It started innocently enough, or at least that’s the lie I tell myself when the quiet moments creep in, those rare pauses between the cravings that now define me. I was always the good girl—the porcelain-skinned brunette with the straight A’s, the polite smile, the life mapped out in neat, acceptable lines. But beneath that facade, there was a whisper, a tiny fracture in my psyche where the forbidden seeped through. It began with curiosity, you know? Late-night searches on my phone, hidden tabs exploring the edges of desire, things that made my cheeks flush and my thighs clench. Public exposure at first—flashing a stranger on the subway, the thrill of vulnerability without consequence. But it wasn’t enough. The rush faded too quickly, leaving me hollow, chasing something deeper, dirtier.

     That first time in the park? It was a revelation, a crack widening into a chasm. The sensation of shitting in the open air, the warm expulsion against the cool breeze, the risk of eyes on me—it wasn’t just physical. It was psychological liberation, a fuck-you to the suffocating norms that had boxed me in. Society’s taboos became my playground; defecating publicly felt like reclaiming power, turning shame into ecstasy. My mind raced with it: the dopamine flood from the danger, the endorphin high from the stretch and release, rewiring my brain to associate filth with freedom. I remember lying in bed that night, fingers buried in my slick folds, replaying the moment—the earthy scent lingering on my skin, the way my body betrayed any lingering guilt with waves of orgasmic aftershocks. Guilt? It was there, flickering like a dying bulb, but the pleasure drowned it out.

    Meeting him the next day accelerated everything. He wasn’t just a stranger; he was a catalyst, his massive black cock a tool that pried open doors in my soul I didn’t know existed. Asking him to fuck me while I shat—it was impulsive, born from a deepening void that vanilla sex could never fill. The psychology of it? Surrender, total and utter. My mind fragmented under the assault: the burn of his veins dragging through my ass, the mess coating us both, it shattered barriers. I wasn’t just a woman anymore; I was a vessel for depravity, my thoughts twisting from “this is wrong” to “this is me.” Cleaning him with my mouth, tasting my own waste mingled with his cum—it was a ritual of self-debasement, each swallow eroding the last vestiges of my former self. And when I offered my mouth for his shit? That was the pivot point. Chewing, swallowing, the acrid bitterness becoming a comfort—it marked the shift from experimentation to addiction. My brain chemistry altered; endorphins linked to humiliation, serotonin spiking from the taboo. I felt alive, unburdened by morality, descending into a hedonistic abyss where judgment dissolved.

     By the time he invited me to that hotel suite, the descent was a freefall. The orgy with his friends—six ebony gods with cocks like weapons—pushed me beyond edges I thought were limits. Psychologically, it was annihilation. The blowbang choked not just my throat but my inhibitions; vomiting on them, gagging as that impossibly long shaft plunged into my stomach, enzymes tingling against his flesh—it was invasive on a cellular level, my mind surrendering to objectification. I became a thing, a hole for their pleasure, and god, the euphoria in that erasure. The double penetrations ravaged my body, but the real destruction was mental: cervical battering tearing through physical boundaries, uterine orgasms convulsing my core, leaving me weeping not from pain but from the uncanny bliss of being broken. Screams turned to sobs of gratitude; squirting became a release of pent-up repression. My psyche fractured into shards—each thrust deeper into my intestines or esophagus rewriting my identity as a depraved slut, craving the pain that affirmed my existence.

     The shit bukkake sealed it. Their waste cascading over me—hot, pungent loads on my face, breasts, hair, glasses—I didn’t recoil; I played in it like an innocent rediscovering wonder. Scooping, smearing, stuffing it into my orifices, the playful antics were a manic high, my mind dissociated yet hyper-aware, turning revulsion into rapture. Eating it all, chewing the sinewy gristle—the tough, fatty bits resisting my teeth, forcing me to gnaw and savor the metallic tang—it was communion, ingesting their essence, my belly distending like a badge of my fall. The psychology? Masochistic fulfillment, a descent where fullness equated worth, the pain of my swollen gut a twisted validation. Bloating to the point of agony, yet I craved more, my thoughts looping in obsessive cycles: “This is purity, this is truth.”

    The aftercare confused me at first—tender massages in a tub of their semen, hands gentle on my shoulders and feet. It was a brief illusion of care, but even that fed the depravity, contrasting the brutality to heighten the high. Drinking their cum from the glass afterward, scoop by scoop, until I passed out—it was the final surrender. Now, looking back, I see the spiral: from curious girl to insatiable void. Morality? A relic. Sanity? Fractured. My mind is a labyrinth of cravings, each act pulling me deeper into the dark, where depravity isn’t descent—it’s home. And I’d do it all again, without a flicker of regret.