Life of a Pro

by Callipygia

Heather sat staring out the window of the plane as it soared 15,000 feet somewhere over Colorado (or so the pilot had said, but she only half heard). She was on her way to Racine, Wisconsin for the 9th stop on the Women's Professional Beach Volleyball Tour, and she was having a banner year. She and her new partner had won 6 of the first 8 events, and even though the money still paled next to the pro men's tour, she was definitely making enough to train full-time for the third straight year.

She played with the lettuce in her salad, but she didn't bother to eat any. She pondered her odd mixture of anticipation, nervousness and excitement over this particular site, but she didn't want to put her finger on just exactly why. The money at the Racine tournament wasn't unusually high - $25,000 split among all winners, 1st place splitting $7500, and the event had no prestige value. This year's event was only the second at Racine, so it lacked enough history to mean much.

She put down her plastic fork on the tray and took a distracted sip of her V8. Maybe discouraging her boyfriend, Jack, from coming on this trip was a mistake after all. She had been so subtle about it he didn't even realize that she had softly talked him out of joining her at this particular event.

In the spring, he had asked if she would like it if he started coming with her to the tournaments, and she was thrilled. But as the Racine tourney drew closer, she became increasingly apprehensive and started to play up reasons why he shouldn't come to this one. It was such a small event on the tour really, and nothing - nothing - was in Racine she said. When the work schedule at his computer consulting company required that he work that weekend, she hid her relief and assured him it was OK if he didn't come.

Now she wasn't so sure.

Finally she let her mind dwell on the real reason this tournament was giving her competition-seasoned heart vexations. It wasn't the tournament at all. It wasn't Emily, her partner, who was a god-send — a child-hood friend, a joy to play with, and most importantly a hell of a player. And it sure wasn't Jack, with whom she was enjoying a somewhat directionless but entertaining romance.

No, her problem was who she might or might not see on the man-made "beach" in Racine. Would he be there, watching her thinking about her wanting to touch her waiting to serve her —

"Are you finished, Miss?" the flight attendant coaxed gently.

Startled, she almost dropped her plastic cup of V8, which she noticed was nearly full. She put the cup down on her tray with her strewn but uneaten salad and said, "Yes, thanks." She was hungry, but the butterflies in her stomach were clearly not going to permit anything so invasive as eating.

Suddenly, she felt angry with herself, as she had so many times before when she thought about Racine and who she might see there. This wasn't right. She and Jack had been together now since last October. What was that - 9 months now? She shouldn't be playing little head games with him now.

She should just pretend that nothing happened last year in Wisconsin. Fact is, she could. There were no agreements implied or any "real" relationship established. It was just something that happened. It didn't happen all the time, but she knew that sometimes some of the other single girls on the tour had met fleeting "romance" on tournament weekends.

So the guy had written her a few times. So what. She'd never responded. She found she wanted to but just couldn't. Better that she just forget what happened. Yet she had done everything she could to make sure she wouldn't have Jack with her this weekend. Her mood grew more resigned. He wouldn't be there anyway. His last letter was in February, Valentine's Day in fact. But she hadn't heard anything since, so maybe he'd given up. Somewhere in her heart, though she doubted it. What scared her though was that she hoped he hadn't.

Last year's Racine weekend was so bizarre. She had just caught her then boyfriend and forever jerk Allen cheating on her the week before - some bimbo personal trainer he had met at the gym. At 24 with a budding volleyball career, Heather knew she wasn't ready for any real commitment and she'd let Allen know that up-front. But that didn't mean she was out dating other guys either, so she was pretty hurt and disappointed when she found this girl's g-string in his bed.

Still, to her credit, she had a great tournament that weekend in Racine. Went undefeated and won the championship pretty handily with Emily fairly early on Sunday. She never let other things in her personal life - least of all men - interfere with her profession. That's why serious relationships weren't really an option for her now.

Dammit it then, why can't I get John out of my head, her mind's voice yelled at her. How ironic it was that John and her boyfriend had the same name — at least their given names. No one ever referred to Jack as John, though. Except that one time when she and Jack were together and he was kissing her just the way she loved between her legs, and she began thinking about Racine... Luckily, she was able to weasel her way out of it with some bullshit story about how sometimes she liked to think about Jack with his full name. She never did call him John again though.

Ah yes, last year at Racine, John had certainly kissed her. She never thought twice about why she didn't actually start dating John after that weekend. In addition to the obvious problems of her career and their respective locations was the simple fact that everything about that weekend just wasn't conducive to a "normal" relationship. The whole experience was just too bizarre. Even now when she thought on it, she felt an unbearable mix of excitement and shame, and then more embarassment when she recognized who own excitement.

Oh, how John charmed her and made her laugh until she cried at the post-tournament party. In fact, for a fan of the sport he had remarkable self-composure. None of that star-struck awkwardness you usually see in fans - especially male ones. She knew that she was very highly regarded by the men in the stands as much, if not more, for her beauty and physique than her skills as an athlete. Occasionally, a rude fan - usually half-drunk or worse - would say something about her tits or her ass, but most of the time the guys had trouble even looking her full in the eyes.

So from that perspective, John stood out almost immediately. He seemed so relaxed when he approached her at the party, which was held at a local bar and was open to the public. He struck up the usual conversation with her about the tournament and volleyball in general, but it was clear that he was not a true follower of the tour or the game. In a way, that actually helped, because she found it easier to relate to him as just herself and not as Heather Jowens, volleyball star.

What started out as a typical two-minute fan-meets-star conversation turned into a 4-hour discussion about everything from the rigors of being on tour to the personal specifics of her relationship with Allen, men, and sex. The last subject seemed to come up more and more as the evening wore on. She was surprised that even though she was flirting with him a little bit (the beer was loosening her mood), he never seemed to take the bait to come on to her. That was really unusual, as she knew she was in good shape and men never failed to reassure her that she was pretty. She liked that about him, and it made her want him a little bit, too.

Looking back on it now, she thought, he played me like a violin. He seemed to know exactly what buttons to push and when. He was a good-looking, well-built, funny, intelligent man who was showing her a tremendous amount of attention - and she could tell it had nothing to do with her semi-celebrity status. That insight would prove to be accurate. She hadn't even noticed at the time that they spoke very little about him; he seemed so totally absorbed by her that it just didn't come up.

Her partner Emily had hung around the party only for the first hour or so, and then she left to catch a flight back home. Heather had been alone with John for about 3 hours at the party. She could still remember the fateful moment that would change everything. In a sudden self-conscious moment in their conversation, she noticed that she had a hand on his arm and she realized that she had been absent-mindedly doing it off and on for at least an hour. She noticed it because for the first time, he reciprocated by putting his hand on her thigh. A season as a pro volleyball player gives you a good tan, and his skin color was a marked contrast on her leg.

When she saw that he had noticed her looking at his hand on her thigh, but did not remove it, the conversation came to complete silence, relaxed and yet tense silence. The romance and sensuality in the air seemed to swallow any possible words. Somehow he'd managed to speak. "Corny as this may sound, I have to say that from the moment I saw you on the court, I simply knew I had to touch you. Now that I have, I am overwhelmed with just how gorgeous and sexy you are. I would love nothing more than to take you home, and pamper you - feel you - smell you - taste you - serve you. If you don't mind being treated like an absolute Goddess, I would love for you to come home with me and spend the night."

Under any other context, she probably would have laughed at those words, which almost sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. But his sincerity was unmistakeable, so instead she felt like she had been struck by lightning. He had so obliquely avoided this moment that the direct honesty of his words and the passion in his voice shocked her. She knew she was attracted to John, and had suspected that if he'd just made a move, they might end up spending some time together. But his words, painted wonderful images in her head. She wanted to be felt, smelled, tasted, and served - whatever that meant it sounded good to her. She didn't say a word, couldn't say a word to respond to him.

Instead, she squeezed his hand and got up from the bar stool.

As she sat in the plane heading back to Racine a year later, she marvelled over how unapprehensive she was as they left the bar together, how pure the excitement she felt was as they got in his car and went to his home. She had actually grown moist between her thighs sitting in his car, something she didn't ever remember doing before without some direct touch or stimulation. The moment was so romantic, and the electric charge of lust was very distinct in the hot summer air.

The drive was mercifully short, about 10 minutes. Neither of them said anything. It was like all that could be said needed to be said when they could actually be face-to-face. He lived in a new or near new ranch house. She noticed that his house was in a relatively secluded, beautiful wooded area. Clearly he had money. When she passed through the front door of the house as he held it open, she had a brief pang of doubt. But then she felt his hand touch her back. It felt like fire traveling up her spine.

As soon as they were inside, she turned to him and they began to kiss. Gentle kisses on the lips gave way to the passion of kisses held back for too long. Long moist open-mouthed kisses. She could taste the beer in his mouth, but it tasted fresh and sweet. His skin had that distinctly masculine scent that she knew could not happen without sweat. Without transition, he had picked her up in his arms. Her head was nestled close to his neck as he carried her like a little girl into his living room.

He laid her gently on his sofa, sitting upright, and knelt in front of her. She remembered how erotic it felt looking down and seeing his lean waist between her knees. She remembered visions of him fucking her entering her head. She was amazed at how turned on she was and how ? her thoughts were. She couldn't even blame the alchohol she'd drunk either. She hadn't had anything to drink for the last 1 to 1 and 1/2 hours that they were at the bar, and except for a slightly lingering buzz, she knew she was straight.

She started to lean forward to kiss him, but he gently pushed her back and put his index finger to her lips in a motion oddly like shushing her. He said, "As an admiring fan, I would like to just spend this night admiring you. As long as we're in my house anyway, I'd like to treat you as my guest. This means you'll just have to sit back passively and allow yourself to be adored. Can you do that?" He lingered on the word "adored" and pressed his lips against her neck.

Mutely, she had nodded yes. Now it seemed ridiculous, but at the time, she trusted him completely. She was more than willing at that moment to give up control of the situation to be adored.

And adore her he did. She remembered the feeling of his hands caressing her back, waist and thighs as she sat back and relaxed on his sofa. He continually kissed her the neck. Each kiss was drawn out, racing her pulse. He seemed to be trying to draw in her essence with each one. She could tell by the sound that with each inhalation he was savoring her scents. He began to speak to her through his kisses. "They say that girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice..."

Again, as the memories flooded back to her in vivid detail on the plane back to Racine she felt a pang of regret that it hadn't just stopped there. What happened up to that point was almost like a fairy tale, it was everything she had ever envisioned in meeting a new man. Romantic. Hot. Sexy...

"I want to taste your sugar and your spice," he'd said, finishing each sentence with a kiss.

But what happened that night brought such shame to her afterward that she just couldn't bear it. To chalk it off as kinky sex didn't even scratch the surface. Her behavior was so unlike her own self-perception, but worst of all she had loved every minute of it. It wasn't until the next day, out of the heat of the moment, that her actions just seemed unconscionable to her. She had left without a word before he woke up the next day. Somehow he'd figured out her address and sent her letters. None of the letters even hinted at what had gone on that night, but she still could not answer them...

"And I don't care whether or not you're nice," he'd said. Each kiss drew his face closer to her chest.

"I care about worshipping you like the sweet Goddess you are." He opened her blouse with his teeth. She was not wearing a bra. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him, arching her back. His words were intoxicating. They created a mood of complete abandonment. He could worship her any way he wanted.

He kissed a nipple and then drew it into his mouth. She let her head fall back and let out a soft moan. With one hand he caressed the other breast, teasing the nipple into full hardness. She felt the other hand on the middle of her back slide down the back of her jean shorts. She felt a finger slip down enough to touch the crack of her ass.

He removed the hand from her breast and unbuttoned the top of her shorts. His face soon followed, so that when he unzipped her shorts she could feel his breath lightly on her belly button and below. Using both hands he lifted her 5'7" frame enough to slide her shorts down her thighs and off of her ankles. He paused to lean forward and give the arch of each foot a gentle, lingering kiss. The sight of sheer reverence in the gesture made her feel a little light-headed, she wanted to feel those kisses everywhere...

"It is an absolute pleasure to kiss your feet." he said, and then took one big toe into his mouth. Then he began to lick the bottom of each foot. She spoke for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. "Do you have a fetish for feet?"

"Maybe," he said, "but mostly I just want you to feel the power of your beauty. I feel a little like I am groveling here before you." She felt a flush of embarassment and started to protest, but he quickly spoke over her. "And that's the joy of it. I want you to enjoy being placed on this pedestal while I bow before you, serve you, grovel at your feet. The pleasure is mine." The embarassment didn't really subside but it changed, she was finally beginning to understand what he wanted. "I hope you like having your ass kissed, Sweetheart, because that's what I plan to do. Admit that part of you is enjoying seeing me grovel here before you, and wants to feel my lips elsewhere, too."

She was not aware that, sitting in the plane now, she was actually wincing as she relived these memories.

"I think I could learn to like it," she had said smiling. Indeed.

He began to kiss her ankles. "Just for tonight," he said, "try thinking of me as your personal servant — maybe more like a slave — whose greatest desire is to stroke and serve your ego and relish your beauty." What was it about this guy that made her feel so comfortable with these ideas, so ready to accept and enjoy them? She'd had a boyfriend once who wanted her to pee on him while they had sex, but that just seemed so disgusting. They never spoke of it again, but they were also never quite the same again either. Things seemed so different with John that night. He seemed to make everything seem so exoticly erotic.

John kissed his way up her calves and over her thighs. He seemed to take special pleasure in the firm, smooth skin of her femininely muscled legs. He rubbed his nose and lips over them, inhaling deeply. It was maddening. With each stroke over her leg, his face drew ever closer to her underwear and her inner thighs. He would pause with his nose less then an inch from her moist sex, barely covered in her cotton underwear, and draw a deep breath like he was breathing in life itself.

He began to run his tongue over her inner thigh at the edge of the cotton, his nose nudging her sensitive lips through the fabric. He kissed her pussy through the wet underwear, then pulled them down and off her body. His face was than less a foot from her pussy when he guided each of her legs onto his shoulders. Almost reflexively, she crossed her ankles across his back. Sitting in the plane now a full year later, she could still remember with crystal clarity the unspoken words going through her mind. "Lick my pussy. Suck on my clit. Make me come in your mouth!" It was the mood of the moment, a mood she'd never felt before. He may not have heard those words coming from mouth, but he acted like he had.

She distinctly remembered how his face glistened after he buried his nose deep into her pussy. She saw his nose appear between her lips and rub over her swollen clit. Then his tongue, O God, would she use that tongue that night, licked her clit like she was made of candy. He seemed to really get off on burying his face in her pussy, getting her juices all over his face, making sure she could see it.

One time he lifted her knees to her chest before slipping his nose into her pussy, and then for the first of many times that night she felt him kissing her asshole. As she savored the feeling of his lips, she put a hand on the back of his head and gently rocked back and forth on his face until she came all over it. As she was coming, she bucked pretty hard against him. When it was all over, she was amazed at how she had drenched him. It occurred to her that she was being pretty selfish, but she didn't really care — he seemed to want it that way, and she was really beginning to like being worshipped.

"I see you were serious about kissing my ass," she remembered saying, she'd even giggled lightly.

She could now see the lights of Racine through her window. She felt hot and flushed.

"Oh, I have yet to kiss your ass," he'd said. He was giving her pussy light kisses all over.

"Hey, I felt it!" she retorted.

"That was just a peck," he said, "I couldn't justify not kissing your ass properly."

"And what would a proper kiss be like?" she asked teasingly.

"Sweetheart, I won't be happy until I've tasted your sweet ass. That's a proper kiss." His kisses started to tend toward the lower part of her pussy.

"I hate to admit it, but I love the way you think. Aren't you taking a chance, though? I mean, I hope you like the taste of my ass." She couldn't help giggling again.

"Does it matter? You're being worshipped, remember? Anyway, I'm sure I'll be left craving it afterward."

Suddenly, she felt she needed to go to the bathroom. "Well, not just yet anyway," she said, "I have to pee."

He continued kissing her pussy for a bit before he said, "So?"

"So, where's you're bathroom?" she asked.

"I don't think you're going to need it," He stuck out his tongue and placed the tip of it squarely on her clit. It was clear to her that he was purposely doing it in such a way that she could plainly see it.

"I'm serious," she said. "I really have to pee." Laughing she added, "I'll piss in your mouth if you don't let me up!"

He pulled his tongue back into his mouth, but didn't close it. He pressed his open mouth against her pussy and just looked up at her.

She finally got it.

"Are you serious?!" she cried, but her voice did not lose its humor. Now as she looked back on it, it was amazing to her how different her response to John was than when her old boyfriend had asked her to pee on him. She didn't even think of that event during this sequence with John.

"Don't you think you've grovelled enough? I've already got a pretty big head now thanks to you, you know," she said. "Now, you want to be my toilet too?" and she laughed. And she couldn't stop laughing. It just seemed so funny to call him her toilet with his open mouth there waiting on her pussy.

Still laughing, she warned "I'll do it. I'll take a piss right in your mouth. And I'll make you drink every drop of my sweet piss! What do you think of that?"

She remembered the way he stared unblinkingly at her, mouth open and ready, his eyes seeming to implore her to carry out her threat. It was that look in his eyes that finally did it for her. She remembered she decided Ôfuck it, I'm going to enjoy this' and she began pissing. At first she intended to just give him a little squirt to let him know she was serious. He would end up tasting her piss (he'd deserved it!), but he could spit it out. But her plan backfired. Once she started, she couldn't stop.

The thought that she was in the midst of an uncontrollable piss and that poor John was tasting all of it made her start to laugh again, which made her laugh even harder. The more she laughed, the less she could hold her piss. She was drowning him in it. Maybe the most embarrassing memory of it for her was the fact that at no time - before, during, or after - did she make any attempt to get away from him, to not piss in his mouth.

In fact, as an almost defensive reaction, she decided to go with it. "Drink it!" she said in almost hysterical laughter. Much to her shock, he was drinking it. He gulped it down as fast as she could piss in his mouth. She was still laughing when she finally pissed all but her last. Through tears of laughter, she asked, "Well, how was that? Bet you feel pretty pissed on now, huh? Did it feel good being my toilet?"

"Yes, thank you," he responded, "and how do you feel?"

"The truth? Pretty damn good. I never knew something like that could be so much fun!

I have a little more. Do you want it? Beg for it."

Unfortunately, she felt mostly guilty when she thought back on it now, but back then, the feelings of arrogance and pleasure she had were indescribable. It just didn't fit into her self perception that she could enjoy pissing on someone so much.

It's funny what bizarre thoughts stick out in your mind in a situation like that. She remembered thinking as he began to beg for more of her piss in his mouth, that he had accomplished the goal he'd stated earlier. She did feel like a Goddess - albeit at his expense. But he wanted it that way, had engineered it that way. The superior mood that he had induced in her was so strong that when she looked down at him and listened to him beg (beg!) to taste more of her piss, she decided to just let the rest of her piss go right on his face without saying a word. It was purely impulsive, and he clearly wasn't expecting it. It just seemed so comical. Cruel and funny. And fun. She'd even thrown her nose in the air, like a snobby bitch reveling in her own superiority as she pissed on her worshipper. God it was fun pissing on his face!

At the time, she'd only wished she could pee some more. Now, she wished it hadn't happened. But the worst was yet to come.

His face and mouth were just soaked in her come and piss. She remembered thinking he's probably going to taste that in every meal for a week! Why did she like that thought so much? She knew that she really liked John. It wasn't that she really wished anything bad on him at all. In fact, she felt a strange bond forming between them as they shared the unbelievable. They were just playing and having fun, but there was something unusually intimate about the sheer kinkiness of it. Maybe it was because she'd never done anything like that before, and even now could never imagine doing it with anyone else but John.

That was one side of the coin. The other was that in her more level-headed moments afterward, she found the shame of doing something so dirty, so perverted, was just too much for her. The peeing was one thing, but...

She remembered not being able to pee any more. She looked at John and smiled. She remembered through all of the fun, sensual, arrogance she was feeling she also felt an odd warmness, a closeness to John, as she looked in his eyes. He looked unbelievable happy. But the kinky mood was still so prevalent, and she was so turned-on.

She lifted one leg over his head and turned around on the sofa. Now she too was in a kneeling position at the sofa, knees on the floor, arms tucked under her upper body as she rested on the sofa. "You may kiss my ass now," she said, "and don't forget to thank me for coming and pissing in your mouth." (Had she really spoken like that? She just couldn't believe that was her...)

She was expecting the exquisite feeling of his lips on her ass, but it didn't happen. She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. He had a strangely quizzical look on his face. She thought he might have been thinking about how he had lost control of this situation. Much to her current consternation, it was clear at the time that she had taken what he started and began running with it. She'd guess wrong though. With what looked like an almost involuntary gesture, he looked down at her ass and then slowly back up to her eyes and asked, "You sure you don't have to go any more?"

Puzzled, she looked at him for a moment and went into another torrent of laughter. "Haven't you had enough? Sorry, I've peed all I can. You drank almost all of it! I hope you don't get sick." But he just looked at her with that same strange expression. Then she guessed what was going on. "We're not talking about pee, are we, John?" she asked. The look on his face now made sense, confirmed her suspicions. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet," she said, "I can't believe what we've done so far." She was still feeling heady from being worshipped so completely, though. She thought for a moment, and added with a smile (or was it more of a smirk?) "But maybe if you lick my ass sweetly enough, I may be coaxed into having to go some more."

What amazed her now (and always shamed her) was that she had not reacted to his implied suggestion with disgust. She seemed more to write it off as an impossible fantasy. You know, the kind that people sometimes have but would never actually want to realize. Like women fantasizing about rape, for example. Still, she remembered that she was not even remotely repulsed. What a difference a few hours with John had made in her. Even now, she was not repulsed by the idea, just mortified at her own lack of repulsion.

Finally, she felt him kissing the cheeks of her ass. His lips felt so good, so loving, so adoring. He seemed to know just how to vary them from firm to soft. She felt like he was caressing the skin of each cheek with his lips. It was completely relaxing, and naturally, as with anything she had done with John made her feel like a spoiled princess. And she knew almost subconsciously that John wanted her to feel free to be — she didn't know how to describe it — rude if she was so inclined.

And so she was feeling a more relaxed arrogance as she lay there letting him worship her ass. She found herself thinking about what he'd (sort of) asked for — wishing she did have to go — and not just pee. That had to be what he meant, what else? What would it feel like to do that to someone, she thought. She really couldn't imagine it. She felt his lips against her asshole again. God, that felt good. She decided that there was something about having your ass kissed, I mean really kissed, that's just so exciting and satisfying both sensually and emotionally. Even now on the plane, she conceded that point. But it was such an arrogant and self-centered pleasure.

She felt him begin to lick her ass. This was a new experience. She felt his tongue moving up and down the crack, then she felt it slow and circle around her asshole before feeling the tip gently probing away at her shitter, then pulling away briefly, only to be followed by a full on romantic kiss. She allowed herself to think about what he might be tasting. Then she began to think again about what it would be like to do something really nasty to him. Could she really do it if she had to go? Given her mood, anything could happen. Hell, she thought, the way he's treating me like nothing but candy comes out of my ass, I probably would do it.

He started to probe his tongue into her asshole. His manner seemed to suggest that he really was trying to taste her, not just stimulate her. She felt his tongue lick every wrinkle of her asshole. Every now and then he would stop to sniff her asshole, inhaling deeply with his nose pressed right up against it. He kissed her pussy every time he sniffed her, and he finished each sniff with a kiss directly on her asshole, before resuming his slavish licking. Without saying anything, he seemed to be encouraging her to think about doing rude things to him. The more demeaning his behavior, the more arrogant she felt.

The feeling of his tongue lapping away at her asshole was actually reminiscent of going to the bathroom she noted. He was making her want to do it to him. And that thought was making her pussy so wet and her clit so hard. Before she knew it, she found herself shamelessly masturbating - all while thinking about what it would feel like to inflict the worst degradation possible on him. He started to stick his tongue deep into her ass. That sensation was even more like taking a shit. It made the image in her head of actually doing it to him feel that much more real.

Out of nowhere she began to climax again. It started out as a little skipping orgasm that seemed to be in sync with his tongue. Each skip grew larger than the last. In spasms, she felt her asshole grasp at his tongue as delicious waves of pleasure ran over her clit. Finally, like cresting a wave, she was overwhelmed with a feeling of free-fall, and then she had a full-blown orgasm. It was so intense she felt like she was going to black out.

It was wonderful. He had actually tried to stick his tongue all the way into her asshole when she came. She'd felt his tongue go in deeper with each spasm. When she was done coming, his tongue was buried to the hilt, so to speak, up her ass. "How's it taste?," she asked breathlessly. Looking over her shoulder, all she could see of him were his eyes over the cheeks of her ass and his nose buried deep in the crack of her ass. "Ass licker," she added tauntingly, and let out a happy exhausted little giggle.

As he pulled his face out of her ass, she felt his tongue slowly withdraw from her asshole. That feeling of taking a shit was uncanny. He said with odd excitement, "You taste delicious. When you came, my tongue touched... ...I tasted it!"

"What are you talking about?" she asked with a smile.

"Are you sure you don't have to go?"

She thought about it. She wasn't sure, but she didn't think she could feel anything. "I don't think so, John," she said. Suddenly, he put his tongue back into her ass. He pulled firmly up on her hips, arching her back. It still felt so good, she just relaxed. She felt his tongue going back up her ass, deeper and deeper. It seemed like he passed a certain and threshold and then she felt it. An unmistakable feeling of having to go. At the same time, he seemed to elongate his tongue even more and gave each of her cheeks a loving squeeze.

The captain announced that they were preparing to land and that they'd be on the ground in 10 minutes. Heather was grateful for the interruption. She felt a stinging flush come over her face as she realized how engrossed she was in her memories. Her respite did not last long though. In spite of herself, Heather began to remember the worst shame of that night...

She told John to keep his tongue in there and wiggle it around. The feeling of having to go grew stronger. She could feel things starting to move. She felt the resistance of his tongue. She had the feeling that if what she thought was going on was what was actually happening, his tongue was—

Oh God, she thought. No way. She couldn't do this, it might feel too good.

She told him to pull his tongue out of her ass. He was very slow (reluctant?) to remove his tongue from her ass. Maybe he thought that meant the game was over. She turned to see his face. "Stick out your tongue," she said. She felt faint when she saw that on about the last half-inch of his tongue was an unmistakable smear of shit. The quantity increased at the tip. The smell was obvious. She couldn't keep herself from asking, "How do you like the taste of my shit?"

Her conscience got the better of her for a moment, so she asked "You sure you want me to do this to you? I think by now we both know that if you let me, I'll do it and love it." He didn't answer. Curiously, he asked a question of his own instead. "Don't you know that I want to put you on the ultimate pedestal, my Goddess? Let me eat it. No, make me eat it. Do it just for the fun of it."

Her former mood was now fully restored. His obvious desire to degrade himself for her seemed to release her to enjoy his humiliation without boundary. He just knew exactly how to draw that out of her. Still, she knew she couldn't completely blame her behavior on him. She never would have done it, or even wanted to, if he hadn't opened that door and begged her to go through it, that was true. But nevertheless, when she did walk through that door, she had absolutely loved it and reveled in it. Knowing full well that he wanted her to do the things she did just didn't seem to justify the sheer delight she took in doing the most degrading things to him and enjoying the most arrogant pleasures, all the more because they were at his expense.

However, she remembered each word of her response to him as though it were engraved in stone in her mind. "I guess I deserve to, don't I?", she'd replied. She'd remembered feeling wonderfully cruel when she laughed.

He responded to her laughter by burying his face in her ass, kissing her asshole, and plunging his tongue as far as it could go. He stoked her arrogance with every word and gesture. She wasn't sure, but she thought she could feel him sucking on her ass. Inwardly, she laughed when she knew the time had come. She just let it go, and she began to take a shit. She felt the shit driving his tongue out of her ass. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. A moment went by. Then she felt him pull his tongue out of her ass, and she began shitting in his mouth. She imagined what must be going through his mind as he ate her shit, and she came a third time.

The screech of the landing gear jerked her out of her trance-like state. For better or worse, she was back in Racine. A flush of humiliation rushed over as she realized her underwear was soaked.