Overeater
from East River Stories
Memories from the 1960s
by Mick Mykola Dementiuk
It probably was the can of beans that did it, she thought.
But with each spoonful he put in her mouth she doubted she could take another. Still, somehow his forced feeding with the promise of a twenty-dollar bill afterwards, kept her chewing, swallowing and opening her mouth for more.
As she had been instructed to do, she had eaten as much as she could during the day --pancakes, scrambled eggs and ketchup-sodden home-fries for breakfast; burgers, onion rings and cokes for lunch; cupcakes, potato chips, cheese puffs and candy bars for snacks-- that by the time she met him in the East River Park and opened her mouth to his dinner treat of take-out Cuban pork with black bean sauce and a tepid cup of split-pea soup, she was already a walking shit-load in desperate need of a toilet-bowl for relief.
Still, in all the eating, she hoped she wasn't gaining any weight. Yet since they only met in the park once a week, and she fasted the day afterwards, she was certain she had gotten rid of whatever weight she had put on.
But fasted? She couldn't stand the sight of food for days on end after their eating-meeting, surviving merely on water and juices as her body detoxed itself from the shocking overdose of vitamins, calories and nutrients, iron, potassium and whatever crud she ingested in her system.
And she always swore, This is it! No more! Never again! He's sick!
But as the week wore on and she spent the twenty he had given her she only thought of the money he still had; a crisp twenty dollar bill each time they met.
That by Friday morning she was once more stuffing her face, famished after a week's abstinence, eating all day until she again wobbled down the overpass into the park, a rolling bloated rancid fart-box of explosive fart-stink and stench.
Yet she was intrigued by his strange proposition from the start, giggling with each little fartlet she pooped, disbelieving his proposal entailed only that --farting in his face while he sniffed behind her-- with no further demand for a hand-job, blowjob, or what should be the natural outcome of ass-sniffing, a squirmy ass-fucking.
But he hardly even touched her, merely stroking her ass and saying, Lovely, so lovely! when she'd raise her skirt and show-off her panties, never getting any rougher then grabbing her hips and pulling them tighter to his face when she expelled a particularly smelly drawn-out slurp of a cackling fart.
She wondered what possible sexual gratification he was getting, if any, since he also barely touched himself when she bent under him, and doubted he was even erect, his crotch as calmly gathered in his pants when he first arrived at their bench as when he left in the evening.
So, was it sexual?
The idea of having a guy right behind your ass, his nose and mouth inches from your cunt, certainly had sexual aspects to it. But when she tried on their second meeting to seductively lower her panties so he could get his mouth and tongue on her he stopped her before her panties fluttered over her cheeks, politely saying, You can keep them on...
Fine, she kept them on, and no longer worried about it. Because whatever he was getting out of it, she was getting her twenty dollars and all she had to do was show up each Friday, fattened and gassed, ready to give it to him, right through her panties and right in his face.
Still, she wondered if maybe she didn't overdo it. Though she was positive there was no long-term weight-gain, her clothes seemed to be getting too tight. Her stuffed belly protruding at her skirt waist. Her tits bulging at her blouse. Her face puffed and jowled into a droopy laxness of exhausted bloat.
She was certain she was eating too much, way too much! His last scooped out helping of beans and pork, and the licking out of the container of pea soup, was already an overdose atop what she had eaten during the day.
Yet he teasingly pulled out a package of Little Debbie coconut-sprinkled cream cakes, and broke one open before her nose.
She gagged, the over-sweet smell of sugar and vanilla cream watering his mouth which only stirred the pressure in her belly, squeezing and aching for release. She leaped off the bench, slightly doubled over.
I gotta shit! she spat out, looking up and down the promenade. I gotta go read bad!
But he grabbed her by the waist.
Whaddaya mean you gotta shit?! he erupted, looking up and down her to the Little Debbie, almost uncomprehending her refusal of a dessert treat. Where do you think you're going? he angrily asked. I don't want you to shit; you have to fart only.
But I gotta shit! she repeated, bending over and swaying up and down.
He clutched and squeezed her wrist, glancing at the cream cake he held, and got off the bench, bringing the small cake to her face.
C'mon, he said, just one bite. It's dessert, it'll make you fart better.
She glared at him, her teeth exposed and shoved the Little Debbie out of her face. She bitterly shook her other hand, trying to free her wrist but he clutched her tightly.
Oh God! she screeched, standing on one leg, her body arched and pushing her panty down one leg. One hand hovered over her groin, the other behind her as if poised to catch and stop any eruption that might splurge out.
Well, there's no bathrooms around here! he snapped, and angrily flung the Little Debbie into the bushes behind the bench.
It was the first time she had witnessed any kind of emotion in him. Even his sniffing of her farts was something dispassionate, a rudimentary Ahh! Beginning and ceasing in an almost bored rhythmic breathing of air rather than a desperate grasping sucking-in of life itself she assumed the act supposed.
Just fart bitch! he ordered, reaching under her skirt, grabbing an ass-cheek and spinning her about. You can shit later!
But it was too late, the slight grip and clutch of his fingers on her ass-cheeks jerked open the taut strained rim of her asshole and freed the first burping nudge of shit.
She yelped a pained disbelieving cry, bent over at the waist, her legs spread apart, then quickly wobbled into the sparse bushes behind the bench for some cover. Another thick fat nudge of shit was speedily followed by a steamy easy ooze of wet excrement, a swift stream of watery shit that splashed to the ground, sprinkling her panties, shoes and ankles in dirt and slime.
She squirmed in disgust, trying to raise herself above the shit-spotted ground, with her splayed legs and feet, which were held in a bind by her dirty panties below the knees. Plus, the added tight pull of her skirt around her waist, only caused her to shift even lower into the rising slime and sludge beneath her.
Help me! she squealed, holding out a hand.
But he circled around her also squatted to the ground, trying to peer under her ass and breathe in the fumes of her oozing shit.
This was even better than her farts! he marveled to himself, and if he had known the stench of fresh shit, liquidly and dripping from her ass, could be so lush he would have dispensed with all those little farting sessions long ago.
What a waste of good money! he thought to himself. Twenty dollars a week for a few giggled farts when I could have tub loads of shit on demand! Fucken shit!
He bitterly felt cheated, as if he had been ripped off. Calculating how much he had overpaid her --close to a hundred and twenty dollars! Then suddenly he smirked. Hell, she was worth it, stuffing herself with the foods he told her to eat, gaining weight (even if she thought she didn't look it), coming to the park fully gassed, bloated and farting for an hour at a time. She'd be a wonderful memory. Nothing to regret.
He blinked; droplets of her shit splashed his face, but he did not pull away or try wiping them off, savoring not only the heat and stench of her shit but also the sight of it trickling out of her ass.
He didn't know what it was about the fart-smells of young girls that lured him into such a patient time-consuming quest to breath them in. Very often she lurked waiting twenty, thirty minutes before some uselessly gossiping girls left the park bench that they had roosted on. Finally pressing his nose, lips and eyes to the warmth and safety of the park bench, sucking in the aromas of skirts and panties and fleshy thighs.
He even once bought a pair of lacy panties (the sales lady looking curiously at him), worn them two or three days, imagining he would mimic the fresh smell of a female, but it wasn't the same. His own sweat, shit, semen and urine stains nothing like that of a fresh young girl...a fresh fart-smelly young girl.
What perfume or store-bought could mimic that?
Parfum de kaka? Eau de pee-pee?
What was it in female farts turned him on so? Some secret girlie formula? Something chromosomal and genetic?
He peered closer. Shreds of undissolved onion rings laced through her shit with week-old corn-on-the-cob (she had eaten that last Friday!), mixed in with candy bar peanuts, and those pinkish clumps weren't they the pork he had just fed her?
He took a contented deep breath and unzipped his pants, his penis large and stiff.
The girl kept straining to push more loose shit out which now flowed somewhat slower but had given up struggling to hoist herself up. She balanced herself in a precarious bent-over stoop and squat, her panties stretched to the limit, her outspread thighs smeared in dirt, her shitty ass twitching and straining as she hovered half-foot off the ground.
A few times she mumbled Bastard! and Oh God! but most of her sobs and curses were muffled by her lowered head as she spluttered into her arms.
He snorted. How humiliating and degrading, he smirked, to be shitting in public!
He leered and glanced around. The river and the promenade were in clear view to anyone passing by, but no one came. The sparse bushes behind the benches did little to shield the shit-entranced couple should anyone happened by; there was little chance of that.
Wow, to be shitting for all the world to see!
He chuckled, pulling his pants to his thighs, then inching himself under the girl and carrying her. The girl shuddered at his close touch, her head snapping back, her eyes wide her sweated hairs plastered to the sides of her face and forehead.
Had she forgotten him? Were the mumbled cries of Bastard! Fucken creep! but a memory of someone who had abused and abandoned her?
He gripped her biceps and pulled her closer on his lap that they were smeared together. Greatly surprised at the pliancy and ease of his body curving itself to ooze into and enter hers.
But hell, shit is a better smearing-unctuant than any store-bought Vaseline or jelly and her shitty ass was already strained and stretched so wide she probably didn't realize anything was re-entering her until his fourth or fifth rhythmic jab.
No! she yelped, as if coming to. But the realization of what had happened was also too late.
He also yelped, a crescendoing staccato of You whore, piss, cunt, shit fart, dyke, skank! Each spat-out word a shudder of disgust and hate, a spasm of bitter release and contempt, an orgasm of loathing and rage.
He squeezed her biceps tighter and held her on him her weight relaxed and settled on his dick and lap. His own thighs strained from the awkward ass-fucking posture, but he kept her squirming yet balanced and splayed atop him. He slightly eased his grip about her arms; she wouldn't be going anywhere soon.
A few times he heard her whimper, but her breathing was heavy, exhausted, spent. The shit must have taken a great too, and he pitied the poor dear...
Then he heard the trickle. A faint spurting forced whiz-whiz at first, followed by a steady free hissing stream, and he shuddered in disgust and revulsion.
The fucking bitch was peeing and peeing on me! Roosting on my lap with my dick her ass and all she does is pee! What a disgusting piece of walking human excrement!
He grabbed the back of her neck and yanked her off, his dick dribbling out of her ass as easily as it had entered.
You pig! he cursed and struck her back shoulder with his fist.
She grunted and toppled sideways, her bare ass plopping into her own shit and urine. She gurgled, flailing her arms and legs, trying to get up, but succeeded only in smearing herself in even more shit.
What a disgusting pig, he mumbled, shaking his head. His dick was still somewhat hard, and he tugged the skin back and forth, three of four times as his urine shot out at her. He peed, the urine clearing her eyes somewhat, and running in a stream down her face into her mouth.
Boy do you stink, you fat pig! he scowled, spurting his pee all over her.
She almost screamed, I'm not fat! but almost choked at the taste of urine flooding her throat, once again falling down to her shit.
He was right between her legs, having picked up the shit-smeared Little Debbie he had tossed over the bench, but now was shoving it down her throat.
Eat it, you fat whore! he ordered.
She gagged, but swallowed...
When she next looked up evening was coming on. She must have passed out. The promenade was deserted; a few cars travelled on the nearby highway. The old guy was gone, as was the twenty-dollar bill.
I'm not fat, she mumbled, the shit all about her. She silently wept.
****
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