Plaything - Life C8_(1)

Tuesday 06/06/2007

NEVILLE

One of the odd things about fucking for money was the amount of influence it has on the rest of your life. You'd think in many ways this would be simple - a couple of times a day you get gussied up, spend a couple of hours getting pounded for various cameras, couple of hundred each time and the rest of your day doing more or less anything you liked.

Except, of course, that if people are going to be inside your body, it's a matter of some professional pride that they don't run into anything they aren't being paid to. So, you don't get too drunk before a shoot because you never know when that dick's too big and suddenly you've up-chucked everywhere, often as not on some poor chap's wedding tackle. Absolutely not cool.

At this moment, rolling up the last few meters of a sandstone gravel driveway in the purple warrior, her dark purple glittery mini cooper, Jenny was not sitting comfortably. This was entirely due to her having not taken a dump in three days. No, she wasn't ill, this had taken some effort. Being completely loaded meant she'd had to forego any sex during those days. Obviously, someone jamming their prick up your arse would be bad, but past experience had taught her that even a common or garden orgasm could be enough to relax just the wrong muscles and screw-up the job more or less entirely.

That job was Neville Oswald Green, he was executive director of Turnright and Green which had an annual turnover of something like six hundred million and as such Neville's main pad was an eight bedroom faux Tudor mansion in Bray, Berks, about twenty five miles from London. It wasn't a frequent event, at least for Jenny, but every few months her agency rep would phone and meekly inquire after beating about the bush for some time, with tedious pointless questions and entirely avoidable asides, all the more obvious by their absence for standard jobs, whether or not there was a possibility that she might, if willing, be able to do another special appointment.

That basically boiled down to 'Do you wanna take two days off then get shat on by a millionaire'. That meant spending a few days fuck-free in London, no biggy. Annoying, but no biggy.

The request itself counter as a special job, obviously, but the agency, like most of them, even considered anal a speciality job. This had always seemed bizarre. Jenny would take the extra money, of course, it was essentially free money but she really rather enjoyed getting a big, hard cock up the arse, especially with a decent fit chap on the back end who knew how to give it what for. In her onscreen career she was getting known as the first name in fetish work, and especially the eagerness with which she put stuff up her hole. In the prostitution game she was doing more and more unusual jobs, partly because she quite enjoyed the novelties, and partly because most of the girls would simply never even consider doing what Jenny was about to do.

At this point you might be wondering why. You might be sitting there in alarm, surely not that, you might be pondering.

Now, as mentioned, Jenny enjoyed anal, and experimenting. Her first time discovering 'the taste' was the first time she'd stuck her tongue up a man's hole. Once you've done that a few times, and especially when you've tried it after a chap has had the decency to enema themselves out, you learn that a properly clean rectum tastes more or less the same as a mouth, and so everything else, including 'the taste' was, in fact, well, shit. So, Jenny had come to understand that not only had she tasted it before, but that doing so it hadn't even been bad enough to stop licking out those arses. There's a long, long way to go, of course, between tasting traces and something more dramatic.

That had come during filming. It had nearly been enough to put her out of the industry, especially at that age. She'd been on her back, thigh high latex boots with gigantic platform soles wrapped behind the neck of this gloriously slender African, whose mouth was exploring her intimate areas in a rather satisfying way that had the potential of her cumming like a rabbit. On the other end, his knees were either side of her shoulders, positioned by the make-up girl so she had enough flex in her almost white hair to get access. Her tongue was fully extended past ultra-gloss red lips closed on a caramel puckered ring, and embedded as fully as she was able into the bowels of her coal-hued co-star. The director was whispering that the punters couldn't actually see her tongue with her lips pressed in so, and it was as she pulled back a little, lips coming aside, and with a head turn just enough that the camera could capture her pink muscle wriggling inside the man's colon.

The first warning was the chap whimpering, not a pleased sound but alarm. The process overall was quick a second or two, maybe three. He started to pull away, but Jenny's legs were locked behind his head, so he couldn't go anywhere, really. There was a blast of wind which hit her square in the face, and as she was recoiling, back, down, to the side, the gush of shit simply exploded. That first shot was textured like porridge, and it hit her in the mouth, splattering up her face, down to her neck, clouds of it in her hair, and yes, she hadn't closed her mouth fully, so for the first time in her life, little Jenny had human faeces in her mouth.

The reaction was automatic, her head turned sharply, and the shit was expelled by the spontaneous projectile vomit that shot out, over her stallion's left leg, her own hair and the bed covers. Whilst this was happening a second perhaps more traditional turd has escaped it's enclosure and leapt like a seal onto the ice-floe of her right ear embedding itself in the area in a general sort of way.

By this point her legs had unlocked, and her body was in automatic, her hands and feet crawling her away from the brown fountain of horror, but, sadly, not quite quickly enough as a final third convulsion dropped a hot tube of crap right between her tits.

You'd have thought, given how much time was generally taken up making sure your talent was feeling fine, so, there'd always be drinks and food and the like, much pampering and generally a feeling of fun on a set, that when the saw their screw du joir getting literal shit in the face, that they'd spring to action. Instead, as Jenny dared to open one encrusted eye, most of them were just staring. The camera was still rolling. It took what felt like half a day before someone asked if she was OK.

Well, looking back on it, yes, she'd been OK, but at the time, this was the wrong question to ask. Jenny had seen shit, obviously her own, but one boyfriend had liked to make her watch him having a movement. She'd even touched it, albeit whilst wearing gloves. Same boyfriend, shortly before he became one of dozens of exes. None of that could possibly compare to have you face plastered by a stranger's evening meal whilst being intently watched by five or six professionals in your field. So Jenny had 'thrown a wobbler'. There had been screaming, crying, a shower that lasted for hours. Consoling tones met by guttural anguish. Professional reprimands with mild violence.

Now, see, Jenny would come to know that events like these are not as rare as you might think in the world of professional copulation. Most girls had some experience being shat on to some extent, it was more or less unavoidable. The girls would usually take an enema, especially before shooting but for some, including Jenny, it was, these days a simple part of normal morning ablutions. Shit, shower, shave, blast cold water up the anus until it runs clear. When you liked to have dicks popped up there it was simple politeness. The chaps didn't normally bother, of course, unless the scene was being done specifically for arse work, rimming, pegging, fisting etc. Even then many of them went without and so having the team get involved in preparation was not uncommon.

I'm going to guess that, by now, if you're still reading, the thought of a young blonde girl with a face covered in crap is at least intriguing, otherwise I'm sure you'd have skipped on to later stuff. So, one piece of knowledge I'll give to you, as Jenny once gave to me. If that's your kind of thing, and you ever get anywhere near a porn director, know that in the circle they trade all that stuff. Everything they couldn't publish, they'll have it all on tape, or on hard-drives. They'll show you, if you ask nicely.

You remember Jillian Visitor? Page three girl, nice tits, kept going on the telly as the acceptable face of 'glamma'? Only softcore and simulated hardcore, right? Ask someone in porn and they'll likely be able to show you pretty little Jillian Visitor getting raped. Not playing a rape scene, but getting beaten up and fucked against her will. So, maybe you'll get that simply seeing a pornstar get her face pebble-dashed in literal crap isn't all that big a deal. Most of the big names have had it happen. Some even liked it. Katya Kumming, never even did anal on camera but was seriously into scat off it. True Story.

By the time Jenny had come out of the shower a few things had changed. The chap had left in embarrassment. He never got back into the industry, which was a shame as he had a fabulous prick and generally tasted of bacon. The crew were packing up as, without a stallion there was nothing to do. The sheets were already in the washer, having had the worst of it scrapped off into a plastic bag, which was sat by the door waiting disposal. The make-up girl had been ascribed the task of scrubbing the carpet. The lights were down, the cameras going away. Normally this was the sort of point when Jenny would take a crew member or two aside and let them fuck her. It was something of hobby even by then, and was probably one of the reasons her career had picked up quickly. The time wasn't right, though, everyone was pissed off. Shoots are expensive and losing one only meant everyone had lost money. Jenny wouldn't be getting paid either, not even for her travel.

Perhaps the thing most on her mind as she walked away from there, heels clicking on the pavement as an entirely appropriate London drizzle was slowly soaking through the black fur collar of her jacket, was that as she's been in the shower, the taste she was trying to get rid off, the one that was actually bad, wasn't the shit, it was the puke.

Now, don't get the wrong idea. Shit tastes bad. The point is, though, that so does puke, except puke's usually worse. Shit mainly smells, and you can fix that with a dab of Fuller's Balm in each nostril. I might, now, be getting you excited for the rest of this story so I'm going to spoil it a bit. Jenny almost never lets anything crap in her mouth. If you're anticipating a shit-eating spectacular, this isn't it. She's said several times that doing so is not 100% out of the question, but there'd have to be either a staggering amount of cash involved, a beloved boyfriend and intense pleading, or a sufficiently powerful Dom with that particular fetish.

As a little gesture, I'll tell you one time, back in Paris, I answered the buzzer in her bathroom and was asked to prepare some food, I think it was a bacon sandwich, by one of her many gentlemen friends. At that point he was wearing only work-boots and a steel ring around his cock and balls, which were suitably swollen to prodigious sizes. One sort of gets used to things like that. Jenny was on the floor, then, her perfect cunt desperately open and glistening, her hands cuffed in the small of her back, pinned by her own body, and that glorious hair, cherry red at the time, lovingly braided by yours truly, woven into the straps of a leather harness that lifted her heavy tits, each now crowned with iron hard nipples.

Of course you know that her whole face was buried under his faeces. One could hardly make out where her features were there was so much of it, save her mouth, open under it, teeth and tongue plunged in human sewage. I, of course, would end up cleaning all that away, but that would be a treat. I am not sure I have ever seen her as excited, as ready, as turned on as she was there, especially as, when I turned to go to the kitchen, the gentleman resumed the activity which apparently had caused some burst of hunger; landing the tip of a riding crop directly on her clitoris with the sort of swing you'd expect more on a golf course than consensual fucking. Who knows what the game was. Maybe he'd keep thrashing her cunt until she'd eaten enough to scream. I never quite understood how anyone could see such exquisite beauty and decide to spoil it, but she seemed to enjoy it. That was a long night, they barely paused. Their grunts and moans signalling orgasm after orgasm, especially hers.

Back to Bray, and Jenny parked up. She took a small jar out of her handbag and daubed some light green paste into each nostril. Might not be enough, but better for the client if they didn't see that.

The front door was open, as it always was when she'd come here. Many clients got awkward when discussing the business side of things, and that included something as simple as answering the door. With this client all the details were worked out with the agency, all Jenny would have to do is add any optional extras that cropped up during the job.

Her heels echoed through the empty house. The foyer was a white marble, and the space was two stories high. More than once she had performed depraved acts on that floor, and knew it was a cold and unforgiving surface. There was, as expected, a note left on a small table to one side. It had her instructions for the day.

This was June or July, I forget specifically. England was in the midst of a heat wave so it wasn't a surprise that she was to head out to the garden. Next to the note was a white evening dress, shoes, underwear and a matching set of silver necklace and earrings, almost certainly the wife's.

She stripped off quickly, the brief stage of being naked in the cool foyer a pleasant pause. Next she checked her make-up, an unavoidable reapplication of lipstick, cherry red.

The underwear was simple - stockings, garter belt, panties and bra. Nothing special, but of course, brand new and perfectly her size. Six inch heels and then the dress, a simple number, elegant in a whore sort of way, miniskirted with a deep plunging neckline filled with lace, and long sleeves.

The outfit assembled, her guts responded, another urgent plea for release. That'd come soon enough, but for now she stood for a few seconds, thighs clamped, gritted teeth as she fought off the clenching spasm in her rear. It'd be a hell of a thing to let go here, her client absent. The moment passed, and she could risk walking again. She took her handbag with her, inside it the essentials for the next hour; disposable latex gloves, a pack of condoms, cigarettes and lighter along with the usual miasma of receipts, mints, tickets, small change, miscellaneous odds and sods common to every such bag.

The doors at the rear of the foyer led to the garden, naturally, and were unlocked. She hadn't often been outside, but there was a little map guiding her down a paved path, behind one of the lines of fir trees immaculately topiaried. Past a small herb garden and a pair of greenhouses, through an opening in a flint wall she emerged into a patio, framed by that wall on three sides, the other with a view of the river Thames meandering past, a couple of boats visible. In the middle of the patio sat a familiar glass topped coffee table, with a simple glass cooking dish sat on top. Rectangular, just the thing if you didn't want your vision distorted.

Neville was there, as always nervous, twitchy. he looked to be late sixties, early seventies at a push. White hair a lifelong stranger to the powers of the comb, wearing essentially tennis whites. He watched her arriving with a hesitant smile. She flashed him a friendly grin. You had to play the client. Make him feel like she wanted to be there, like she wanted to fuck him, wanted him to do these terrible things to her. That's why he paid so much, not that a couple of grand was anything more than loose change to him. She stepped to him. The quicker you got started, the quicker you were going home.

"You look simply divine, my dear."

"Thanks. I like the outfit, you seem sporty, manly."

Her hand slipped into his shorts. The man might be old but his prick didn't seem to have got the memo, it came up almost instantly.

"I'm so pleased you asked for me again, I've been hoping you would."

"Oh? Oh, good, good show." Her thumbs tucked into the short's band and she pulled, dropping them.

"I've been thinking about your dick. It's so good. May I suck it?"

He didn't reply, the slightest quiver coming from his lips. She slipped down with a grin, and held his balls with her left hand as she took the head between her lips, easing it fully into her mouth before working it with tongue and lips, her head moving into a rocking motion while his hands slipped into her hair.

"Oh, my dear, my darling, that's very well done. Jolly good."

She paused for a moment, pulling back, landing a kiss right on the tip.

"Are we going to be nasty today, daddy?"

"Do you want to?"

"I've been looking forward to it!"

"Have you been, um…"

"Three days, I don't even know how, I'm so full, so ready to go."

"Soon, darling girl."

"Oh, goodie!"

Again she took him in her mouth. He was fully hard, very hot. He wasn't massive but for a codger he had nothing to be ashamed about. Soon she was busy, idly thinking as she studiously, professionally, fellated the man. This gradually slipped into a face-fuck as his hands closed in her hair. This meant he was getting ready for stage two. After a nasty, powerful stroke that tickled her throat he extracted.

"I'm rather afraid…" he stammered.

"Please, just do it, daddy!"

The piss stream was a blast, straight into her face. Jenny giggled, only partly a show as the yellow torrent moved into her hair, then down her chest, her hands clutching her big tits to let him fill her cleavage, then back to her face, her lips open wide as she drank him down.

He might have also been saving, but there's only so much a codger could keep and he ran out soon. Her tongue flickered out to tease the last few drops into her mouth.

"Daddy, you're SO naughty!"

"Oh, well, quite so."

"Daddy," she began, one hand deftly slipping her panties down and off her feet, "I really can't hold it much longer, I need to go."

"Oh, no, not yet. I must have you," he gestured to the table with a shivering finger, his whole body tense with stress, "bend over, I'm going to take you."

This was a change to the usual order, but you go with the flow, of course, so Jenny grinned, fished out a rubber from her bag and rolled it over Neville's twitching cock. Some clients objected to the sheath, but that was a simple equation - you don't work for them. Mr Green wasn't a problem, he seemed to enjoy watching a young women delicately encapsulating his todger prior to a spot of rumpy-pumpy.

She turned round and knelt, lifting her bottom. Foreplay had been, Jenny reckoned, invented around the time Neville had turned fifty, and since he was married with children by then, probably appeared to him to be some kind of fad popular with and suitable only for the long-haired hippy type who'd only amount to anything if the Government reinstated National Service. This was, however, a fairly common thing in the trade - even the most enlightened men seemed to think foreplay was that which happened between getting a semi and going fully on. C'est la guerre.

He pushed inside her and instantly Jenny knew this couldn't last long - her innards immediately began to churn and this was only going to get worse with the rhythmic pumping.

Neville had a fair amount of energy for an older man, and was giving her cunt a reasonably solid pounding, his hands clutching her buttocks through fine white linen. She began to whimper and moan, but softly, there was time to build up to the screaming.

"Oh, my dear, I want your little arse…"

"After, daddy, afterwards…"

Suddenly, on a backstroke, it happened. There was no difference between any of the sucking, pumping strokes inside her but this one did it, she felt the hot burn as her rectum filled in an instant, her anus barely holding it back. One hand flew back to press against his hip.

"It's happening!"

Another pump with what might have been a growl, and the rumbles coiled like a snake, sending a back-draft of nausea up through her stomach.

"Neville, now!"

She'd not usually use his real name, it seemed uncouth somehow, so this amounted to a warning between employee and employer. His prick disappeared in a flash. Jenny could see him skipping round the table but she had a whole developing situation. The crap in her arse was burning hot, a sign of desperation, and Neville would have to be in place or there'd be notable deductions made.

To be fair to the man he was on his back without any signs of aches or pains, he just kind of floated in there, now staring up through the two layers of glass, cock in hand.

She managed to slip the shoes off and slid a foot over the other side of the dish, just barely enough time to wink down at her client before her arse opened.

Jenny couldn't help but groan as the hot, thin crap flowed out of her. Her ring felt burned as it puckered and twinkled, the orange brown flow unceasing. Looking down, past Mr Green's prick being slowly but firmly wanked, to his face, disappearing as the more liquid element flowed.

There was a sudden grip, and she clamped tight, but this was only a brief reprieve, a kind of biological gear change. In this moment Neville came back up - there was no point watching from below when the tray thing was filled, so now he knelt, his chin at the edge of the glass rim, and watched, eyes wide.

The next stage would be the painful one. Even though she'd spent years having grotesquely oversized things in her back-passage, many of a much greater diameter, there was never any real easing of this process.

Her little star clenched, then opened, causing a grunt. It dilated, then retracted, almost a mind of its own before she bore down and forced the issue, lifting her hips just a little for Neville to see better.

With a little simpering whimper her ring spasmed wide open and the start of this birthing procedure began. I say birthing because this would turn out to be a turd of such hugeness that it almost deserved to be named, something like Mombassa, or the Black Bole.

There's rarely any feeling as good as taking a dump as you get paid, but this wasn't going to be fun. Jenny felt actual tears start rolling down her cheek as her anus got stretched, she didn't know how much, but at least a couple of inches of diameter, wider than when she put the horse dildo up there. Her magnificent tits prevented her from seeing it, but it was all too easy to picture as this monstrous almost midnight black tube just barged out of her. This is one of the problems of going semi-Atkins.

As it neared the end Jenny was panting, deep Lamaze gulps of air. She was going to get fucked up there shortly, would she be able to feel it? Would he?

"My god…" whispered the man between her knees, watching intently. The final bit, the tail, perhaps, tapered and as it eased it also got quicker, dropping almost in a single move.

The end was nowhere near in sight. The angry liquid stuff was out, and the packed up old stuff now lay coiled in the dish, next was the more recent faeces. This eased out in good order, though, softer than the log, but there was more volume. Jenny could feel herself emptying, as if her belly were significantly deflating.

"Are you finished?"

"I think so…"

"There's a lot of it…"

"Was I a bad girl?"

"Come and see."

Jenny slid off the table and looked down. There was an awful lot of it. Most of it slowly oozing down, spreading out, save for the dark, foreboding cylinder. Neville shivered as he rotated it, bringing the short side to the edge of the low table. Her heart rate was rising, knowing what was to come. The old man moved away, gesturing.

"Look at what you've done."

She knelt down, in front of the dish, gazing down at the pile, slightly steaming in the late afternoon glare. It was truly surprising. To think moments ago all that had been inside her. Neville's hands took her wrists, moving them, planting them down either side at the far end so she had to bend forward, her hair dangling down, tips falling into the mess. Those hands moved behind her, to the zip fob at her neck, and then down, far enough, just, that he could shrug the dress down, down past her breasts, so the tight body was taut at her elbows, limiting her movement. The bra came off completely, and for a moment his fingers dug into her tits, a deep, uncomfortable squeeze, then they were back behind her, and a gentle pressure, bending her further forward, her hips lifting.

Her face was now just a few centimetres away from the horrible contents, her hair half in and half our of it. This was going to pay rent on her Paris place for three months, she reminded herself. They'd played this out before, she didn't need to be told, her knees moved apart and she pointed her rear for him.

Jenny's rectum, so recently forced open, took his prick without resistance. He was fully buried in her in a single move. He began to pump up into her, hands on the small of her back as he got quicker.

"Do I make you happy, daddy?" she whispered, watching her hair soaking up brown shit.

"You must be punished!" he croaked out, deep sounding thrusts up into her bowels.

"Daddy's dick's too big for my little bottom!"

"Oh, my dear baby girl…"

The hands came up, sliding up her spine. Then they began to push. Jenny's hands started to slip, her nipples lowering. She took a deep breath, and relaxed just a little, and suddenly she was down, breasts entering into the morass, warmth spreading over them as one hand took the back of her head, pushing down.

Her eyes closed as she relented, letting Neville force her down until her face entered in, the shit oozing round her chin, her nose, her tightly closed lips touching the filth, and still further down, until her nose squished against the bottom of the dish.

His cock was fully rammed in her arse as he held her there, ten seconds, than twenty, thirty. Longer than usual, she felt the breath running out, the stink working past the gel, filling her mouth. Her hands opened, fingers stretching wide. Was he going to force her to open her mouth? Very much against the rules, but there was a part of her that wanted him to, to make her, compel her to do it, to debase herself even further for his pleasure. She could choose to do it, pretend she had to…

Jenny came, just then, at the thought, a sparkling, flashing dance of lightning from her clitoris through her bowels and up her spine, curling her toes up, her mouth coming open to groan, digging a space in the faeces.

In one movement, though, she was released, and as her face came up, and a fresh lungful of air flushed into her, the prick in her rear withdrew.

She was quivering as the last sparkles dissipated, barely noticed being turned round and moved aside.

Neville shuffled forwards, his dick wafting. Her lips opened enough, and it plunged in her mouth, a hand on the back of her head as he fucked her face.

Jenny could taste her own feces on it, not that a high-speed dump like that left much, and there was enough stuck to her skin that it wasn't grounds for complaint. Neville withdrew and pulled the condom off. He flicked it into her face where it stuck to her cheek. The old man then stuffed his ancient prick into the dish of shit and turned, pointing at the caked shaft. Jenny reached out and took it, turd squeezing between her fingers as she began to jerk him off. It wasn't going to take long, with him staring into her crap covered face.

It couldn't have even been a minute, suddenly great gobbets of spunk was splashing onto her tits, slightly off-white contrasting the deep brown.

She brought him through the orgasm, easing down, slowing until he pulled away, huffing for air with a big grin.

His hand moved into her hair, finding a patch which had been spared the dish. He slid his crap soaked dick into it, using her hair to clean himself off.

There was a little wait as he stared at her. Jenny could feel her own shit dribbling down her chest, staining the white dress.

"You look awful."

"What, don't you like it?"

"I love it, you filthy fucking whore."

"You make an old man very happy. I haven't cum like that in a long time."

"We did this a couple of months ago."

"Well, yes. I know."

"I know you've done it with Synnamon, too."

"Oh, yes, she's very good, too, of course, but you, well, that's spectacular."

"Thanks."

He sat back a little.

"I wonder, maybe I could get you both sometime."

"I'm sure we could arrange that."

"You still won't, you know," he pointed and rolled his finger round, "in the mouth?"

"Even you couldn't afford it."

"Even with her?"

"Even with anyone."

"Suits you, you know."

"The shit?"

"Yes. A good reminder. Underneath all beauty there's a bunch of shit."

"When did you pick up awful poetry?"

He chuckled.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

He rose, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. She slipped on the shoes and picked up her bag. He took the dish with him, idling watching it as they strolled back inside. Whatever he'd be doing with it later did not bear thinking about. Maybe he had a collection somewhere, somewhere his wife wouldn't find.

There was a ground floor shower area on one side of the building, close to the tennis court. She stripped off as soon as they were inside, dumping the unsaveable things on the tile floor. The showers themselves were against the wall but the room was fairly sizable, and Neville picked another spot to clean himself off. Jenny began to scrape off the worst of it with her hands before starting on the soap.

"Is it just the money?"

"What?"

"What you do. What you do for me. Hardly anyone does, you know."

"No. Well, you wouldn't expect many to, would you?"

"No, of course not. I just wonder, you see, is it just the money, or is it something you do anyway?"

"It's more or less just the money, Neville, hate to break it to you."

"More or less. I see. I think you must enjoy it, at least a little. To put up with it, I mean."

"Little close to a personal question."

"It is a personal question. You don't have to tell me anything, of course. It's just, I rather like you, in a way. At least I think I do, but I don't really know anything about you at all. I don't even know your name."

"My real name?"

"Well, I may be a long way behind the times, but even an old fart like me knows real people aren't called Lacey Plaything."

"No, of course not."

The temptation here was to use an entire bottle of shampoo, but Jenny settled on a couple of full handfuls, making sure to get it all the way through her thick hair.

"It's a good name."

"Thanks. What difference does it make?"

"I don't know. It probably doesn't."

"It's Jenny. Jennifer."

"Thank you," she flashed him a little smile, "I have these little dreams every now and again. Retire. Sell my portfolio. There's rather a lot of it, you know."

"I'd long suspected."

"In my fantasies I have you move in here, to stay here, with me, until I die, then everything could be yours."

"Except for your wife and your children."

"Well, there are ways and means. I've fantasised even more often of that day when Mrs. Green accidentally falls off the Off Shore Trading and gets eaten by a handy shark."

"Your boat?"

"Yacht."

"The kids?"

"Ah, the kids. I did everything I could for them, you know. Everything. Eton. One at Oxford. One through Sandhurst. Then Oxford. Bit of a waste. A more perfect pair of evil little shits you couldn't imagine."

"Ah, well, I am something of an expert on evil shits."

That drew a huge and genuine laugh.

"You see, this is why I like you. You're too clever to do this, you know, you should be using that mind of yours."

"I just made two thousand quid for, what, forty minutes work?"

"I make that, about, too, but for me it's twenty four seven."

"Yeah. Plus, you don't have people literally shitting on you."

"Exactly!"

She grinned. He wasn't all that bad. He was leaning against the tiled wall now, ogling her soapy body, now, finally, free of shit.

"So you're saying I still have twenty minutes left on the clock?"

She looked down. The old beast was rearing up again.

"You going to need all of it?"

"Well, if we run over time I'm sure there's a way to compensate you."

"I'm certain of that. How do you want to do it this time?"

"Oh, just hands and knees, no need to get complicated."

She rolled her eyes, but came down, moving out of the shower.

"Condom in the bag…"

He was back inside her pussy shortly afterwards, after giving her squeaky backside a slap. This was soon a standard routine pumping. She listened to his breathing, his sighs and grunts, and murmured encouragement as needed. Neville did not, in fact, need twenty minutes, he was done in something more like four, shooting in her in due order.

He went quiet after that, just watching as she dried off, then stepped through the house to the foyer, where she dressed quickly, tying her hair into a single tail.

"OK, well, it's been fun."

"You have somewhere to go?"

"Yeah, hour to get back home, then dinner and drinks with the boyfriend."

"I see. Well. Have a safe journey, my dear. I'll be in touch soon."

She flashed a grin and turned, leaving. Seconds later the purple warrior fired up and she was back on the road, suddenly just another random person, anonymous to the world, safe from judgement.

Tonight she'd tell Ed about what she'd done, see how long he could stand it, then he'd drag her home and fuck the shit out of her.

Well, perhaps not literally.

- - - - - - - - -

If you've got a preference for which kink or taboo you'd like to read next, leave a message.