Love to Shit Girls - Weak For My Fat Shit

You are lying on your back, your head tilted up to the sky, eyes closed as you feel the warmth of the sun soaking into your skin. A gentle breeze caresses your cheeks and plays with your hair, sending shivers down your spine. Suddenly, you hear a soft voice. "Open your mouth, my slave. You crave my fat shit so bad."

You know that voice. It belongs to your beloved Mistress, Love to Shit Girls, the one who has been training you to be her toilet slave. You feel your body responding to her command, even though your mind is still trying to process what she said. "I... I can't do that," you stutter, feeling a knot forming in your stomach.

"Oh, but you can," she says, her laughter ringing out. "You've been begging for it, haven't you? Begging to taste my delicious fat shits. Well, here's your chance, slave." Before you can say anything else, you feel a warm, wet blob hit your tongue.

It's her shit. You recognize the taste, the smell, the texture. It's all so familiar now, even after just a few days of training. You swallow nervously, feeling the thick, heavy mass sliding down your throat. You want to gag, you want to puke, but you can't. You are addicted to her shit, and you can't get enough of it.

She must see the struggle on your face, because she chuckles softly and gives you a reassuring pat on the cheek. "There, there, baby. You'll get used to it. In fact, you'll love every moment of it. Now, why don't you try taking another bite?" She tilts your chin up gently, forcing your mouth open just enough for another glob of her sweet, stinky shit to hit your tongue.

This time, you don't hesitate. You love the taste, the feeling of it filling your mouth. You moan in ecstasy as you swallow again, feeling an intense rush of pleasure course through your body. She's right - you are addicted to her fat shit. And you don't want to ever stop.

Over the next few hours, she feeds you her shit, slowly but surely breaking down your resistance. You revel in the taste, the smell, the texture, losing yourself in the intense pleasure her shit brings you. As the sun begins to set and the cool breeze turns frosty, you realize with horror that you've become completely dependent on her shit. You need it to function, to feel whole.

And she knows it. She smirks down at you, a twinkle in her eye. "Yes, you're Weak For My Fat Shit," she says, pushing one final glob of shit into your waiting mouth. "And you always will be." With a pleased hum, she gets up and walks away, leaving you to wonder how you'll ever be able to survive without her stinky treats.