Mouche

Mouche is a character who appears frequently in my BDSM stories. Readers there seem to be fond of her, and some have asked me about her background. I've been reluctant to write about that, though, for several reasons: first, her story is rather somber compared to what I usually write; second, most BDSM readers aren't terribly fond of her kink (coprophagia); and third, that kink, like many paraphilias, began in childhood, a fact that presents delicate storytelling issues on a site like Literotica, which prohibits depictions of underage sexual activity. Still, Mouche's story has been preying on my mind, and I decided at last that I had to tell it - here in the Fetish category, where up to now I've published only humor pieces. She's an eighteen-year-old college freshman as the story begins. Length: circa 19,400 words (novella). Tags: Lesbian sex, Straight sex, Threesome, Oral sex, Anal sex, Coprophagia, Urolagnia, Slavery, Bondage, Flogging.

1. Mr. Billings

Mr. Billings was gorgeous. Not the kind of gorgeous that gets you a chili pepper on that Rate My Professors website, but the kind Amanda liked. He was thin, almost willowy, and pale, with delicate features: a single blue vein shone through the translucent skin of his left temple. Amanda stared at the vein, entranced.

"Ms. Kaplan!" said Mr. Billings, abruptly waking Amanda from her reverie.

"Yes, sir?"

"What do you have to say about Dickens's portrayal of Dora?

Amanda was disoriented; she'd lost the thread of the discussion. She said the first thing that came to mind. "She's really pretty, sir."

Amanda blushed as her classmates laughed and quickly stifled their laughter. This kind of thing had been happening to her as long as she could remember. She'd blurt an answer to some question, and it wouldn't be just the wrong answer, but totally the wrong kind of answer.

Do that often enough, and you get a reputation for weirdness. That reputation had dogged Amanda from K through twelve, and now it looked like it would follow her clear across the continent.

Well, she was weird, and in ways her classmates could scarcely have guessed, though her desperate parents knew it all too well. They'd been struggling with it practically her whole life, sending her to a string of psychiatrists, and on one occasion, which was still a barely healed wound in her memory, committing her to St. Joseph's for two weeks.

By her senior year of high school her compulsions were under control (her psychiatrist, Dr. Fuller, wouldn't use the word "cured"), and her parents relaxed their vigilance. They encouraged her to apply to East Coast colleges: it would do her good, they said, to experience another part of the country. Amanda would have been happy to go to San Francisco State, but when Fordham accepted her, her parents insisted that she go. Her mother flew with her to New York with the air of a marshal escorting a prisoner, helped her settle, and left her with a perfunctory embrace - she hadn't kissed her daughter in years.

Dr. Fuller had told her she had to continue her therapy in New York and provided a list of good psychiatrists in the Bronx, but Amanda hadn't gotten in touch with any of them. She stopped taking her Luvox, too, not liking the way it kept her up at night. Her parents, relieved in their daughter's absence, didn't press her about getting a psychiatrist or ask about her medication. She was eighteen and not really their responsibility anymore. It's not that they didn't care - they were just exhausted.

She'd soon started to backslide. It was harmless enough at first - nibbling bits of wax from her ears or wetting her fingers in her stream of urine and licking them: what was the harm? She loved to masturbate, and there was surely no harm in that. She had done it less while taking Luvox, but now she sometimes spent hours at it, alternately rubbing herself and licking her fingers. She loved tasting her wetness as much as she did the orgasms.

Her sex was so close to her anus: what was the harm in touching herself there, maybe dipping a finger in a little way and sucking it? On one memorable day, she'd put a finger way inside her, and there had been a spot of brown on it when she'd drawn it out. She'd stared at the spot, mesmerized, for a full minute before putting the finger in her mouth. The bitter taste and the smell had been faint but detectable.

That was late October; this was the first Monday after Thanksgiving. She'd spent the break at home with her parents, and at Thanksgiving dinner they'd told her they'd be traveling over Christmas, and they had sublet an apartment in Manhattan for her to stay in while the Fordham dorms were closed.

"Go see some shows," her father had said heartily. "Have a good time."

She'd understood the underlying message, though; you could accuse Amanda of many things, but lack of sensitivity would never be among them. She'd gotten back to her dorm room on Sunday afternoon: her roommate, with whom she interacted little, wasn't there yet. She'd gone to the bathroom, peed in her coffee mug, and drunk it down thirstily.

"Dora is beautiful, of course," said Mr. Billings patiently. "Hers is a fragile, impractical beauty, though. What more can we say on this subject?" He called on a student he could count on to repair the damage Amanda had done.

"A word with you, Ms. Kaplan," he said after class, and when she approached him, he said, "Do you have a moment to talk?"

She nodded.

"Come to my office: it's just down the hall."

He waved her into a chair on the other side of his desk. His office door stayed open, as was proper. Mr. Billings was painstakingly correct in his relations with students.

"I'm concerned about your performance in this class, Ms. Kaplan," he said. "Your first and second papers were poor: I'd like to see you do well on the last."

She couldn't take her eyes off that vein. It was as if she could look through it into his body, see not only the blood pumping, but all the fluids and substances coursing inside him: food being digested, sugar suffused into the bloodstream, waste flushed out, liquids and solids churning through the intestines, glands secreting miraculous chemicals here, mucuses there, moisture conveyed to the skin's surface . . .

"Ms. Kaplan," said Mr. Billings, "you seem distracted. Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she said. She couldn't think of what else to say, except - well, she couldn't say she loved him.

She fled, leaving an astonished Mr. Billings staring after her, mouth agape, and returned to her dorm room, where she closed herself in the bathroom and sat on the toilet. After she was finished, she stood for a long time staring at her feces, wreathed in toilet paper, floating . . .

With a wrenching act of will, she flushed it all away. She returned to her room, shaken, knowing that she couldn't hold out much longer, but unable to make herself look at Dr. Fuller's list of psychiatrists.

"Ms. Kaplan!" said Mr. Billings after class on Wednesday.

She approached him and said, "Yes, sir?"

In a low voice he said, "Your behavior in class concerns me, Ms. Kaplan. You seem in a trance. Is everything all right? We have an excellent counseling service here . . ."

"It's okay, Mr. Billings," said Amanda. "My parents . . . they'll be traveling and I won't be spending Christmas break with them, is all. I'm kind of working through that."

"What are you doing for the break?"

"They found a sublet for me in Manhattan . . . in Washington Heights."

"Will you have a roommate?"

"No." It was unsettling, her stare - so direct and unblinking.

"A boyfriend, or a friend? Someone local should be in touch."

"There's no one, sir."

"Give me your cell phone number and the address of the sublet. Someone local should know where you are. I'll call once or twice to check up on you."

"Thank you, Mr. Billings." She tore a page out of her notebook and wrote out the address and number in a neat hand. Of course he wouldn't call: he'd want no part of her troubles, any more than her parents did.

Amanda didn't do well on her papers and exams. Her mind wandered. Instead of studying, she'd go to the bathroom with her mug, pee in it, and stare into the urine for the longest time before drinking it. She managed to resist that other thing, but it took everything she had . . . she spent a lot of time in the bathroom, just staring at it.

She failed two courses, got one D and two Cs, one of them from Mr. Billings, who she suspected had raised her grade out of pity. She'd be on academic probation at the very least: with a record like that, they might not wait till the end of her freshman year to dismiss her.

She moved into her sublet - a nicely furnished studio apartment whose owners were spending the holiday in Spain. She went to a neighborhood grocery, bought a large supply of frozen entrées, and stayed in watching TV.

It was on Christmas Day that she broke. Her parents were . . . where were her parents? Australia? Austria? Or maybe in California just pretending to be away. They didn't call, and she didn't try to call them. She ate a frozen dinner, undressed, and watched TV - the show scarcely registered with her.

She masturbated, pausing frequently to lick her fingers, as she usually did. She wet her finger and worked it into her anus, as far as it would go. She felt something in there: she dug at it, and when she pulled the finger out there was brown under the nail.

She resolved not to do it. She went to the bathroom, washed her hands thoroughly, and sat on the toilet, intending to flush it away. But it wouldn't hurt just to look, would it? She got off the toilet, crouched, and defecated on the floor.

She stood, turned, and looked, fascinated, wondering why everyone was so repulsed by this. She had never been able to make herself feel that revulsion. Here was the end product of so many of the body's miracles! The food she had eaten yesterday had gurgled in her stomach, been kneaded into a mush, and shoved into her intestines, where it had been slowly processed into the sugars and nutrients that were pulsing through her arteries now, feeding every cell, sustaining her - and here was the result, laid out in front of her, brown and firm, a work of art created by her body.

She knelt for a better look. The smell was strong in her nostrils; her mouth watered. Her bottom was dirty: she put a finger there, felt the slick pastiness of it, and pulled the finger away to look at it, the tip brown. She put it in her mouth and licked it clean, savoring the strong bitter flavor. She cleaned her bottom that way, wiping herself with her hand and licking and sucking her fingers.

She sat and looked at her shit. There wasn't all that much of it, really, just two medium-sized pieces. She picked up the smaller one: it was warm with her body's warmth and heavy with her body's moisture. She smelled it and nibbled the end. She put it down. She should call one of the psychiatrists on Dr. Fuller's list. They'd be unavailable today, though: she'd call tomorrow. She picked it up and took a bite - a good mouthful - moist, soft, aromatic, and so . . . what she needed right now. She took another bite, and another, till the first turd was gone.

It had been so long since she'd felt this good. She picked up the other turd and crammed it into her mouth till she could hardly close her lips. As she held it on her tongue, the room seemed to fade around her, and she became lightheaded. Everything that mattered in the world was there in her mouth. She chewed it slowly and swallowed it little by little as it dissolved in her saliva.

She felt euphoric, in a trance, empty, as if everything that made her human had left her, and she didn't have a thought, didn't know who she was, didn't feel anything but the smell, the flavor, the strange sense of her inside being outside, her digestion working in a beautiful circle. She squatted again, strained, and produced a little turd, which she smeared all over her face. She licked her fingers.

Her phone rang somewhere out in the apartment. Bedside table. She had a vague sense that she should get it. She stumbled out of the bathroom, found the phone, and stared at it for a few seconds, struggling to remember how to work it. She answered with a slurry "Hello?"

Mr. Billings's voice said, "Ms. Kaplan?"

"Mmm."

"Are you okay? You sound strange."

"'M'okay," she said. "'S'just . . ."

"Have you been drinking? Using drugs?"

"Nn . . . Nn," she said.

"Don't go anywhere," he said. "I'm just a few minutes away. Don't leave or do anything."

"Nnggh," said Amanda, and fell asleep on the floor.

Mr. Billings didn't usually take an interest in his students' personal lives. If he spotted one who seemed to need help he'd alert a dean, who'd provide academic counseling and refer the student, if necessary, to the university's counseling service. He wasn't sure why he hadn't done the same with Amanda Kaplan.

Perhaps he had a vague sense that he really could help her. She was pretty - slender, fair skinned, and black haired, with delicate features and a melancholy manner that he found appealing - but his mind wouldn't go any further. He liked to think he was immune to the charms of undergraduates.

It was just human decency, that's all. If she was okay - maybe she'd just been sleepy when she answered the phone - then fine. If she was sick he'd take her to the hospital; if on drugs, he'd contact the counseling service. He'd do the right thing, and that would be that.

She buzzed him into the building without using the intercom. When she answered the door, he was shocked. She was entirely naked, and groggy, as if she'd just woken up - as in fact she had. Her face was smeared with something brown, and the powerful smell of it told him unambiguously that it was shit.

You must decide for yourself whether it was very good or very bad luck that it was Mr. Billings who found Amanda in this state; certainly the outcome would have been different if it had been any of her other professors. He was concerned, as anyone would be, for her well being. But he wasn't repulsed: instead he was aroused, his blood racing and his penis stirring.

In an instant the professional wall that separated his personal life from those of his students vanished, like a force field switched off. He rushed into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

"Amanda!" he exclaimed. "What have you been doing?"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, sat down on the floor, just inside the door, and began to cry.

He squatted beside her. The smell was so strong - he breathed deeply. He reached out, put a finger under her chin, and lifted her head to make her look at him.

"What have you done?" he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, her voice a faint whisper. "I couldn't help it."

"Did you . . . did you eat it?" he asked, hardly daring to hope it was true.

"Yes, sir," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said briskly, put a hand under her elbow, and made her stand. He looked around, spotted the bathroom, and led her there.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to the toilet, and she sat meekly on the closed seat cover while he drew a bath.

He found a washcloth and cleaned most of the shit off her face before he let her get in the tub. She was stunningly beautiful - how had he not seen it before? Her eyes dark and wide, so sweet and trusting.

He handed her into the bath and questioned her as he washed her face.

"Is it just feces?"

"No, sir. Everything that comes from the body."

"Urine?"

"Yes. And earwax, snot, sweat . . . sometimes blood . . ."

"I see. Just yours?"

"Just mine," she said sadly.

"You've wished you could have it from other people?"

"Yes," she said in a small voice, ashamed, unable to say that she'd been fantasizing about him.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked.

"Ever since I can remember," she said. "I've been in therapy all my life."

Mr. Billings stared at her, struggling to think clearly.

"Have you ever considered the possibility," he said at last, "that it's not an illness, but something else - just the way you're made?"

Amanda stared at him. He had such a pretty face: the blue vein was still there, so beautiful.

"No," she said.

"I'm not saying it's so," he said, "but just suggesting it as a possibility - something to think about. Everyone is hiding some kind of strangeness - some kink. Some people suppress theirs, and some don't. We keep it private, and that's the right thing to do, but it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Amanda couldn't assimilate what he was saying: it was too radical a change in her way of thinking. But he was so kind, so gentle . . .

"Sir . . ." she began.

"Have you cleaned yourself underneath?" he asked, handing her the washcloth. He watched hungrily as she reached between her legs.

He pressed down the lever to let the water out of the bath. "Perhaps," he said, his boldness now making his heart thud, loud and rapid, in his chest, "the right thing to do is not to extinguish your kink altogether, but rather to find the boundaries of what you can do safely." He was terrified as he said this, but forced himself to look into her face.

He was a good bit older than Amanda, he was beautiful, he was kind . . . she couldn't quite take in what he was saying, but she trusted him. "Yes, sir," she said.

"Come here," he said, and held out his hand. She took it, and he guided her out of the bathtub. He lifted the lid of the toilet, said, "Sit," and was thrilled to see how readily she did as she'd been told.

"Do you need to pee?" he asked. "You can if you need to."

"Thank you," she said, and peed, still looking into his face.

The sound of her urine splashing into the toilet overwhelmed all his senses and his intellect: he couldn't think, but only act. He unzipped his pants, pulled himself out, and took aim at her.

He was going to tell her to open her mouth, but stopped himself when he saw that she was already staring at his penis, mesmerized, mouth open - not wide, but enough.

He could scarcely believe this was happening. He had more than a hundred piss and shit videos, which fueled his masturbation fantasies, but this was a live girl who wanted him to do what he most wanted to do.

He peed. His urine splashed against her chin, and he adjusted his aim to get it in her mouth. The room was quiet except for the liquid softly hissing through the urethra, then the splash, the acrid smell rising: it was strong and its heat startled her, and the gurgling, drain-like sound in her mouth aroused her, the knowledge that this was somebody else's pee - Amanda was an other-directed person.

She swallowed the wonderful acrid urine, trying not to lose anything. She couldn't quite keep up: some escaped her and ran down between her small breasts, over her belly, through her pubic hair, and into the toilet, where it made a lovely splash.

Mr. Billings was sorry when his pee ran out: he'd have saved it up if he'd had any inkling. But he was aroused now - he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to. He picked her up - she weighed almost nothing - and carried her out to the bed, where he laid her on her back, spread her legs, and thrust into her.

She was still, almost limp, but wet and ready, and he slid in easily. He had no idea that he was taking her virginity: she'd long ago broken her hymen masturbating, and she was so passive, just letting it happen, aware that she was without protection but too timid to say anything. He felt good inside her, and his eager thrusts stimulated her clitoris. Yes, this was good, but she wanted . . .