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Well, here we are. Another night, another wad of pound notes in my purse (£500 this time - I'm not sure if that's simply because women of my tastes are in short supply, or if it's a recognition of my 'talent.' And if it is, should I be proud of that, or ashamed?), another cold and unfamiliar room full of strangers.
The room is tiled, grimy, entered by two doors, heavy and sliding, one at each end; I enter through one, alone, my 'customers' through the other. Spaced evenly across the floor are metal drains, filthy and corroded; metal rods and rings are similarly spaced across the ceiling, hooks dangling from a few of them. A freezer, cold storage unit, meat locker? Ooh, edgy, guys.
Some of my 'customers' are masked or hooded, others still have their shoes and socks on. All are otherwise naked. All are male. None of them really look at each other - a curious contradiction, they draw strength from doing this as a group, reassurance and affirmation that their perversion is valid, yet equally, ashamed of that same perversion and the fact that it's witnessed. Or maybe they're just uncomfortable in the presence of so many other naked men. Not that I'm much better dressed - thigh-high PVC boots, black and shiny, laced up the sides, with ridiculous spike heels and huge fuck-off platform soles, and a pair of black, side-tie panties.
I step to the centre of the room, get down on my knees; they move around me, form a circle, indistinct in the pale, flickering lights, indistinct in my mind also.
Idly I wonder what sort of audience I have tonight. Some want a show, want me to play, smear, bathe, rub, masturbate. Some want to see how much I can eat or how quickly I can eat it. Some like a steady-paced performance, drawn out over the long hours of the night, no hurried escape or letting me get it over with quickly.
I recall reading somewhere, perhaps in a protitute's memoirs, that there comes a point at which the 'Johns' all start to blur together. Barely faces, barely names; mostly, just another dick to suck. Or, in my case, just another arse to eat from. I am aware, in a vague, impersonal, detached sense, that I should probably be disturbed by the fact that I may be reaching that point.
The first of them steps forward, turns his back to me, squats down; I dutifully lean forward, on my hands and knees now, pale fingers and black-painted nails splayed across the filthy tile, and wait. It doesn't take long; he grunts, strains a little, and takes maybe thirty seconds depositing a thick log of shit for me, letting it drop to the tile with an obscenely wet sound. He stands, steps away, takes his place in the circle again, watching me impassively. I am aware that several of the men have started to masturbate, but nobody else steps forward, nobody moves to urge me onwards.
Slow-and-steady it is. It's been a while since I've played to that kind of crowd.
I lean forward, fingers still splayed on the concrete - no hands, the slow-and-steady crowd never want to see me eat with my hands, they want to be the ones in control, not me - and lower my mouth to the log of shit in front of me. With a different bunch of customers, I might make a show of how much it stinks, how foul it tastes, the disgust and self-loathing that fills me as I'm doing this, but this isn't the crowd for it.
(Never mind that the disgust and self-loathing I feel doing this was overtaken by arousal months ago.)
I open wide, lean down, and lick it.
There's a murmur from the crowd, quickly stifled, but I don't look up. My head stays down and I take another lick - long and slow, with enough force to scrape a layer of shit off and smear it across my tongue. I am intimately aware of its taste, just as I'm aware of the growing dampness between my legs.
I keep on licking it at, the mass dwindling with every stroke of my tongue, swallowing every few strokes (good girl, Ellie, one of my inner voices tells me, you're such a neat and dainty eater, not to let any of it drop to the floor or get on your chin!) and soon enough - it takes me maybe a few minutes - I'm no longer licking shit but instead can feel the cool tile under my tongue as I clean up the last few dregs. I gulp down the last mouthful and straighten up again, looking back to the crowd. Some are still stroking. Some have perhaps climaxed already, stifling their grunts and gasps and catching their spurting semen in their closed fists.
Another man steps forward. Another load is deposited. Once again my head goes down, my mouth opens, my tongue extends, and I begin the slow process of licking more shit from the tiled floor.
(That inner voice again: such a great work ethic, Ellie! Dutifully and obediently eating shit to earn your £500!)
It's perhaps an hour - lacking a watch, I can measure time only in consumption; by my count, I eat the shit of eight men - before the pace changes. Over the course of that hour, those eight expulsions of shit devoured, I have been ejaculated on four times - twice across my back, once in my hair, once on my lower back and down onto my panties, where even now it must be drying into a glistening silver-white splatter. By the time I'm done my neck, jaw, and spine are all starting to ache a little from the awkwardness of the position.
Instead of a ninth man dropping a ninth load of shit for me to lick off the filthy floor, I'm instructed to keep my head down, nose and lips just a few inches from the yellow-brown smear that's all that's left of the last mound of filth I choked down. I do so, and am aware of the sound of a man straddling me, his shoes at the edges of my peripheral vision. A grunt or two as he squats, then I feel a heavy, warm sensation on the back of my head. He's taken a shit in my hair.
I'm told to rub it in, and I do so, like it's conditioner, or shampoo, or the thick gel I sometimes use to spike my short, black-dyed hair. I squeeze it between my hands, feel it ooze between my fingers, press it against my scalp as I begin to massage it in. Inevitably, a few fragments escape my grasp and drop wetly to the floor; I ignore them and keep working. The shit coats my hair, clinging lumpily to it; my hair is short enough, the load big enough, that I can get it all over. Finally I'm done, a few wide smears of shit across my forehead, my neck, my ears where my fingers went astray, my hair pulled out into drooping, uneven spikes, brown instead of black. My scalp is warm, my head feels a little heavy.
I kneel there, looking at the crowd, savouring their collective gaze, the feeling of so many eyes on me, so many men who've just watched me style my hair with shit like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My cunt feels red-hot with arousal and I want nothing more than to stick my shit-covered hands down my panties and masturbate until earth-shattering climax.
But I'm being paid to be here, and the men who gave me £500 haven't told me that they want me to masturbate or climax, so I won't, and I don't.
Instead I'm told to lie on my back and spread my legs. I'm sure they could smell my arousal if not for the stink rising from my hair and my mouth. Two sets of deft hands undo the side-ties of my panties and peel them from me, revealing my bare, pale, shaven cunt, my lips glistening with arousal and a newly-fitted clitoral ring glinting in the dreary light. My hearbeat is rising as the room's cool air hits my hot and tender flesh. My thighs quiver involuntarily.
Another man squats over me, over my spread legs and obscene cunt, eyes meeting mine through the holes in his hood. What expression does he have on his face? What does his face look like? Am I, in spite of my nakedness, as faceless to him as he is to me, merely a receptacle for his shit?
By way of answer, I get a loud burst of rather liquid flatulence and the wet sensation of soft shit pooling on my pussy lips as it pours from his arsehole. The sensation is electric, my back arching and legs trembling again as it hits my skin and sends spikes of arousal shooting through me. My need to masturbate becomes quite desperate; I want to dive in with both hands, smearing shit across my pussy, feeling it squelching between my fingers as I part my lips and cram them into me.
Instead he steps away wordlessly and another takes my place. Another load is emptied upon my pale and trembling body - on my lower belly this time, warm and heavy there. And so it goes, men squatting over me in turn, shitting on me one at a time, every load slightly further up my body than the last, every load unique in texture, in volume, in stench. One lands at the very base of my sternum and it's all I can do to keep my hands at my sides; my knuckles are white, my fingertips pressed hard against the cold tile. One falls between my breasts and my hips give a little involuntary buck, not even an inch off the floor but still enough to send another tingling wave of arousal through me. More loads - one on each A-cup breast, one where my sternum meets my collarbone, one on my throat itself - and with each I feel that indescribable, obscene heat building within me.
I am aware of intermittent spurts of hot cum across me, sometimes across bare skin where shit has yet to be deposited, sometimes into the brown mess that already covers me.
From neck to cunt my lithe torso is a faecal display, my skin a canvas for an abstract in stinking brown.
The climax is soon to come. Another man straddles me, squatting over my face this time. I'm told to open wide, and I comply, my tongue still brown but the taste of my earlier perversion fading fast.
I needn't have worried; I hear the by-now-familiar grunt and he takes a shit in my mouth. It's a big load, too; I don't start to chew or swallow until he's done, my cheeks bulging by the time he's finished. I imagine how I must look to him as he stands, mouth stretched wide, teeth pressed against the thick brown mess within. Doing my best, slowly at first, I start to chew, feeling in squelch between my teeth, pressing it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, breaking it down into smaller lumps that I can swallow without gagging. I dare not gag or choke. I dare not turn my head and cough out this filthy mouthful.
It takes me some minutes, but eventually I am done. I draw in a deep breath, running my tongue over my teeth, aware that the mess across my body is beginning to cool. I'm given all the time I need to recover, but it's not long before another man is standing over me and another arsehole is being lowered to my lips.
I lose myself in this.
Soon enough, my world is reduced to two things: the shit in my mouth and the arousal between my legs.
Around the time of the sixth or seventh load of shit, I am quite surprised as my own orgasm rips through me. I cannot cry out with my mouth full of filth, but stars dance before my eyes and my body convulses. Minutes pass as my orgasm fades. My arousal does not end, nor does the line of men shitting in my mouth.
By the time my second orgasm hits me I have long since stopped keeping track of the time or count of the loads of shit I have eaten.
My name is Ellie. I am 28 years old. I accepted £500 for my participation tonight. Over the past two hours I have licked shit up off the floor, rubbed shit through my hair, barely constrained the urge to masturbate as I was shit on, and obediently eaten the shit of more men than I can count as they each in turn took a shit in my mouth.I love it. I am not close to being done.
Comments for Paid to eat shit III
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Location: The toilet room | Roleplay: Other
Fulfillment: Act on it | Nature: Humiliating