The Businessman

5 PM, the end of another workday. I began following my usual route towards home, but through a flash of spontaneity, head in the opposite direction; watching as the sterility of gleaming office buildings and symbols of professionalism slowly transform into a maze of deserted side streets, gray nondescript tenements, and boarded windows. Dusk was falling, and there, a short distance away, a neon sign was flashing almost in invitation, a promised paradise to all who chose to be swallowed within.

Inside, I was met by a hazy atmosphere, air heavy with smoke, the clink of glasses, laughter, low jazz music, the smell of perfume, beer stains on the carpet–all combined to assault my senses. Plush, black velvet sofas lined one wall, as men–most of them still in their office attire–mingled with women in different stages of undress. Some, who I assumed were the more generous customers, were led by the lady of their choice through doorways covered by beaded curtains for more private entertainment. I looked around the room as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, familiarizing myself with my surroundings, since I was not exactly accustomed to these mysterious playgrounds. After a few minutes, a hostess sauntered over towards me, a welcoming smile curving her blood red lips.

“Hey there! Is this your first time here? You look a bit overwhelmed,” she laughed, albeit not in any condescending manner, but in a way that told me that I was not the first man, guided by his curiosity, who somehow found his way here.
“Don’t worry, our staff will make sure you enjoy your stay and perhaps even return,” she continued. “Pardon my manners, I have yet to offer you a proper greeting. So, what’s your poison and pleasure, handsome fella?”
After a few minutes, I was seated at a round table, beer in hand, having introduced myself as Spencer to the hostess, whose name I soon learned was Camille, attempted to prod me further about my intentions.
“Come on, don’t be shy! There must be something specific that brought you here tonight,” she coaxed encouragingly. I wasn’t about to tell her that anywhere else was better than going back to an empty apartment.
“We can offer you anything from mild to taboo, depending on how much you’re willing to pay. So, any special requests?”

After some hesitation, not to mention, slight embarrassment, I admitted that I had always harbored a repressed fantasy about watching a woman shit. To my relief, Camille did not seem at all shocked or repulsed by this confession, as though it was something she heard on a daily basis.

“Excellent! I think you’re in luck, because we can arrange a little something for you,” Camille beamed enthusiastically, walking towards the bar where a tall redhead in her mid-thirties stood, wiping down the mahogany counter. From a distance, I discreetly looked on as the two women talked, occasionally turning to look in my direction, and I would quickly avert my gaze. After a few minutes, the redhead smiled, nodded, and disappeared through a back exit. I continued taking gulps of my beer, as Camille returned by my side, the triumphant messenger of good news,

“Allow a few minutes for Priscilla to set up, and then she’ll be ready to see you,” Camille announced.

Soon, after I had paid the dues Priscilla had negotiated and established, I was led towards the back and through what seemed like a small apartment in itself. The first room containing a black leather sofa and coffee table; the next, a circular bed; and finally the last, serving as a dressing room/bathroom, with a large mirror, framed by glaring bulbs, endless supplies of cosmetics and hairstyling products atop a counter, open closets overflowing with colorful costumes and props. And then, in a more secluded, darkened corner, there was Priscilla, seated atop a toilet affixed to a tiled wall, completely nude, stripped of the tight shorts and equally tight top she had worn earlier, which were now slung over the oriental patterned partition of a room divider, lacy bra and panties discarded carelessly on the floor, her only remaining accessory being her polished black stilettos and a delicate gold anklet.

Priscilla sat, back straight, hands cupped together and resting on her lap, the ample globes of her breasts jutting out, her light pink nipples in prominence. I stood, no doubt with my mouth gaping wide, as she beckoned Camille,

“Could you kindly bring a chair for our gentleman spectator?”

After Priscilla was confident that I was comfortably settled, she shifted, assuming another position, but not before I had the chance to glimpse the concealed “V” of her hairless pubic area. She then leaned slightly forward, her arms folded across her stomach, knees joined together, legs huddled in close to the base of the toilet. Some silence ensued, as Priscilla cast her gaze downward, until she began to piss; the strong torrent hissing out and finally receding to a trickle and then mere droplets. The sound of some of the other female entertainers beginning or ending their shift in the adjoining dressing room could be heard, but were but a distant echo, as I concentrated on a series of long squeaky farts which were emitted inside the porcelain bowl. Priscilla and I began to engage in small talk, almost as though we were longtime acquaintances conversing over breakfast and the morning newspaper. Priscilla occasionally paused between sentences to strain, her complexion becoming a shade redder than the applied cosmetic blush on her cheeks. She dug the heels of her stilettos into the floor and her hands clenched into fists at her sides until the moist crackling of an emerging turd began and gradually accelerated, continuing almost endlessly, it seemed. After a few minutes, Priscilla tilted her head back and released an almost orgasmic moan, her tense body seeming to deflate, the only indication that she had passed the turd entirely, as there were no other audible sounds of it making impact with the water.

After catching her breath, Priscilla asked me if I could get her a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray from the dressing room. I complied immediately, leaving and returning as promptly as I could, almost afraid I would miss something, despite my state of arousal making it difficult to stand, let alone walk. She shook out a cigarette from the pack, holding it up between her lips for me to light. She remained on the toilet, her legs crossed, puffing away, and I inhaled the combined scent of cigarettes and fresh crap, both battling to overpower the other.

“I always enjoy a good smoke when I’m having a shit, it helps to keep things moving,” Priscilla said, stubbing out her cigarette and setting the ashtray on the top of the toilet tank.
“Now, I was hoping to produce a lot more than just this one turd. I want to make sure you get your money’s worth. How about you come a bit closer for a better look?”

I moved my chair beside the toilet, as Priscilla tilted sideways, revealing a lengthy formation of gradient browns, one rounded tip submerged underwater as the other tapered end rested against the side of the bowl, small fragmented bits embedded in its smooth glossy surface which was etched by deep crevices in parts. I was no expert, but I could confidently say that this turd was worth everything I had paid, and much more. I could not very well make any comparisons, since this was the first time I had ever seen the real shit of a woman, other than online. But who was I to protest if she offered to provide more?

I now watched as Priscilla leaned forward, allowing me an intimate view through the gap between the back of the toilet’s plastic seat and her ass, where one subtle brown smear stained the freckled flesh of her left cheek, no doubt a result of clenching both masses together in an attempt to dislodge the recently deposited turd. And for the first time, I noticed the small tattoo of a rose on her lower back, its long, thorny stem seeming to disappear inside her crack. Priscilla resumed her straining and smiled, her features contorting in a mixture of concentrated effort and pleasure. It was obvious that she enjoyed performing for me, as well as seeing the reaction it elicited, made evident by my frontal bulge.

My attention was diverted from the rose on her back to the pink bloom of her anus as it stretched and puckered out to accommodate another wide turd which emerged and retreated a few times before being pushed out further. Priscilla’s ass flexed and quivered, almost raising her off the toilet as the turd grew progressively longer, soon hanging suspended like a long tail. More piss dribbled out, running down the turd and dripping from its blunt tip. It broke off under its weight, the lengthy segment falling on top of the first turd, disturbing its position, causing it to slide down the side of the bowl, leaving elongated streaks. Three more jagged chunks fell in rapid succession before Priscilla slumped back, finally depleted of her supply of shit, which now filled the toilet almost to capacity.

“Phew! My shit stinks! I’m going to clear out the room,” Priscilla exclaimed, waving her hand in front of her nose, but the women in the dressing room seemed oblivious to any odor that may have wafted in their direction. It certainly did not bother me in the least.

“Now on with the paperwork.” Priscilla unraveled some tissue from the roll dispenser beside the toilet. Tilting sideways and reaching back, she swiped deep in her crack, inspecting the soiled tissue after each stroke, discarding it into the toilet where it covered her shit.

She then got up and pressed down on the flush handle, and we both watched as the turds swirled and detached in the murky water, disappearing with a loud, laborious gurgle.

Later, I stepped out into the cold night air, but it was the smell of Priscilla’s shit that still lingered inside my nostrils, and while my pockets were emptier than when I first arrived, the front of my trousers was a lot bulkier.

(Image Source: A Wizard of Ass Studio)