings.

They were quiet for a while. Then Fan gently moved Amanda off her lap, stood, and pushed her black pants down. Her skin was deep brown, smooth, and glossy, and it seemed stretched tight over her, as if her body were bursting with the stuff of life, which filled Amanda with longing. Fan's mound was shaved, each of her outer labia had two steel rings in it, and her long inner labia protruded darkly. Amanda had no experience of women's genitalia, other than her own: she stared, entranced. The statuesque black woman was beautiful.