Her boot strings were drawn tightly, so that the tongues were nearly hidden in the upper and the shaft conformed to the contours of her ankles. She snappily loosened the first few rungs of her laces with her index finger, and pushed the boots off by the heels with her toes. Then she pulled off her long, black socks—slimy from being drenched in sweat, and leaving behind clouds of dust whenever disturbed. She tossed them somewhere off to her side, and kicked her feet up onto the other cushion. They were foul from being submerged in sweat, trapped in the unwashed interior of her warm boots—and she’d worn the same socks every day for at least a couple weeks. She could just barely see the red hue on her swollen, aching feet, at the base of her plump toes, underneath the wet black sludge stuck to her soles. She massaged her feet with her black, ashen hands and picked her toenails clean with her fingers. She leaned back, let out a sigh of relaxed relief, spread her toes, and reached into the recesses of the couch, hoping to find some leftover food.

    She found plenty: an open bag of stale salt-and-vinegar potato chips, half-eaten Reese’s cups discarded out of their wrappers, and even a decent-sized half-eaten cheeseburger hanging out of its wrapper, which sent a disturbed colony of flies fluttering around her and ultimately landing home on her forehead, feet, and back onto her food. She slowly ate her dinner with her eyes closed, savoring the taste, letting crumbs fall into her shirt and get trapped in her cleavage—tacky with sweat—smudging chocolate on the corners of her lips, salivating down her chin, and relishing her efficacy at taking control over the occasional live buzzing flies stimulating the roof of her mouth. Cold, odorous grease drizzled down her wrists and through the damp, outgrown hairs on her forearms. She chewed with her mouth open, obnoxiously slurping, smacking her lips, and stuffing the entire lower third of her face into her burger such that it was smeared with brown ketchup and mustard.

    She paused her chewing briefly, stricken with a sudden realization. She hadn’t had a burger in quite some time. This one had to be at least a couple weeks old. How was it so soft and juicy? She lifted the bun up slightly—an extremely foul odor escaping and turning her stomach—and what she saw turned her face flush. She saw a ghastly, dense jungle of mold seemingly held together with hundreds of frantically writhing maggots, glistening with thick, brown excretions and secretions.

    Involuntarily, she felt her stomach begin to wretch and convulse as she repeatedly gagged—her skin breaking out in innumerable little goosebumps—until she regurgitated the ooze that was her meal back onto her burger and down her hands and body. She now sat in a warm puddle of vomit, her thighs damp with brown chunks of rotten burger saturated in stomach acid. Slimy strings of drool ran down her chin, with surviving maggots energetically wriggling, trapped inside it.

    Such a wet, squishy, tasty burger! Mysogirl thought to herself, taking another bite into the burger, marinated in the expelled remnants of predigested beef, larvae, and gastric acid as it was. She was stimulated by the experience: feeling a flush of heat trickle down the pits of her lower tummy, her skin broken out into goosebumps, the acid’s slight burn eating into the flesh of her bosom as it dripped from her chin. She felt a wet trickle emerge through her panties, sending a shiver up her spine. She opened her legs, allowing the maggot-infested vomit to fall between her thighs, dug her feet into the recesses of the dusty red furniture, and shoved her hand down the waistline of her jeans without unzipping them. The effort cramped her hand and forced her to push against the resistance of the band, even pinching out some of her outgrown pubic hair, but she managed to get her soot-covered finger to her clitoris, where she gently rubbed the pad of her finger, teasing it against a cyst adjacent to it. She could still feel maggots moving in the back of her throat, so she tilted her head back, grabbed a handful of vomit with her other hand, and guided her dirty fingers down her throat. She rubbed her uvula, spreading the putrid puke on it, letting the maggots envelop her finger and explore the back of her throat.

    Shivers enveloped her body, and she slowly pushed her fingers down her throat, pressing against her tongue, so she’d gag. A flood of gruel lubricated her fingers around her clit. She decided to explore the cyst directly, and found it was extremely taut and itchy, bulging against her finger like a plump button. She squeezed it gently, and felt a burst of pus escape into her labia just as she gagged again, hunched over, and released another flurry of vomit onto her lap. As she lurched over, she easily slid a fist into her gaping cunt, causing her back to arch promptly forward and sending an instant cold shock up her spine. Her toes dug into the slimy vomit running into the folds of the couch as an intense orgasm swept over her body, ultimately releasing her muscles as she settled back into her self-made sewer of vomit and sweat, welcoming her body back with a wet squelching sound.

    Mysogirl let out a sigh of relief. She’d been holding back the overwhelming need to orgasm for the entirety of the latter half of her day. She hadn’t climaxed since her last break, in the porta-potty on-site, at least four hours ago. This was like an eternity for her. The only thing keeping her sane was the slick gruel dripping down her legs and the sight of her muscular male coworkers breaking their backs in the pummeling heat. Leaning back, relaxing her arms behind her head, she fantasized for some time about the sweaty men she was surrounded by constantly, visualizing their strong hands hammering away at rock and fastening tiedowns on cargo due for transportation. She aspired to achieve a managerial position in her company—only one reason for which included that she’d be able to more closely oversee and ogle these men.

    She sat, drooling and lost in lurid fantasy, until the puke surrounding her dried into pinky-brown flakes. Then she stood and walked over to the bedside part of her apartment, to see her husband sound asleep, naked in bed. A single leg of his wrapped around the outside of the comforter, covering him only up to his chest. His breaths were deep and frequent, and she admired the small mole on his closed eyelid. The sheets spread around him were stained with old menstrual blood and deeply yellowed beyond saving, overlaid with a layer of gray ash and discarded cigarette butts strewn throughout. His skin radiated with the golden hue of the twilight sun rays peaking through the drawn windows. Standing at the edge of the bed, Mysogirl felt a warm flush envelop the pit of her stomach and rise to the surface of her skin, as if she could already feel the heat from his sleeping body surrounding her. A thick, profuse stream of gruel immediately flowed from her cunt into her jeans, as her clit throbbed so intensely it was almost painful—like the pounding of a hammer against her pelvis.

    She was no longer aware of the fact that her body desperately ached, that she was ready to pass out from exhaustion. She had only one overriding concern now. She climbed into the bed on her hands and knees and silently crawled over to his resting body. She gently lifted the comforter off of him to reveal his thick, brown cock. She stared at it for minutes, teasing her appetite, focusing on the sensation of her eyes’ motion as she slowly tracked the path of its veins and charted its meaty corona. She trembled, weak from both exhaustion and desperation. Her elbows finally collapsed, and she lay flat on her tummy. Fortunately, he remained sound asleep.

    She pressed her nose against the shaft of his cock, and took a slow, steady inhale. She shuddered. The cheesy, stale scent of his circumcised cock sent a bone-wrenching hammer blow from her clit through her whole body. A bristling, static fuzziness percolated over her scalp. She pressed her nose deep into his balls, and inhaled their deep, musty scent. The sweat-induced moisture cast a layer of fog over her eyeglass lenses, and her brown pupils rolled to the back of her head as she breathed as deeply as she possibly could. Her heart beat hard and she could feel pressure build in her chest. She was finally in bliss, the most comforting home in existence known to her. She revered his sweaty, hairy balls—regretting only that she’d eventually have to separate from them. She sat, each breath working at full capacity and in regular rhythm, for well over an hour.

    Drool seeped from her mouth, thoroughly covering her chin and his balls in a rank puddle. She even noticed some maggot survivors still writhing in her saliva. She peaked her head up slightly, and engorged his cock straight to the back of her throat. She forced herself to hold it there, her ejected tongue pressed between her lower lip and the bottom of his shaft, her eyes swelling with tears, until she gagged up a rusty-tasting ball of vomit—which violently shot out her nostrils. She slowly retracted his cock from the back of her throat, swallowing the mass just enough to leave rivulets of brown slime leaking from her nostrils and lips. It was hard for her to distinguish whether the clumps dripping from her nostrils were maggot-infused beef or boogers.

    She then held her breath, opened her mouth as wide as she could, and focused on rhythmically pushing her head forward against his cock—knocking the back of her throat again and again. This was a momentary relief for her characteristically active mind—a glimpse of time where she could clear her mind and focus on nothing save one clear mission: Absorb his cock. Nothing, not even oxygen, mattered—and this was the only mantra her inner voice muttered, until she was on the verge of passing out. Even if she did, however, she would not stop until her greatest treasure and reward in life—a load of his creamy cum—filled her wet, rancid mouth: her prized “cocksucker.”

    She rocked her head back and forth until her vision was overcome with tiny red, blue, and green dots—like the phosphor coating of a cathode ray tube television set—and the stimulating percolates along her scalp gave way to numbness. Finally, his cock throbbed, doubling its size, and flooded her mouth with rich, creamy semen. It first burst down her throat, then flooded the space under her tongue and soothed her burning tonsils. She allowed the cock to fall out of her mouth and her head to fall limp on his lap, loudly and violently gasping for air as she swished the zesty cream on her tongue and pushed it through the gap where her front tooth had been extracted—but within seconds, she succumbed to the deafening ringing of her ears, and her field of vision faded to pitch black.