Mouche

In the dark, Amanda was more aware of her discomfort than before. The urine was slowly soaking into the bedsheets under her, and the puddle was cold around her. The worst thing was the arousal, though. Fan had massaged and masturbated her, peed on her face, and smeared shit all over her. The shit and piss smell was strong, and it turned her on. She could hardly hold still for the arousal, but if she moved the cold piss made her more uncomfortable.

How she wished she could touch herself! She imagined running her hands over her shitty body and licking her fingers. She tried licking her lips, hoping to find some shit, but there was nothing but the faint salty taste of sweat.

She wondered if Fan was mad at her. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do to tell her she loved her. And what right did Amanda have to love Fan, anyway? Fan was a superior being, and Amanda was a shit-eating fly.

In the morning Fan would send her away, and then what would she do? She had no idea how to fend for herself in the city, but going home was out of the question. Amanda cried, feeling helpless: her tears ran over her cheeks and dripped into the pool of urine.

Eventually sleep stole over her. She woke up just as dawn was breaking. She could still feel the damp under her, but she could no longer smell the urine and shit. She was very hungry, but even more sure than she was before that Fan was going to send her away. She brooded about that, picturing herself begging on the street, till the day was bright and Fan finally appeared in the doorway.

"Don't send me away, Fan." Amanda choked out her words between sobs. "I'm sorry I said I love you. I won't do it again, I promise. And I'll do anything you want - anything at all. I just want to belong to you, is all."

Amanda crying and begging was the most beautiful sight Fan had ever seen: it moved her deep inside. She kept her face impassive and said nothing, but climbed onto the bed, stepped over her slave's head, squatted, and strained. Usually shitting came easy to her, but this morning it was difficult for some reason.

She wondered for a moment whether she'd let herself get dehydrated; but no, it was her emotions distracting her. She breathed deeply to calm herself and thought it was just a toilet down there - a pretty one, but really just a toilet. The shit slid out of her easily.

When she was empty she climbed off Amanda and looked at her. Her mouth was full, and the shit was piled up on her, covering her from nose to chin. Fan pushed some shit away from her nose to make it easier to breathe, and she scooped some more shit into her mouth each time she swallowed.

All the while Amanda looked at her with dark, serious eyes, adoring and pleading; and when Fan's shit was all gone she said, "Please, Fan. I'm sorry."

"You ain't done nothing wrong, Fly, I promise," said Fan as she untied Amanda's ankles again. "You my sweet toilet girl, and I ain't never gonna let loose of you."

Fan pushed Amanda's leg up and went down on her - the first time anybody had ever done that for her. Her tongue wasn't soft and gentle, but hard, and it stabbed at Amanda's clitoris: it hurt, and it was too stimulating, and Amanda keened, a high piercing note that filled Fan's heart with joy. She sucked and licked hard, slid two fingers into Amanda's vagina, and fucked her violently till her bladder gave way and urine was splashing over Fan's lips and cheeks.

The sensations were powerful, beyond endurance. Amanda tried to scooch away, kicking against the bedsheets, but Fan held her firmly with hands around her thighs, and she couldn't move.

"No, No, Fan, Ow!" Amanda sobbed, head thrashing back and forth as she blubbered; but Fan responded by reaching up and tweaking Amanda's nipples while she sucked her clitoris so hard, unbelievably hard, oh it hurt . . .

And her orgasm was a rushing, screaming thing that took over her whole being and shook her like a rag doll, on and on, searing her skin and her guts, shooting flames up to the frayed ends of her hair and down to her toes. And even as she was coming, Fan didn't let up, but held her tight by the waist as she sucked, mouth wide over her mound, savoring the musky, pissy essence of her slave's womanhood.

Amanda lay on her back, limp and gasping, as Fan untied her wrists. Her body was drained, hot, damp. Her sweat mixed with the shit on her skin, releasing the odor of stale shit. She breathed it in, wondering that she was still alive after her shattering orgasm.

"You like your treat, babe?" said Fan.

Amanda took two more deep breaths and said, "Yes, Fan. Thank you."

"That good, Fly," she said, bent over, and kissed her - the first time anyone had kissed her in years. Her lips were soft and warm and delicious with Amanda's sex and urine, and Amanda returned her kiss hungrily.

But Fan sat up after a few seconds. She said, "You ain't no Fly, babe. I ain't gonna call you that no more."

"I am a fly, Fan. I'm not Amanda any more."

Fan studied her thoughtfully. A minute went by. "Okay," she said finally. "You know, my daddy come from Haiti, and they was speakin' a kind of French there. You know what they call a fly? They call it une mouche. I'm gonna call you Mouche."

"Mouche," said Amanda, touching her fly tattoo with a ghostly finger. She liked it.

5. The man

If Mouche thought she was in love before, now she was passionately devoted. She loved sitting naked at Fan's feet, resting her head on her thigh while they watched TV - or rather Fan watched TV while Mouche kept an eye on Fan. Mouche was coming to like the floor better than any chair, and she liked being naked much more than wearing clothing.

Mouche's nakedness made Fan aware of her own power - and besides, she was turned on by the tiny white slave's skinniness, pallor, and little breasts with tiny nipples. She herself tended Mouche's body as one takes care of a prized possession: she kept her mound cleanly shaved, brushed her hair for her, rubbed her skin with lotions, and even applied her makeup, favoring black eyeliners and dark red lipstick to set off her ghostly skin.

"You want to have some piercings, Mouche," said Fan, and the moment she said that, Mouche yearned to have piercings. They discussed the matter at length and finally chose little steel barbells, one for each nipple.

After that, Mouche gave up wearing clothing altogether, and she spent much of her idle time playing with her newly pierced nipples, which were now much more sensitive than before. To have Mouche naked at her feet, playing with her breasts, was so potent a turn-on that even on days when Fan was tired or not in the mood for play, they ended up in the bathroom or in bed.

Sometimes, when Fan had nothing else to do, she'd spend the day naked too. Mouche would watch her mistress carefully as she did chores, made lunch, or just relaxed. On days like that, Fan would carry a water bottle around with her, sipping and getting fuller and fuller until the pressure inside her was unbearable; and then, without warning, she'd haul Mouche to the bathroom and flood her for five minutes or more, then defecate for her, and, wild with arousal, ride her muddy face to a monster orgasm. It all would have been perfect but for the worry about money and the law.

Mouche could see that Fan was worried, but she couldn't make her open up about it. Once, when she saw that Fan was lost in thought at the dinner table, eating mechanically and paying no attention to her or anything else, she touched the back of her hand and said, "Fan? Are you worried about something?"

Fan just said, "It ain't nothin', babe. Never you mind."

But it wasn't nothing. Fan was struggling to come up with eight thousand for her lawyer's flat fee - much more than she'd ever had to pay before. It wasn't fair: Fan was a professional dominant, not a whore, and her sessions almost never included sex. She should have argued the point those earlier times, but her lawyers told her not to bother, but just plead to the misdemeanor and pay the fines. The result was that she was considered a repeat offender this time, and facing serious jail time. Her lawyer said he could get her off, but the fee was way higher for the felony charge.

She had no idea how to come up with the extra money. She was a popular freelance domme - no shortage of men who love being roughed up by a tall black woman - and she was already charging top dollar and doing as much business as she could handle.

"May I ask a question, Mistress Fan?" said one of her favorite clients as he lay on the floor recovering from the whipping and pegging she'd inflicted on him.

"You may," she said.

"I have a friend who's interested in, you know, experimenting. But he feels he's a dom. He wants to hire a professional submissive, but he doesn't know where to start. I said I'd try to find out. They're harder to find than professional dommes, aren't they?"

"It depend on the kink, babe. If he just wantin' to rough a girl up, there's plenty of whores'll let him do that. If he want something more exotic though . . ."

"He wants a girl to eat his shit."

"That an expensive kink," said Fan.

"He's got the money, Mistress"

Fan took a deep breath. "You have my permission to give him my number. Tell him I'll fix him up. It'll cost him a thousand."

After the man left, Fan sat and brooded. She didn't want to share her sweet little girl with a man she didn't know, and she didn't want to pimp her out either. But she needed the money bad - and anyway, it was time the girl started earning her keep. Life in New York was expensive, and another mouth to feed wasn't a trivial expense.

The three of them stood together in a room of the place where Fan worked. The room was small and bare except for a blue tarp covering most of the floor and a low stool with a toilet seat.

Mouche looked at the man and whimpered.

Fan could tell she didn't like him, and she understood. Fan didn't like him either - but then she didn't like any of her clients, these weak men who paid her to insult them, tie them up, whip them, and let them drink her piss and eat her shit: they filled her with contempt. The ones who had to pay women to submit to them were no better. Still, why shouldn't Mouche help support their household - support herself?

"I don't want to, Fan," Mouche whined. There had been a time when eating shit was a thing she did for herself, and she didn't know why, though she knew how to rationalize it. But now it was a thing she did for Fan because she loved her. It was intimate and beautiful. To do this same thing with this man, a total stranger, was unimaginably horrible and terrifying.

Fan put her arm around Mouche's narrow shoulders, leaned in close, kissed her ear, and said, very softly, "You gonna do this because I'm tellin' you to, sweetie."

Something sagged inside Mouche. Of course she'd do it; she'd always known she would: hadn't she cooperated with all the preparations - the bathing, the lotion, the lengthy makeup session, Fan lubricating her sex and dressing her in this plain linen shift?

The man was uncomfortable. Usually he took a shit just before showering in the morning, but today he'd skipped that ritual. Now it was after nine o'clock at night, and he was having trouble holding it in. His bladder was full too - so full the short walk from the taxi to this place had been a torment.

Now he knew that the girl didn't want to do this, and he could see the terror in her wide eyes - that, and having to piss so bad, had given him an uncontrollable erection. Damn! It was embarrassing. She was perfect - everything he'd dreamed a shit-eating submissive would be. His gut rumbled, and having to piss was becoming an emergency. He tried hard not to squirm.

He couldn't hide his need from Fan's discerning eye, though, and she was enjoying the spectacle of his pain.

Fan laid her hands on Mouche's shoulders and turned her to face the man. "What do you think, babe? Will she do?" She smiled, knowing the answer very well.

"She's fine," said the man, scarcely concealing his impatience.

"You gotta pay in advance," said Fan.

The man had the money ready, a roll in his pocket. He took it out and handed it to her. It was an agony to watch her unroll the bills and count them. She pretended to lose her place halfway through and started over. The man suppressed a groan.

Fan carefully tucked the bills into her purse while the man shifted from foot to foot. Then, with excruciating slowness, she took the hem of Mouche's shift - she obediently raised both arms - and lifted it over her head, revealing her pale, perfectly tended body to the man's gaze.

"Remember the rules," she said. "You stay on the mat, or go to the bathroom there." She nodded at a door in the far wall. "No rough stuff, no anal. I'll be listening, and I'm gonna know if you get up to something you shouldn't. You can't get away with nothing."

"Okay," said the man.

Fan turned to Mouche. "You do what he tell you, Mouche," she said, "long as he ain't breakin' no rules. He gonna be your master for the next half hour."

"Yes, Fan," said Mouche.

"Knock on the door when you done," said Fan, and left the room. Then Mouche was alone with the man.

"Come here," he said. It only took Mouche two steps to close the gap between them.

He reached out and put a hand on her left breast. "You're pretty, Mouche," he said.

"Thank you."

"Thank you, Sir," he corrected. Now that Fan was out of the room, his boldness was growing. "If you were mine, I'd whip you to drive the lesson home."

"I'm sorry, Sir," said Mouche.

"You want to drink my piss, Mouche?"

Play along with anything, Fan had said. Agree with everything. "Yes, Sir," said Mouche.

"Eat my shit?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're a filthy little pervert, Mouche. On your knees, pervert."

Mouche sank to her knees and watched the man undress. He was burly and hairy, and his erect penis was shorter than Mr. Billings's, and more upturned. She was surprised that it aroused no feelings in her at all, either attraction or revulsion.

The man liked to piss. Often, when he stood over his toilet at home, he imagined he was pissing into the mouth of a pretty girl. He'd wet his fingers and put them in his mouth so he'd understand the experience he was giving her, and the sensations and thoughts would make him hard. Sometimes he was already hard when he went to the bathroom, and then he had trouble getting his piss started - but he learned to do it by relaxing his muscles just so.

The man took his penis in his hand. Look at his face, Fan had said. Look into his eyes, like you do with me. Mouche didn't like it, looking at his face that way, but she did it, and tried to look as if she were worshiping the man the way she worshiped Fan.

It wasn't easy to get it started - not because he had a hard-on, but because she was a real girl, not an imaginary one. To buy time he said, "Beg for it."

"Please, Sir," she said. What would he want her to say next? "Would you piss in my mouth?" It sounded lame, but he seemed to like it.

"Go on," he said. Damn. He had to relax.

"I'd like to drink your piss, Sir." She made herself smile. You can touch him, Fan had said. They like to be touched. She reached out and cupped his balls in one hand, the way she'd sometimes done for Mr. Billings. She let her hand slide backwards, between his legs, and pressed his anus with her middle finger. "Please, Sir? For me?"

That was all it took. It started slowly - too slowly to give him any relief. It was just a trickle, but the girl leaned forward and caught it in her mouth - so incredible to see her do it while looking at him with those worshipful eyes - and swallowed some and let the rest dribble out of her, over her lips.

Gradually his piss came faster and stronger, and she leaned back again and let him aim it into her, and sometimes she leaned forward and held him in her mouth for maybe five seconds at a time, gulping it down and not losing a drop.

It was easy to do. Even if she didn't like the man, and nothing about him turned her on, there was something good about it - that she was doing what Fan told her. When she thought about that, how she was making Fan happy, she found she actually wanted to do what Fan wanted her to, and she started to become aroused.

The man pissed a long time: as he was slowing down he sprayed her face and hair and wetted her breasts and belly. She imagined it was Fan's urine, spraying from her wide pink sex, between the steel rings - and it was, in a way - and the warm shower made her happy.

The man took a step back and looked down - at Mouche's dripping face, her body shining with damp, her face upturned, seeming to adore him. Below, his piss puddled green on the blue tarp.

Desire raged in him. He pushed her backwards, reached for the stool, just a few feet away, and placed it over her face. It was only about a foot high, and she looked up at him through the seat, meek and passive, eyes wide, lips parted, little breasts rising and falling with her breathing. It was unbelievable, but she was going to let him do this thing. He sat on the seat with his feet on either side of her slender body.

"Kiss my ass," he said, and immediately felt her wet tongue touch his hole, gently massaging and stimulating him. God, his gut was full! But he didn't want the moment to go by too quickly, even though his shit had already descended in his rectum and was pressing into the anal canal, where it took painful effort too keep his anus shut tight as her tongue burrowed past the fur in his crack, probing him.

It was shut so tight, and he seemed so tense, she understood how full he was and what an effort it must be to hold it in. She wanted him to hurry, to get it done. "Please, Sir," she murmured into his crack, voice whispery and muffled and so incredibly sexy that he couldn't hold back any longer, but leaned forward and relaxed his muscles and just let it go, the liquid sliding sound punctuated by sharp farts.

He could look between his legs and see the girl's body, her belly and sex and skinny legs: she lay so still he almost thought her asleep. But then he paused, and in the silence he heard a soft cough, followed by chewing and swallowing.

He had to see: he stood, turned around, and looked through the toilet seat, and he thought he'd never seen anything so incredible. His shit had piled up on her face, and some had rolled down her cheeks and lay on the tarp on either side of her head. She was looking at him with those wide watchful eyes as her jaws moved.

He felt a movement inside him, sat down again, and let it out - everything he'd saved up for two days just for this moment.

He stood again, moved the stool aside. and watched her eat his shit. There was something decorous, even delicate in her manner as she picked up pieces with her fingertips and put them in her mouth. He stroked himself as he watched. And when she was near the end of it, he put on the condom he'd brought with him, spread her legs, and pushed into her, wondering at the ease with which he slid in and not guessing that Fan had lubricated her vagina before his arrival.

Mouche lay still as he pulled out of her, stood, went to the door, and knocked twice. It only took two seconds for Fan to open the door and come in.

"You can clean up there," she said, pointing to the bathroom door. While he was in the bathroom, Fan sat with Mouche, rocking her and cooing, "You done good, sweetie, you Fan's good little Mouche." When the man came out, fully dressed again, he cleared his throat as if to say something, but Fan glared at him, and he quickly took some bills out of his pocket, set them down in a dry area of the tarp, and left the room.

Fan took Mouche to the bathroom then. "I want you to throw up, baby," she said. "Can you do that?"