Short
Morning light stabbed through the courtroom’s high windows as the bailiff jerked her forward by the elbow. The jumpsuit chafed her inner thighs where dried piss had stiffened the fabric overnight. The judge—ancient, powdered, reeking of peppermint schnapps—eyed the arrest report over bifocals.
"Public indecency. Destruction of property. Resisting arrest." His gavel cracked the bench. "Bail is set at $5,000." McKenna bit back a laugh at the absurdity—$5,000 for the crime of shitting her soul out in Terminal 4. The fluorescent buzz of the overhead lights drowned out the murmurs as the bailiff hauled her away.
Three hours later, a bondsman's greasy hand slid her belongings across the counter—phone, purse, crusted red dress. The green tights were evidence now, probably bagged and tagged in some cop's locker as a sick trophy. Or in the trash. McKenna tugged the dress over bare skin, the silk clinging to her thighs where dried filth still itched as she waited for the Uber that she took to get to the parking lot where her car was parked.
The Uber driver eyed her in the rearview like she was a stray dog, and McKenna met his stare until he looked away. Her car sat where she'd left it. The door creaked open, and the smell hit her like a punch: stale piss, old sweat, and something sour she didn't want to name. The passenger seat liner was stiff with it.
She grabbed the fabric with both hands, yanking until the cheap upholstery tore free. The parking lot was empty except for a flickering streetlight and the distant hum of the highway. McKenna flung the soiled liner onto the asphalt, watching it land with a wet slap. Fuck whoever owned this lot. Fuck the cops. Fuck the judge and his schnapps breath.
McKenna gripped the wheel, knuckles white, and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine coughed alive, vibrating under her like something wounded. She didn't check the mirrors before peeling out of the lot, didn't care if the torn seat liner got caught under someone's tires. The highway blurred past, streetlights streaking yellow in the windshield, and she drove with the windows down, letting the wind whip her hair into a frenzy. The air smelled like gasoline and wet pavement, and she breathed it in like it could scrub her lungs clean.
The house was dark when she pulled into the driveway, gravel crunching under her tires. Her parents' vacation—some fucking cruise—meant silence, meant no questions. McKenna kicked off her heels on the porch, leaving them where they fell, and fumbled with the key. The door swung open to stale air, the scent of lemon cleaner and her mother's perfume lingering like a ghost. She didn't turn on the lights. Just walked straight to the kitchen, yanked open the fridge, and cracked a beer. The bottle cap clattered somewhere into the dark.
Her phone buzzed in her purse—once, twice, then kept going. McKenna swiped it open, thumb smudging the screen, and Instagram loaded in a flood of notifications. Tags, @'s, DMs. A video from last night, shaky and grainy, autoplaying before she could stop it: her own bare thighs, green tights ripped at the crotch, spread wide against a terminal bench. The caption: AIRPORT WHORE GETS WHAT SHE DESERVES. Comments scrolled like a fucking ticker tape—*disgusting*, lock her up, bet she smells like piss—and someone had photoshopped her face onto a mugshot from a porn site. Her throat tightened. A laugh bubbled up, sharp as broken glass.
She tapped the DM tab, beer bottle dangling from her fingers. More of the same, except—there. A username she didn’t recognize: I was there. Saw you. Wanna know what else I saw? Below it, a blurry photo of her wrist, the tattoo visible—*28-36-52*—her grandmother’s old seamstress measurements inked there when she was eighteen and stupid. The next message: Meet me. I’ll bring the tights. McKenna’s pulse kicked. She drained the beer in one go, foam catching in the corner of her mouth. The bottle hit the counter too hard, cracking at the neck.
Another DM popped up—*how much for the panties you pissed in?*—followed by a CashApp request for $200. She screenshotted it, sent it back with add a zero and maybe I’ll piss in your mouth instead, then tossed the phone onto the couch. It landed face-up, still buzzing. The fridge light glared as she grabbed a second beer, the cold seeping into her palm. She twisted the cap off with her teeth, spat it onto the floor. The first sip tasted like aluminum and spite.
Her thighs stuck together when she shifted, the slickness undeniable. McKenna dragged a hand between her legs, fingertips skimming damp fabric. The dress rode up as she spread her knees against the kitchen counter’s edge, the granite biting into her skin. The phone kept buzzing—*you like being humiliated, don’t you?*—and she exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate. A thumbnail caught the hem of her panties, tugged just enough to feel the ache. Fuck yes, she did.
The agency’s number flashed across the screen mid-scroll. She swiped to answer, thumbs pressing her clit in lazy circles through soaked cotton before the speaker could even crackle to life. “You’re toxic,” her agent hissed, “Universal just pulled the offer.” McKenna bit down on her lip hard enough to taste copper as her hips jerked forward. “Netflix says you’re radioactive.” The zip of her dress gave way under restless fingers. “No one’s touching you now.” She came with a choked-off noise, spine arching off the counter as the voice in her ear kept spitting venom.
Silk pooled around her ankles like the skin of a snake, the dress crumpling into a heap at her feet. The agent was still talking—something about rehab clauses and NDAs—but McKenna wasn’t listening. She stepped free of the fabric, one bare foot pressing down on the stain where last night’s piss had dried into the hem. Beer sloshed in the bottle still dangling from her fingers as she considered the mess. A slow smirk curled her lips.
The first golden arc hit the dress with a hiss. McKenna sighed, head tipping back as she let go completely, piss splattering over designer silk and the cracked tile beneath. The agent’s tinny voice cut through the sound—"are you fucking listening?"—but she just ground her heel into the wet fabric, twisting until sequins popped loose like teeth. “I’ll call you back,” she lied, thumb slamming the end call button mid-stream.
Her phone hit the countertop facedown, but the DMs kept coming—vibrations skittering across granite like insects. McKenna wiped her palm down her thigh, smearing sweat and slickness in equal measure.
On all fours now, knees pressing into cold tile, she watched piss-darkened silk cling to her fingertips when she dragged them through the mess. The smell hit her—ammonia sharpness mixed with spilled beer—and her stomach clenched in something that wasn’t disgust. She lowered her face, close enough to fog the damp fabric with her breath.
Her palms flattened against the ruin of the dress as she crawled forward, silk bunching under her weight. Sequins bit into her skin like tiny knives. When she reached the center, McKenna rose onto her haunches, thighs trembling, and spread her knees wider. The overhead light caught the glisten between her legs as she hovered over the wreckage.
With a feminine grunt, she pushed. A hard, dark brown ball poked out, stretching her rim obscenely before dropping onto the piss-soaked silk with a wet plop. McKenna exhaled through clenched teeth, fingers digging into her own hips as another followed—thicker this time, forcing its way free with a guttural sound torn from her throat.
The turd emerged like a grotesque serpent, glistening under the kitchen lights as it curled atop the fabric. Eight inches. Nine. Ten. It stretched impossibly long before finally snapping free, landing atop the dress with a squelch that made her toes curl. Her breath came ragged; sweat beaded along her collarbone.
McKenna watched it for a moment—the way it steamed slightly in the cold air—before rising on shaky legs. The tile was slick beneath her bare feet as she padded toward the porch, leaving footprints in piss and spilled beer. Her heels lay where she'd kicked them off, one upright, the other slumped sideways like a drunk. She slid her toes into them slowly, feeling the arch curve against her soles, the straps biting into her ankles.
The dress was ruined. That much was obvious even from the doorway. But the turd—it was magnificent. A grotesque work of art coiled atop silk like some biblical serpent. It was long. It was girthy. It was a beast McKenna crouched beside it, knees popping, and inhaled deeply. The scent was thick—earthy and sour and unmistakably her. She reached out, hesitated, then pressed two fingers against its side. It gave slightly under her touch, warm and yielding, the skin splitting just enough to reveal the softer interior.
The first step was the hardest. McKenna rocked forward onto her heels, feeling the thin straps bite into her ankles as she balanced above the mess. She let her foot hover for a moment—a parody of hesitation—before bringing it down hard. The heel punched through silk and into the turd with a wet crunch, shit oozing up between her toes as she ground her foot down in a slow circle. The smell bloomed hotter, filling her nose as she twisted, watching brown sludge smear across sequins like some perverse Pollock painting.
Her other foot followed, stepping free of the heel with deliberate slowness. McKenna wiggled her toes in the cooling piss puddle beneath her, feeling it lick at her arches as she spread her stance wider. The tile was slick; she had to brace one hand against the counter to keep from slipping as her thighs tensed. The first drops came before she was ready—a hot spatter against her inner thigh that made her hiss through her teeth. Then the floodgates opened, piss arcing down in a furious golden stream that hit the ruined dress with enough force to send droplets spraying back onto her shins.
She watched her own piss pool around the ruined dress and heels, swirling brown and yellow into a grotesque soup that soaked through the silk. The smell rose in waves—ammonia sharpness cutting through the musk of her own filth—and McKenna tipped her head back, throat working as she swallowed hard. One hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her clit slick with sweat and arousal. She rubbed tight little circles there, hips jerking forward when her thumb caught just right, and came with a strangled noise that sounded more like pain than pleasure.
Two weeks later, McKenna stood in the courthouse bathroom, scrubbing her hands raw under scalding water. The fluorescent lights made her skin look jaundiced, the bruises under her eyes darker than they actually were. Emily leaned against the sink beside her, picking at a loose thread on her blazer. "You good?" McKenna didn’t answer, just watched the suds slide down the drain like the last six months of her life. Emily sighed, flicking water at her. "They’re gonna dismiss the charges if you just apologize."
Outside, the courtroom smelled like dust and stale coffee. McKenna slumped into her seat, knees pressed together tight enough to bruise. The prosecutor droned on about restitution—$3,000 for the trauma, another $500 for the cleaning crew. The judge adjusted his bifocals, peering down at her like she was something stuck to his shoe. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" McKenna dug her nails into her palms. The apology tasted like bile, but she spat it out anyway.
The case droned on for a bit after that, as McKenna's lawyer- a very pretty Hispanic woman in a very tight Navy blue pantsuit laid out the facts of the car in a manner that made McKenna look like the victim. She mentioned the broken airport and the slow maintenance on one of the busiest days of the year. She mentioned car incident, which she argued was on the privacy of her car. As the hours wore on, McKenna felt her bowels start up. She'd love to just shit right here in her khakis. She knew the dark oblong would attract eyes and disgust and that would turn her on so much. But she held off.
Then her lawyer turned the attention to the filming of her incidents and the barrage of posts about her, and the direct messages she's gotten since. She also pulled out screenshots of comment sections about her incident and deepfake pornos made with her likeness, as well as the videos of the incident on various scat porn websites and even on Reddit. Ultimately, it was decided that the airport was at fault and her car was private enough so the charges were dropped.
McKenna sat in Emily's bedroom, still in her pink silk blouse and khaki pants from court, staring at her phone. The screen buzzed with another DM—some freak offering $5,000 for a pair of her shit-stained panties. She thumbed it away, exhaling through her nose as she shifted on the bed. The khakis pulled tight across her thighs, the fabric stiff where dried filth still clung to the inseam.
Without ceremony, she rolled onto her back, legs splayed wide. The first hot spurt came unprompted—her bladder releasing in a sudden torrent that soaked through the khakis with a wet hiss. McKenna arched her spine, fingers clawing at the comforter as piss flooded out in waves, pooling beneath her hips in a spreading yellow stain. She didn't push. Didn't need to. Her body knew what to do with the weight she'd been carrying.
The smell hit first—ammonia sharp and musky—as her bowels relaxed next. A thick, viscous warmth seeped from her ass, filling the seat of her khakis with liquid heat that oozed down her thighs. McKenna bit her lip hard enough to taste iron, hips lifting slightly as another gush escaped, the mess spreading in a hot rush that trickled into the piss puddle beneath her. The comforter beneath her was ruined now, soaked through with filth that clung to her skin in sticky patches.
Then came the pressure—deep and insistent—as her muscles clenched in protest before surrendering. The first inch breached slowly, stretching her rim taut around its girth before emerging with a wet plop against sodden fabric. McKenna groaned, fingers twisting in the sheets as another thick segment forced its way free, the turd curling hot and heavy against her asscheeks. It kept coming—six inches, eight—each inch dragging out of her with obscene slowness until her thighs trembled from the effort.
She could feel it now—the sheer weight of it—as gravity pulled the turd downward, the last few inches sliding free with a slick schlorp that left her gasping. It landed in the mess beneath her with a wet thud, the impact sending piss splattering up her bare back. McKenna rolled onto her side, panting, and reached behind herself with shaky fingers. Her touch found the turd first—still warm, its surface ridged and firm—before sinking into the mush surrounding it.
Emily’s voice cut through the haze from the doorway: “Jesus Christ.” McKenna didn’t turn, just dragged her fingers through the mess and brought them to her lips, tongue darting out to taste. Salt. Iron. Hers. She smirked up at Emily’s horrified face, watching the woman’s throat bob as she swallowed hard. “You gonna just stand there,” McKenna panted, “or you gonna help me clean up?”
The khakis peeled off in one disgustingly slick motion, fabric clinging to her thighs like a second skin before finally surrendering with a wet shluck. McKenna kicked them aside, watching them land in a heap near Emily’s pristine heels. The panties came next—sodden lace torn free with a grunt, strings of brown clinging to the waistband as she flung them at Emily’s chest. They hit with a damp slap, leaving a smudge on the woman’s blazer before sliding to the floor.
McKenna rolled onto all fours, ass in the air, and felt the next wave building—a slow, insistent pressure that made her toes curl against the ruined comforter. She rocked back slightly, breath hitching, as the first thick inch breached. Emily’s sharp inhale was audible across the room. "You’re fucking disgusting," Emily whispered, but McKenna just grinned over her shoulder, watching the horror flicker across the woman’s face as another inch emerged, glistening under the bedroom light.
"Oh, you know you love it," McKenna purred, arching her spine obscenely as the turd stretched her rim wider, the sheer girth of it forcing a broken moan from her throat. Emily didn’t move, didn’t blink—just stood frozen, her knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe. McKenna pushed harder, feeling the heat of it slide free in one long, filthy drag, and laughed when it hit the mattress with a wet splat.
Emily’s blazer hit the floor first, buttons clattering like teeth against hardwood. Then the blouse, then the skirt—all shed in frantic, trembling motions. "Fuck," she breathed, stepping forward on bare feet, her toes sinking into the piss-soaked comforter. "I was hoping you’d shit right there in court." Her voice was raw, hungry. "Imagine that pretty little lawyer’s face." McKenna barely had time to smirk before Emily’s hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. The other hand pressed down hard between her shoulder blades, shoving her face-first into the mess she’d made.
McKenna gasped, her nose buried in warm shit, her lips smearing through the slick sludge as Emily ground her down harder. "You’re disgusting," Emily hissed, but her thighs were trembling, her breath coming in sharp little hitches. McKenna licked a slow stripe up the turd’s length, tasting salt and iron, before turning her head just enough to grin. "And you’re fucking wet for it." She reached back blindly, fingers finding Emily’s bare thigh, trailing higher until they slipped through slick folds. Emily jerked, her grip tightening in McKenna’s hair—a silent admission.
The air reeked of piss and sweat and sex as Emily straddled McKenna’s hips, her cunt pressing against the small of McKenna’s back. "You’re gonna eat every fucking inch," Emily whispered, dragging two fingers through the mess on the bed before shoving them into McKenna’s mouth. McKenna sucked them clean with a moan, her hips rolling back against Emily’s heat. The mattress creaked under their weight, the ruined comforter clinging to their skin like a second layer of filth. Outside, a car alarm wailed—useless, ignored—just like the last shred of Emily’s restraint.
Emily shifted higher, her thighs framing McKenna’s shoulders. The first spurt hit McKenna’s collarbone—hot and sudden—splattering golden streaks down her chest. Emily gasped, her thighs trembling, as the stream turned into a flood, piss soaking McKenna’s hair and pooling in her eye sockets. McKenna laughed, licking her lips as Emily ground down, forcing her face deeper into the piss-soaked sheets. "Beg for it," Emily hissed, her fingers twisting in McKenna’s hair. McKenna opened her mouth—just in time for Emily’s bowels to loosen with a wet, guttural groan.
The first turd landed on McKenna’s tongue like a gift. Thick. Warm. Emily’s fingers pressed down hard, forcing McKenna’s jaw wider as another log pushed free, stretching Emily’s rim obscenely before dropping into McKenna’s waiting mouth. McKenna gagged—once, twice—then swallowed hard, her throat working around the grotesque intrusion. Emily’s laugh was breathless, her thighs shaking as she rubbed her shit-smeared ass down McKenna’s torso, leaving brown streaks across pale skin. "Fucking take it," she snarled, yanking McKenna’s head back by the hair to watch her chew.
The last turd curled onto McKenna’s chest like a trophy. Emily leaned forward, her fingers digging into McKenna’s hips as she rocked back, her cunt dripping onto McKenna’s stomach. McKenna arched up, her lips brushing Emily’s clit, her tongue darting out to taste piss and arousal. Emily came with a shudder, her thighs clamping around McKenna’s head as she ground down, smearing filth and sweat between them. Outside, the car alarm died. The silence was louder than either of them could bear.
As the pair laid on the dirty bed, covered in shit and smelling of shit, piss, sweat and sex, McKenna's phone rang and she answered it, so covered in shit. Not knowing what to expect she answered it. "Hello, is this McKenna Grace?" She wasn't sure what the nature of the call was about so she just confirmed it was. "Great. This is Quentin Tarantino. When would be a good time to meet up to discuss working together?".
© 2025 Tommy Joseph · All rights reserved