{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"67d99860-c52a-439b-8256-820aaa90f60e","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2025-09-18T15:24:00.247Z","title":"Shit eater","slug":"shit-eater","shortId":"q0NZWlJy","authorNote":null,"disclaimer":null,"type":"Short","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"A young man answers an ad on a BDSM and fetish website and visits a man for an unusual session. He seeks and finds forceful support for eating his own shit.","partCount":1,"parts":[{"partId":"f5dfe8ec-a7c7-464a-b8f5-d8df5824efde","title":null,"summary":"The address he’d given me led to a nondescript single-family house, its beige exterior blending into","wordCount":2538,"readTime":13,"number":1,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"Chapter 1","content":"

The address he’d given me led to a nondescript single-family house, its beige exterior blending into a quiet neighborhood of similar homes. My heart thudded as I approached, the weight of my decision pressing against my chest. I’d only known him through Collarspace and Fetlife profiles, a handful of messages, and blind trust. Ignoring every warning, I was here, drawn by a craving I couldn’t shake. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and distant rain, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the lawn.

I pressed the intercom buzzer, my voice trembling slightly. “This is curiousCat87.”

If I was being completely fooled and pranked would be revealed now. A tense pause followed, my pulse loud in my ears. Then a deep, gravelly voice crackled through. “Ah, the shit eater. Come in.”

Relief mixed with unease as the gate buzzed open. I stepped into a narrow foyer, the air cool and stale, heavy with the scent of polished wood and faint mildew. No one greeted me. Another camera blinked above, and the same voice echoed from a speaker. “Head down to the basement on your right. I’ll be there soon.”

The normalcy of the house—its tidy walls and framed photos—clashed with the knot of apprehension in my gut. A basement felt like a trap, harder to escape, but I’d already surrendered control, agreeing to be bound for the act I’d come to fulfill. I descended the creaking stairs, each step amplifying the chill seeping into my skin. The basement was no storage dump; it was a sparsely furnished room, windowless, with smooth concrete floors and stark white walls. Two standing lights and tripods with cameras stood like sentinels, their lenses trained on the center of the room. I’d agreed he could film everything, free to use the footage as he pleased. Age eighteen, I knew the risks—exposure that could haunt me later—but my career path and desires made that threat feel distant. My chastity cage tightened as I thought of my profile’s online exposure kink, a shiver of nerves and excitement rippling through me.

A speaker crackled. His voice, distracted now, issued commands. “Put your spare clothes in the gray box. Strip completely, except for your cage. Lay out your valuables in front of you, separate your ID. Put the rest, including shoes, in the black box. Then kneel, back to the stairs, and wait. I’m just grabbing a few things.”

The gray and black boxes sat neatly before me, their lids matching perfectly. I stripped, the cold air prickling my bare skin, and followed his instructions: clothes in the gray box, phone, keys, and wallet in the black one, ID set aside. The basement’s chill was uncomfortable, not freezing, but enough to make me hyper-aware of my nakedness. Kneeling on the hard floor, I faced the cameras, their red lights blinking steadily. Heavy footsteps descended the stairs behind me, deliberate and unhurried.

“We’ll start soon,” he said, his voice closer now, circling as he checked the cameras. He stopped in front of me, his boots scuffing the concrete. I kept my eyes down, fixed on the gray floor. “First things first. Address me as ‘Sir.’ Always. Forget, and I’ll hit you. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, emphasizing the title, a wave of calm washing over me. Using it felt right, anchoring me in the submissive headspace I craved. I’d learned online never to assume titles without consent, but his permission steadied me. For the first time after arriving, an inner peace rivaled with my nervousness.

“Good. Keep your eyes down, shit eater. It suits you. Look at the cameras occasionally, but always bow to them.” He picked up my ID, his shadow shifting as he studied it. “Legit. Barely legal, just as you said. Makes this hotter.” He dropped the card with a soft thud. “I’m straight, into humiliation. This is your kink, not mine, but I’m game for what you signed up for.”

He slid a clipboard and pen in front of me, then tapped a riding crop between my thighs, the leather cool against my skin. “Spread your legs wider.”

I obeyed instantly, the cage pressing tighter.

“What’s that cage, shit eater?” he asked.

I swallowed, my voice soft. “It’s an innie, Sir. Keeps my dick tucked inside. I chose it for today since it’s tough to wear long-term. Sir.”, I explained, unsure how often to include the proper title.

He chuckled, low and amused. “A proper slut, huh? Trying to please me. How long you locked up?”

“Two months, Sir. No orgasms, no edging, just hygiene breaks. Sir.” I paused, then added, “My ex-girlfriend made me start. After we split, I leaned into it harder. The keys are with my things, Sir.”

He nodded, his shadow moving. “You into girls? Guys? How do you know?”

“I’m into girls, Sir. Watched gay porn to test, but it does nothing for me. Sir.”, I testified.

“Perfect. Pure humiliation, then. You’ll get nothing else from me today but the promised dose of your wicked poison. Hope your eyes weren’t bigger than your mouth.”

‘Finally,’ I thought, ‘A fantasy actually being fulfilled.’ I gulped. I wasn’t sure I had bit off more than I could chew. What do they say? Careful what you wish for …

“Are you a virgin? Genital, anal, oral?”, he asked.

“All of it, Sir.”, I quickly responded.

“Just good to know, shit eater. Makes you even more of a loser.”, he confirmed.

He shifted his stance: “Cameras are already rolling. I will edit it later but that’s none of your concern. As agreed, I will not send you any file or link of any uploads. Where I’ll expose you will remain a mystery, or maybe a surprise should you become popular.“, he chuckled. “There’s one more issue to deal with though.” He tapped the clipboard. “Read this to the camera, holding your ID. Or memorize it, I don’t care.”

I lifted the ID and clipboard, scanning the text. It was a consent statement, like in porn clips I’d seen: my name, age, agreement to the session, a vague list of acts, and the safeword “Ice cream.” The last one was supposed to stop the session any time from my end. I faced the camera, my voice steady despite the knot in my chest, and read it aloud, eyes flicking up occasionally.

He seemed to be satisfied: “Very good, shit eater. Now put the id back into your wallet and make sure your phone is unlocked.”

After I had complied, he rifled through my belongings in the grey box. “White belly-free top, with breast pocket as requested. Black short skirt and pink panties. You’ll look lovely on your way back home, for horny folks in the public transport, that is. Or disgusting, shit eater. Anyways, it’ll suit you. Such a nice idea of yours. You are creative at punishing yourself, aren’t you, pathetic loser?”, he remarked.

“Yes, Sir.”, I agreed, “Thank you, Sir.” Indeed, I was creative in being mean to myself, but I never had the courage to enact even a good minority of what I deemed fit for my lousy existence.

His tone had become casual, almost trustful. “Sign the papers under the top sheet. Porn contract. I’ve put ten bucks in your wallet for legality. Impress me—don’t read it. If you use your safeword, I’ll stop, but you’ll owe me for the setup, space, my time. While I could easily cope, I’d still bill you enough to keep you in debt for decades. Clear, shit eater?”

“Yes, Sir!” My voice cracked, masking my trembling hands. ‘I wouldn’t fully understand the contract anyway’, I thought to myself. Maybe I was wrong. But since he mentioned it would make him happy, I grabbed the pen, found the colored markers, and signed without reading, his chuckle echoing in response.

He set a large dog bowl before me, the air growing heavier, thick with anticipation. His tone sharpened. “Eyes on you, shit eater. While I lock your spare clothes for your way home and install the parent control app on your phone, take your underwear from the black box. Piss into the box, then take a dump in the bowl. Wipe your ass thoroughly with the underwear and put it back. Kneel in front of the bowl when you’re done.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, my voice eager despite the weight of his words.

“Do it now,” he commanded.

I grabbed my underwear and urinated into the black box, the act sealing my inability to wear those clothes on my way home. The chastity cage made it messy, liquid dripping, but he hadn’t mentioned cleaning up. I moved to the bowl, squatting awkwardly, my eyes catching the camera’s red light. I was being recorded with my face clearly recognizable, something I’d been always avoiding so far. Now it felt strangely freeing and exciting, with a sip of potential regret. It was too late for that anyways. A big block of tension left my body with a big, silent sigh.

Then I stood on my toes, hands behind my back, aiming to look like a dumb slut, then wiped with the underwear and crawled to drop it in the box. Kneeling again, I faced the bowl, the foul, earthy stench hitting me. For the most part, it was quite solid and compressed, nearly uniformly colored and textured, a dark trial of my commitment. This had been the moment I already had chickened out twice home alone. It was one small step to throw it all into the toilet, postponing the next full chance for days.

He stepped beside me. “What a stinking load. Saved up for me, huh?”

He bound my forearms behind my back, as I’d suggested during our talks, to keep me from flinching. Then he leaned down, attaching nipple clamps with light weights, something he caught me by surprise as that was his unshared idea. I gasped, the sharp pinch new and startling. “The faster you eat, the sooner they come off,” he said. “But only when I say.”

I winced as he clamped my balls, the pain sharper. “Just prep for shocking that useless sack. Won’t need it if you’re quick. Take way too long, and I’ll kick them instead.”

‘Ouch, no!’ and ‘Wonderful idea’, my mind screamed at the same time.

He moved closer. “Lean over the bowl, shit eater. Sniff it. Lick the surface, wet it up.”

As this was the easier exercise with shit involved, I didn’t hesitate. The clamps tugged as I bent forward, new pain spurring me on. The smell was overpowering, but I dragged my tongue across the pile, circling it, fighting revulsion. The taste was bitter, less vile than I’d feared, but still wretched. My tongue worked feverishly, arousal and disgust warring within me.

After minutes, he barked, “Enough! Devour it all, shit eater.”

I froze, nose hovering above the pile, eyes darting to the camera, then back. My resolve wavered, but I took a bite, my mouth filling with the dense, bitter mass. My taste buds recoiled, tears pricking my eyes as I chewed, struggling not to gag. His crop lashed my buttocks, sharp and stinging. “Chew, shit eater. Don’t spit, or I’ll fry your balls.”

Holding my position, I winced without making much sound through my stuffed mouth. I had to keep it shut not to spill anything. Nearly no space left in my mouth, I forced myself to slowly chew, accepting the rough texture and vile liquid spreading into all corners of my mouth, mixing with my industriously produced saliva. Finally, I gulped the first time, probably mostly juice, but after several motions, my mouth emptied and I swallowed my first solid bit. Swallowing felt like forcing down a jagged pill, my stomach churning faintly. Clearly telling me this was no valid food, my stomach rebelled, giving me significant slight nausea. But I prevailed.

Chewing a lot did indeed help. Soon enough I was proud having nearly emptied my mouth, still leaving pieces and worse, a bitter-foul aftertaste on my tongue and in my whole mouth. As I was about to slow down about the achieved progress, his crop struck my balls, pain jolting me back to urgency.

“Would like to let you enjoy your first taste more, shit eater,” he chuckled, “but this was just the appetizer. There’s still a huge pile ahead of you. It’s getting cold.” he snapped, though any warmth in the pile had long gone.

Sweat beaded on my skin, goosebumps rising in the chilly air, and a contrary heat looming in my core.

“Smaller bites, shit eater. Hurry, like the pathetic filth you are.”

His strikes paused when I sped up, but any hesitation brought a flurry of blows, escalating to a stinging cane on my arms and legs. “Show the cameras a feast,” he said. “Suffer, but devour it eagerly, like the worthless loser you are. Proof the world you are worth just shit.”

When I later found his videos of me, he had produced two versions. One of me voluntarily plunging into eating shit, including confessing to be a shit eater, liking it, and even the quote from my request and proposals to make it worse. A second edit did completely skip that, focusing on the painful encouragement to eat it all up, leaving the impression that I was totally forced to.

In fact, the dual performance—willing and coerced—pushed me forward. Each bite made me sicker, my stomach rebelling, but I pressed on. He added heavier weights to my nipples, struck my balls until I collapsed, then yanked me up by my ears. When I was finally done, he gave me a short break, letting me catch my breath. Then he poured water from a bottle into my parched mouth, its taste neutral, possibly from a toilet, but I didn’t care.

As it turned out, this was the reasonable preparation for his next order: “Lick the bowl clean, shit eater. Make it shine.”

Meanwhile he excused himself, but not out of the room: “Gonna take a leak. You don’t mind if it’s in the black box, right? Not that you have any say in that.”

I licked the bowl, my tongue scraping every inch, long after it gleamed, his silence granting me time. Then he spoke, circling me. “Your mouth stinks like a sewer, shit face. Still hungry?”

I was spent, nausea ebbing and flowing, but nodded, hoping to amuse him. My body sagged, movements sluggish, like a drunk’s. I lowered myself, head tilted back, mouth open, a silent plea for more.

“Greedy bitch,” he said, blindfolding me. “Main dish time. Surprise included.”

A soft thud hit metal behind me, followed by his moan. Something warm brushed my nose. “Lick the kitchen clean, shit eater.”

My tongue found coarse hair and faint musk, cleaning thoroughly. The blindfold lifted, blinding me with the lights until a could make out a fine dining reveal. He lifted it: three dark, thin sausages, slick with white sauce. “Master’s finest shit,” he mocked. “Gravy’s fake cum, last-minute touch. Lubricant.”

He clearly hadn’t saved up but it was still a decent load, thin, but quite orderly and solid. “As this should be quite manageable, I want you to swallow these sausages as hole as you can. Go on, enjoy your main course.”, he promoted.

I lowered my mouth, gripping a sausage’s end, sliding it whole into my throat, fighting not to cough on the slick coating. Two gulps, aided by the sauce, forced it down. I gasped, bracing for a strike, but he said, “Take your time, shit eater.”

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