This is a work of fiction, intended for adults. Comments welcome (jqkerr@gmail.com)
THE NEED
The front door of my apartment is unlatched and I am waiting on the floor in the living room, lying on my back, wearing only boxers. The lights are off, but enough light comes through the windows to see.
I hear the door open and feel my heart skip a beat. A man comes into the living room but I don't look at him or say anything, I just lie there staring at the ceiling, waiting. No words are exchanged. They never are. I can hear him kick off his shoes and unbuckle his belt. He slides out of his jeans and then walks over to where I am lying and sits down on the rim seat that is positioned just above my head.
His body closes off most of the light, but I can still see his ass, just above me, a young, firm ass, and I know him to be a handsome guy, trim, well-built, about six feet.
He waits for me to begin. I lift my head and reach out with my tongue to lick his hole, deep in the crack of his ass. He's clean, as he always is, and I work my way into his hole a little. I can feel his sphincter yield to my tongue as I massage it and it begins to open.
His hole opens up still more and I can feel his emerging shit log with my tongue. It tastes foul. I lay my head back on the floor and wait for it. I can see his log emerging more and more. I can smell it now. My heart is beating fast. It touches my lips and, with a sigh, I open my mouth to receive it. The turd is warm and fairly firm, which, at least, is easier to deal with than softer ones. I am grateful for that. The taste overwhelms me as it slides in. I want to gag but I force myself not to. He stands up and turns around so he can watch me eat it. He is stroking his dick as he watches. A powerful wave of emotion and self-loathing washes over me.
Ignoring the foul taste, I begin to chew the end of the warm log that is in my mouth and the taste gets even stronger. Again and again, I want to wretch but I will not let myself. My chewing causes the end of the turd sticking out of my mouth to break off, slide down my cheek and fall to the floor beside my head.
I chew the part in my mouth, swallowing it as I go, until it is gone. The taste is still strong, but it is not as bad as it was. I'm getting used to it. I pick up the part that has fallen beside my head and put it in my mouth. Again I chew and swallow it. I watch his face as he watches me. There's a slight smile on it, his contempt for me is obvious.
When I have finished the second part of his turd, he sits down again and I wait to see if he is going to feed me more. But he tells me he's done. I lift my head and wipe him clean with my tongue, swallowing what I lick up from his asshole.
He stands up, turns around and looks at me again, the same mix of pity and contempt is easily seen on his face even in the dim light. My face, I know, has some of his shit on it where the half turd slid down. I look up at him and our eyes meet. We just look at each other for a minute, an alpha and an omega exchanging silent signals. He is still stroking his cock; he suddenly bends over slightly and cums on my face.
My humiliation is almost complete now. There is only one thing more thing to do. One more thing to make it total.
"Thank you," I say.
"Any time," he says with a half-laugh, as he puts his jeans back on. He zips up, slips into his shoes, and walks out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.
The spell is broken. I get up and go into the bathroom to shower and try to get the lingering taste of filth out of my mouth by brushing my teeth--what I spit out is well tinged with brown--then a strong mouthwash. When I am finally clean again, the awful taste gone from my mouth but not my memory, I look at myself in the mirror and loathe what I see: the face of a shiteater, a practitioner of the most disgusting of sexual perversions.
I get dressed, fold up the rim seat and put it away in the back of a closet until I will have to take it out again. And I know I will take it out again. In a few days the need will be back, as strong as ever. I'll fight it as long as I can, and then, defeated as always, I'll call him and ask him to come by on his way to work the next morning. He usually says he will, and I spend a sleepless night waiting for the dawn, the click of the latch on the front door, the dimming of the light as he sits down on the seat above my head, the foul stench of his shit as it slides into my waiting mouth and fulfills my need.
I hate it. Oh, God, how I hate being what I am. I hate having to do it with every fiber of my body. I'd give anything for the need to go away, to be able to look at myself in the mirror without loathing. But I know it won't go away and I've finally come to accept it and to accept who and what I am.
With the rim seat back in the closet, I go about my life, with work, my interests, and my many friends. None of them know about my need, of course. I have a normal life except for it. My need is a wholly secret shame. Except, that is, for two other shiteaters. We met in a scat chat room a few years ago when we were looking for feeders and have come to depend on each other. We get together now every couple of weeks and discuss our mutual need, give each other support as we tell of our most recent episodes of satisfying it and how we deal with being what we are.
At least they understand, as no one else can, why I do it, why I eat shit, serve a man as his toilet and thank him giving me what I need. And I understand why they do it too. It's because we have to. We're shiteaters and the need won't let us go.