The Taming of the Shithead

Jeremiah stared at me, tossing the ball of yarn in one hand while he stroked his monster cock with the other. "You want me to . . ."

"I'm a good girl," I purred. "I'd never willingly play around on Dr. Rosenberg. Oh fuck! My little asshole feels so lonely!"

He stared for another minute, and then leapt at me.

6. Mrs. Rosenberg throws up

Work was boring the next day. I cleaned the bathrooms, filed, copied, and mailed stuff, walking a little stiffly because my ass was sore. Dr. Rosenberg ignored me the whole day, and by three o'clock I was so frustrated I would have humped Marsha's leg if I thought she'd let me.

When we got off at three, I went to Dr. Rosenberg's house hoping he'd come home, but by four there was still no sign of him. Five o'clock came and went, and I got a beer from the fridge and poured it into one of Dr. Rosenberg's fancy glasses to console myself. After six I heated up a frozen dinner and ate it while watching a girl that looked a little like me get gangbanged on PornHub.

That was obviously the wrong thing to do, because it left me about a hundred times hornier than I was before, and pissed off too. Where was Dr. Rosenberg? Why wasn't he here abusing me? Why didn't he at least tell me where he was going? I went to his bedroom and laid on his bed, remembering how just last week he'd finger-fucked me there so hard I squirted. I wiggled out of my clothes and touched myself, gently at first and then harder and faster till I had three fingers of one hand inside me while I rubbed my clit with the other, and I was panting and writhing.

"Oh!" said a woman's voice from the doorway.

I snatched my hands away from my crotch and snapped my legs together. I looked: it was Mrs. Rosenberg.

"I, um . . ." I said. Mrs. Rosenberg was wearing a white tennis dress, and her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. Her blue stare would freeze Lake Michigan in July.

"I suppose you're doing a lot of that these days," she said.

"What?"

"Masturbating."

"Yeah, I do any more."

"It serves you right." She was staring at my tits. "You're a stupid cow. You should have figured out he'd lose interest in you the minute he thought he owned you."

She seemed angry. A flush of excited humiliation rushed up from my belly through my tits to my cheeks.

She went on, "Idiot cunt, haven't you noticed those paintings and sculptures all over the house? He paid hundreds of thousands for them, and he never even glances at them."

"Say that again, Mrs. Rosenberg?"

"I said he never looks at his art collection."

"I mean about me being an idiot cunt." I had let my legs fall open and was masturbating again.

She was staring between my legs. "Stop that!" she commanded. "It's rude, like . . . like picking your nose in public."

"Yeah, more," I said, and rubbed myself harder. My clit was hot under my fingers.

She was getting worked up. "You're not listening. I said . . . oh, just fuck you!"

She turned towards the door. "Don't go, Mrs. Rosenberg," I said. "Stay and . . ." I groped for something to say to keep her here. ". . . and tell me why you hate me."

It worked: she turned back towards me and glared.

"Isn't it obvious? You stole my husband."

"I did not!" I protested, shoving two fingers in my pussy. "You left him! Don't you remember? It wasn't even two weeks ago!"

"Everybody thinks he left me . . . for a piece of trailer trash with a big butt and . . . and big teeth . . . and an IQ barely a notch above retarded."

"I never lived in a trailer, Mrs. Rosenberg."

"But you could have. And everybody at the club gives me all this false sympathy: 'It's so sad about your husband, Sylvia. And what's the name of that girl, the maid?' And they're laughing about it behind my back. I know they are!"

"Just tell them the truth, Mrs. Rosenberg. You like didn't even want him!"

"Tell them the truth? That I'm a lesbian? That the best sex I ever had started with farting in your face and pissing in your mouth?"

"That was so fucking hot, Mrs. Rosenberg!"

"If my friends found out I liked perverted sex with women, I'd be a social outcast. And it's all your fucking fault!"

"I didn't make you a lesbian, Mrs. Rosenberg."

"You're so fucking dense." She pulled off her dress, pushed down her panties, and flopped onto the bed, where she sat with her back against the headboard. "Eat me," she commanded.

Her feet were pulled in, her knees high, her legs spread. She'd shaved her pussy since the last time I'd seen her, or maybe had it waxed: her mound and outer lips were as white and cold as the rest of her.

I crawled between her legs, close enough to smell her, a mild pussy smell, mixed with soap. I wondered if she sweated when she played tennis: probably not. Sweating was for trailer trash.

"If it weren't for you, I'd still believe I was normal," she said.

"Were you happy thinking you were normal, Mrs. Rosenberg?"

"Of course not! I hated my husband, my life, everything. But nobody was laughing at me. Now shut up and eat me."

I spread her outer lips with my fingers: inside she was a vivid pink and already glistening with moisture. I kissed her inside, right where the piss comes out, and traced her inner lips with the tip of my tongue.

"I've been dreaming about it," she said in a voice that seemed to be coming from far away. "What I did to you last Saturday. I see your eyes under me, so dull and stupid, feel you licking my anus, hear the wind escape, blasting you in the face . . ."

"Nnngh," I said, trying to stick my tongue into her vag.

"Lick my clit," she said. "Just softly. In the dream you get so turned on when I fart on you, just like you did last weekend. But there's more. I lose control of myself, and I . . . and I . . ."

She grabbed me by my bangs and pushed me away. Then she scooched down, flipped onto her tummy, spread her legs, and said, "Eat my ass."

Her ass cheeks were pale and perfect - not a pimple or blemish anywhere, no cellulite, no tan lines. I spread them and looked at her tight ring, pink as bubble gum. What she was saying was so exciting.

"What happens next, Mrs. Rosenberg?"

"What?"

"In your dream. What do you do after you fart on me?"

"You beg me for . . . for disgusting things. You're kissing my anus, making love to it with your lips and tongue."

I buried my face in her crack and kissed her asshole with wet sucking sounds.

"I don't want to do that - it's too filthy. I want to fart again, blow it right into your open mouth. I push, trying to work some air out. I have to get on my knees to do it."

She did that, raising her ass up high, and I followed, entranced by her naked pink asshole, which was pulsing now, in and out, widening and contracting.

"But it doesn't work. instead of air, there's . . . oh!"

First she farted, loud and wet, and then a turd slid over my tongue - hard, solid and dry - just enough to fill me up.

I closed my lips around it and held it on my tongue. It was pasty and bitter, and my mouth watered and my pussy throbbed.

"Ah, God!" she sobbed, and pushed again. I sat back on my heels and watched a long turd snake out of her onto the bedsheets, and more, a big pile of it, wet with the piss dribbling from her pussy.

She strained some more, her asshole swelling, but there was no more. She sat up and turned to look at me.

"You didn't . . ." she began, but before she could finish I grabbed her, pulled her to me, and kissed her, shoving the melting shit into her mouth.

"Ack!" she coughed out the turd, which hit me between my tits with a wet slap before falling on the bedsheet.

She gasped and bent over, trying to get control of herself, but she couldn't: she puked a green torrent onto the pile of shit.

"What the fuck," she panted, breasts heaving. "That's disgus - "

"Are you turned on, Mrs. Rosenberg?" I said.

The question seemed to surprise her. She stared at me for a full minute, trying to work it out in her head. Then she picked up a piece of shit, slick with her vomit, and held it up in front of me. I opened my mouth, and she popped it in.

The taste of her shit and puke together was overwhelming: it filled my head, my stomach lurched, and I threw up all over Mrs. Rosenberg's front, the tan chunky torrent cascading over her white breasts.

I picked up the piece of shit I'd just puked out and held it up in front of her. With frightened eyes she opened her mouth, and I put it on her tongue. For a few seconds she let it rest there, and then shut her eyes and closed her lips over it. Instantly her body convulsed and she puked on me just the way I'd puked on her, and it ran green and slick over my boobs and stomach and down to my crotch.

Soon we were playing with Mrs. Rosenberg's shit together, rubbing it over each other's body, licking it up, and puking on each other till we were brown and slimy almost everywhere. The bedsheets were all rumpled and stained, and I was sure the mattress pad underneath must be completely ruined.

My stomach was empty and I was starting to think the fun was about to run out when Mrs. Rosenberg said, "I want to see you poo."

"Okay," I said, wondering like where I should stand and that kind of stuff. But she laid on her back, patted her chest, and said, "Do it here."

I smiled at her. I was really happy inside, like I'd found a new friend. I stepped over her, facing her feet, and crouched over her: she put her hands on my bottom to steady me.

And it was really easy, just like it was with the Reverend Edwards. I actually did have to shit, and it just slid out of me and fell heavily on her chest and between her breasts.

I turned, sat down on her legs, and watched as she picked some of it up. It was thick and heavy, and it stuck to her fingers.

"Ooh!" she said, eyes gleaming.

7. Shitstorm

A voice like the crack of a whip said, "What the fuck is going on here?"

"Hi, Dr. Rosenberg!" I squeaked. He was standing in the doorway, wearing tight black pants, a charcoal shirt with two buttons open at the neck to reveal a gold chain, and a black sport jacket with a shiny finish.

"Hello, David," said Mrs. Rosenberg in an icy dignified voice that I thought was really impressive given that she was naked, brown with puke and shit, and had a big pile of turds on her, like a third tit.

"You're . . . you're . . ." He was speechless with amazement and fury.

"We're having sex," she said levelly.

"This isn't sex," he said. "This is . . ."

"Very like what you like to do," she said.

"You've sunk to her level," he said to her, jerking his head towards me.

"If I have," she said with dignity, "then you did long ago. You're the one who's most avid for sluts and whores and . . . and excreta."

"I fuck skanks, yes, but I don't get down and roll in shit with them, like a pig."

He waved a hand in my direction as he said "pig." "Ooowww!" I said in a kind of howl and slid three fingers into my vag. Being called a pig was so hot.

"Of course not. You wouldn't want to mess up that elegant suit. Where'd you find it - the clearance rack at Walmart?"

I thought he actually looked good. "Oooh," I whined, and fucked myself.

"You always were a stuck-up bitch - thought your shit was ice cream," he said. "I don't think Ben and Jerry's is going to make this the flavor of the month, though."

"Eating shit's a lot better than sucking your cock," she said.

"Cunt," he said. "And as for you," he continued, turning to me, "I told you not to fuck around. You're mine, and you'll do as I say."

"I was good, really, Dr. Rosenberg," I said. "I . . . I didn't go to Mickey's Tap, just like you said. And I didn't fuck anybody at all . . . except Reverend Edwards, just once . . . and the monks at St. John's, and the abbot of course, but those were because of Jesus . . . and Jeremiah, but he made me do it, honest . . . and Mrs. Rosenberg here."

"Is that all?" he asked in an acid tone.

"Not all that many," I muttered. "I didn't fuck Casey, or Mo, or Betsy, and I haven't even seen Randy in more than a week."

"So glad to know there are four people in town you haven't fucked."

"You make five, Dr. Rosenberg," I said, suddenly feeling bold. "I moved in here so you could fuck me whenever you wanted. So why aren't you doing it?"

"That's my business."

"And you get to fuck around as much as you want, picking up women at Mickey's Tap or wherever, and I'm supposed to sit around here being a good little girl? How is that fair?"

His face reddened, then darkened. "That's none of your fucking business."

I stared at him. Suddenly everything clicked into place - Casey's giggles on the way to the monastery, the way he was always coming home in a rage, banging around and cursing. "You haven't been getting laid, have you?"

"Fuck you."

"If he hasn't," said Mrs. Rosenberg, "it's not for want of trying. He's always been a pussy hound."

"Out with it, Dr. Rosenberg," I said. "Why haven't you been fucking?"

"Every whore in town claims to be busy. Every other woman treats me like I've got AIDS."

"Casey hasn't been all that busy."

"She told me she was booked up for two weeks."

"Sounds like someone's blackballed you," said Mrs. Rosenberg.

"Betsy!" I said.

"Betsy?" asked Mrs. Rosenberg.

"She's the Queen of kink in this town," said Dr. Rosenberg, slumping a little. "If she doesn't want you to get laid, you don't get laid."

"Well, Betsy never told me not to fuck you! If you're so frustrated, why not come home and fuck me?"

"'Cause he's a prick," said Mrs. Rosenberg. "If you don't want her, David, I'll take her. Move in with me, honey, and be mine."

"I can't fucking believe you people," I said, climbing off her. "Talking about me being yours. I don't want to be owned. I don't want to be monogamous!"

I stopped, feeling like I hadn't gotten my point across very well. "I like fucking around," I added lamely.

They both stood still for a few seconds. Then Dr. Rosenberg scowled and took a step towards the bed, looking like he was going to make a lunge for me. "I'll show you fucking," he snarled.

Suddenly there was a loud slap, and Dr. Rosenberg stopped dead in his tracks. It looked like he had a hole right in the middle of his forehead.

But it wasn't a hole - it was more like a brown spitball. Mrs. Rosenberg was sitting up, and the shitpile had fallen into her lap. "Just go the fuck away, David," she shrilled, and threw another piece of my heavy sticky shit, which stuck to his right cheek.

He slapped at it like a mosquito, then stared at his hand in dismay. "What the . . . why you fucking bitch!"

He took another step and raised a hand as if to backhand her, but she threw another glob, which hit his other cheek. "Back off, David," she said.

This was too much fun. The bed was littered with turd fragments: I picked one up and flung it at Dr. Rosenberg's head. I wasn't a good aim, though, and it sort of skimmed through his hair. He clapped a hand on top of his head and looked like a bull about to charge. Mrs. Rosenberg picked up another chunk of shit and held it up like she was about to throw it. "Not one more step," she said.

I grabbed some shit from the pile between her legs and threw it. It stuck right on his chin. "Come on, Doctor Rosenberg," I said. "Fuck me!"

He put a hand to his face and scraped the glob off his chin with two fingers. "You dykes can fuck each other," he said. "Clean up and get the fuck out."

"No!" I shouted and flung another turd. "Fuck me!" I scooped up a big handful, stood up on the bed, and threw shit down at him, not really aiming but hitting his face, his jacket, his trousers, his shirt.

"Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!" I yelled.

He took a step backward. "I'll call the cops," he warned.

"Oh, that's smart!" said Mrs. Rosenberg. "Won't the newsrag have fun with the police report. Maybe we can get on the Tee Vee!"

I had just a little more in my hand. I rolled it into a ball between my palms. "Aren't you mad at me, Dr. Rosenberg? Don't you want to hit me, shit on me, fuck me?"

"No," he said, and turned to go.

I flung my ball and got lucky. It hit the back of his neck, just above his collar, and stuck.

"Fuck you, then!" I screamed. "I hope you fucking never get laid again! It's not Betsy keeping you from getting fucked - it's you're an asshole, and everybody hates you, no matter how much money you've got. And everybody laughs at you behind your back cause you're a dentist, not a real doctor, and you spend all day with your hands in people's mouths. Stay away from ol' Doc Rosenberg, they say. He's icky!"

He turned and stared, looking like there was a bonfire inside him.

I went on, fists clenched at my side. "Just fuck you! Every body in town's a better fuck than you, you . . . you limp-dick sissy! Are you afraid of me? Afraid of getting a little dirty?"

"I'm not afraid," he said stonily.

"Then fuck me! C'm'ere and fuck me like you used to!"

"Are you going to behave if I do?"

"No way!" I flopped down to sit beside Mrs. Rosenberg and rubbed her pussy. "I'm gonna fuck your wife and Jeremiah and whoever else I want. I'm not gonna be faithful."

"Ahh," Mrs. Rosenberg sighed, squirming under my hand.

"Cunt! Get out of my house," Dr. Rosenberg growled.

"It's not your house, David," said Mrs. Rosenberg, "if you'll recall: both of our names are on the deed. Eat me, sweetie."

"I'd love to, Mrs. Rosenberg," I said. She spread her legs and I flattened myself between them and went to work - fast, because I didn't want Dr. Rosenberg to get away without seeing.

"Ooooh," said Mrs. Rosenberg, squirming and rubbing her tits.

"I don't have to watch this," said Dr. Rosenberg, but didn't move.

"Oh, Mrs Rosenberg," I breathed into her slit, "I love eating your pussy."

"Yeah, baby," she said, talking to me but looking at Dr. Rosenberg with victory in her eyes. "Eating my pussy, eating my shit." She lifted her legs to show me her brown-stained asshole.

"Mmmm," I said, and started to lick the stain away.

Suddenly my head was yanked up by the hair, so hard I flipped over onto my back - and I was staring up into Dr. Rosenberg's face, dark red with rage.

"You're a sick cunt," he snarled, tearing his shirt open and shrugging it off together with his jacket. "You want shit, I'll give you shit."

Hyperventilating, heart pounding, I watched him shove down his pants and briefs without even undoing his belt. Hopping on one foot on the shitty bedsheets, he tried to pull one leg of his pants over the shoe he'd forgotten to take off, but in his anger and excitement he fell over sideways with a bounce.

Just like that, I knew what to do. Quick as a flash, I jumped up, sat on his chest, skidding forward on my slick ass, leaned way back, and pissed.

"Fuck!" he spluttered, and tried to push me away, but he didn't have much leverage with me on top of him and his pants still around his ankles.

I did, though. I pushed myself up, crouched over his head, and pissed on his face. "Eat me, Doc," I said. "You're always going on about cunts - just eat me."

There was a piece of Mrs. Rosenberg's shit lying near his head. I said, "Here: I'll sweeten it up." I picked up the turd and rubbed my pussy with it, making my piss splatter.

By now he was trying to scooch out from under me, but his pants were like shackles; and then Mrs. Rosenberg scrambled over and sat on his stomach behind me while I grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked hard on it to punish him for trying to get away.