Chapter 15: The Log Ride
The polished concrete was cold against his back. Thin, black nylon straps crossed Arthur’s chest, hips, and ankles, securing him to a slightly inclined board. The material bit into his skin, not enough to hurt, but enough to erase any illusion of movement. He was a specimen pinned for dissection. The studio lights glared down, heating the air around him, a contrast to the chill from below.
“Tilt is fifteen degrees,” Brenda said, adjusting a knob at the base of the board. “Optimal for drainage and visual capture.”
“Drainage,” Arthur repeated, the word hollow.
Clara leaned over him, her hair curtaining their faces. She kissed him, deep and slow. “Shhh. It’s just geometry. You’re the constant in the equation.” Her thumb traced his cheek. “My constant.”
Mara wheeled over a cart. On it sat three industrial enema bags, filled with a thick, dark nutritional supplement. “Loaded for bear. Or, you know, for record-breaking payloads.” She grinned. “Client wants a precise measurement. Weight, length, diameter. Scientific method, baby.”
The women began their preparations with a casual, practiced ritual. They stripped, their movements efficient, not sensual. Clara attached the nozzles to the bags, her brow furrowed in concentration. Brenda tested the seals. Mara did stretches, her formidable gut gurgling audibly.
Arthur watched, his heart a frantic bird against the straps. This wasn’t the chaotic frenzy of the shit-pile or the shocking intimacy of the clitoral cock. This was procedural. This felt like an execution.
One by one, they took the nozzles, turned away, and inserted them. Soft hisses filled the air as the valves were opened. Arthur saw their backs tense, their abdomens distend slightly. They breathed through it, eyes closed, accepting the influx. Brenda took double the volume, her capacity a legend in its own right.
When they were full, they disconnected the apparatus. The change was immediate. Their lower bellies were taut, rounded drums. They moved carefully, gravid with purpose.
Clara approached the board first. She placed a warm, heavy hand on Arthur’s stomach. “The client wanted a direct hit. Chest and face. No obscuring the view.” She swung a leg over the board, straddling him, her enormous, softened ass hovering just above his shins. Then she began to lower herself, shifting back until her asshole, puckered and dark, was positioned directly over his sternum.
He had a perfect, horrifying view. The ring muscle twitched, strained.
“Ready for the first data point?” she asked, her voice tight with controlled pressure.
He couldn’t answer. He just stared.
Clara grunted. A low, internal rumble vibrated through her body and into the board. Her hole dilated, opening like a second mouth.
The first log didn’t fall. It emerged, a solid, smooth cylinder of deep brown. It was warm, almost hot, as the tip pressed against his chest. It kept coming, a relentless extrusion, piling onto him with a weight that was startling. It was exactly as advertised: a foot long, thick as a roll of quarters, dense and moist. The smell bloomed—earthy, pungent, intensely organic. It coiled on his chest, a searing, stinking burden.
Clara sighed, a sound of profound relief, and shifted backward, the trailing end of the log smearing across his nipple before breaking off. “Mark it,” she said, her voice returning to normal.
Brenda was there with a measuring tape and a digital scale, carefully lifting the waste off him, noting the figures on her tablet. “Twelve point two inches. Four point one pounds. Good density.”
Before Arthur could even process the removal, the weight, the smell that clung to his skin, Mara was there. She replaced Clara, her wider hips framing his world. She didn’t hover. She squatted directly over his face.
“Open wide, sweetheart,” she chuckled, and bore down.
Hers was different. It came faster, with a wetter, tearing sound. It was a shorter, squatter log, but wider in girth. It dropped onto his cheek with a soft, heavy slap, then rolled, smearing across his mouth and nose as the rest of the mass followed. He gasped, and the taste flooded in—bitter, sour, a granular paste on his tongue and lips. He gagged, turning his head, but the shit was everywhere, in his ear, clumping in his hair.
“Fourteen pounds even,” Brenda announced, after Mara stood and the deposit was weighed. “A personal best, Mara. Congratulations.”
Mara wiped her brow. “Hydration is key.”
Then it was Brenda’s turn. She moved with the solemnity of a master craftsman. She positioned herself over his lower abdomen, her gaze analytical. “The client requested a demonstration of structural integrity. Of the subject’s, and the waste’s.”
She began.
It wasn’t a log. It was a pillar. A continuous, unbroken column of shit that pushed out of her with terrifying, slow-motion force. It piled onto his stomach, a growing mound, its diameter unbelievable. The weight was immense, pressing his spine into the hard board. It kept coming, a seemingly endless production, rising in a soft brown tower on his midsection. The pressure made it hard to breathe. The smell was overwhelming, a fungal, deep-earth reek.
Finally, with a soft, wet plop, it ended. The mountain sat on him, a sloping, warm monument. Brenda stepped back, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on her skin. “Measure that.”
Brenda’s hands, gloved now, approached. But Clara stopped her. “Wait.”
Clara’s eyes were dark, fixed on Arthur’s face peeking out from under the filth on his cheeks and the mountain on his torso. Her own newly-transformed cock, which had been soft, was beginning to swell again, thickening and rising from her cleft. The sight of him pinned and defiled was doing it for her. “The penetration sequence. Now. With the load in place.”
She climbed onto the board, kneeling over him, her knees bracketing his hips. Her cock, now fully erect, bobbed above the mountain of Brenda’s waste. She used her hands to shovel some of the shit aside, clearing a path to his ass. The cold, wet matter squelched under her fingers.
Arthur was past protest. He was a node of sensation: the strap-burns, the crushing weight on his belly, the taste of Mara in his mouth, the smell of all of them clogging his nostrils. When Clara’s slick, broad head pressed against him, it was just another inevitable pressure.
She pushed. The intrusion was brutal, a familiar, stretching agony made stranger by the context. She buried herself into him, her pelvis coming to rest not against his skin, but against the warm, shifting mound of shit on his stomach. The mass compressed under her weight.
She began to fuck him. Slow, deep, purposeful strokes. Each thrust drove his body down into the board, which made the shit-mountain on his stomach quiver and shift. Some of it oozed over the sides, falling onto the board with wet plops.
“Feel that,” Clara grunted, her hands braced on the board next to his shoulders. “You’re full of me. And you’re buried under them. You’re the fucking connective tissue.”
Her pace increased. The board creaked. The shit jiggled. Arthur moaned, a trapped, broken sound. The stimulation was convoluted, a feedback loop of pain, fullness, and the profound debasement of the act. He was a fuck-toy amid a waste disposal site.
Clara’s breath hitched. “Gonna come… gonna mark you inside… right in the middle of all this…”
Her orgasm took her, a sharp, shuddering series of thrusts. He felt the hot pulse deep inside him, a claim sealed in the depths of his body. She cried out, a raw, triumphant sound.
As she shuddered through the last waves, she glanced at Brenda and gave a sharp nod.
Brenda understood. She stepped forward, now positioned at the head of the board. Clara, still impaling Arthur, leaned forward, putting more of her weight on his chest, pinning him completely.
Brenda squatted over Arthur’s face.
From his paralyzed perspective, it was all he could see: the vast, shadowed expanse of her ass, the strained, gaping hole at its center. It was still slick, still dilated from her earlier performance.
There was no preamble. No gurgle or groan. Just a sudden, quiet outpouring.
A final, thick slurry, the dregs of her immense payload, poured out. It wasn’t solid logs now. It was a warm, porridge-like cascade that fell directly onto his face. It covered his eyes, his nose, his mouth in a seamless, airtight blanket. It filled his ears. The world went dark, silent, and suffocating. The only sound was the distant, muffled thunder of his own heartbeat and the wet patter of the last drops falling onto the board.
The weight on his chest lessened as Clara pulled out. He felt her shift away. He was alone, strapped down, entombed under Brenda’s final, cementing layer.
“Leave him,” he heard Clara say, her voice faint and distorted through the muffling filth. “For a minute. Let the shot linger.”
There was silence. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to breathe, not really, not in any way that mattered—his immortal body would endure, would simply wait out the hypoxia in a state of agonized suspension—but the instinct was there, a primal, screaming panic. He fought against the straps, a tiny, futile convulsion.
The minute stretched. He floated in a black, warm, putrid universe.
Then, the cold, hard spray of the hose. It hit his face first, blasting the shit away in chunks, revealing his gasping, blinking features. The water carved canyons through the mountain on his stomach, washing it all away in a river of brown that sluiced off the board and across the polished floor. The straps were released. The board was tilted upright, the last of the waste sliding off.
Clara caught him as he stumbled, her hands gentle under the punishing stream. She held him close, letting the water clean them both. When the hose shut off, she cradled him, shivering, in a thick, warm towel.
Brenda and Mara were already wiping down equipment, talking logistics.
“The internal footage from the capsule cam is gonna be wild,” Mara said. “Right up the ass during penetration. That’s a first.”
“The weight differential data is compelling,” Brenda noted. “The subject’s spinal compression was measurable. Adds a verifiable risk-factor element the clients enjoy.”
Arthur heard them, but the words were distant. He was focused on the feel of Clara’s thumb rubbing circles on his back, on the steady beat of her heart under his ear.
She carried him to the clean side of the studio, away from the drain and the smell of bleach now battling the residual stench. She sat in a low chair, holding him in her lap, wrapped in the towel.
“You okay?” she whispered, her lips against his wet hair.
He was silent for a long moment. “I couldn’t breathe,” he finally said, his voice raw.
“I know.”
“It was… the most afraid I’ve been. Since the beginning.”
She tensed. “Do you want to stop?”
He looked up at her. Her face was clean, stripped of its dominant mask, etched with a genuine, anxious care. He thought of the shit, the weight, the violation. He thought of her kiss before it began. Of her claiming him in the middle of it. Of her holding him now.
“No,” he said, and realized he meant it. The fear was part of the fabric now, a dark thread in the weave. It made the tenderness after feel like a miracle, not a given. “It’s just… the contrast. It’s extreme.”
“That’s the point,” she said, but her voice was soft. “The contrast is the whole fucking point. The filth and the care. The degradation and the…” She searched for the word.
“The ownership,” he supplied.
She nodded, her eyes bright. “Yes. My ownership. Which isn’t about breaking you. It’s about knowing every part of you, even the parts that are terrified. Especially those parts.” She kissed his forehead. “You are my willing submissive. And I am your… weird Florence Nightingale.”
A snort of laughter escaped him, a brittle, unexpected sound. It broke the remaining tension.
Across the room, Brenda powered down the main console. The studio lights dimmed to a soft glow. “The client approved the raw cut,” she said, walking over. “They’ve sent a new proposal. A series. They want to explore the limits of your immortality. Not just resilience… but recovery. How fast you return to baseline after… catastrophic scenarios.”
Mara joined them, toweling her hair. “They’re talking about things that would kill anyone else. Just to see you sit up and ask for more.”
Arthur felt a chill that had nothing to do with being wet. This was new. This moved beyond kink, beyond performance art. This was treating his one supernatural trait as a laboratory condition.
Clara’s arms tightened around him. Her voice, when it came, was low and carried a new, protective steel. “We decide the scenarios. We define the limits. Not them. He’s not just a subject. He’s the foundation.”
She looked down at Arthur, her gaze fierce. “You understand? This gets darker. They want to see how dark it can go. But you have a veto. Always. A safe word isn’t enough anymore. We need a safe concept.”
He nestled into her warmth, the enormity of what she was offering settling over him. She was drawing a line, not between them and the world, but around them. She was offering to manage the darkness, to curate his sufferings. It was a twisted form of love, but he could feel the love in it, as real as the shit he’d just swallowed.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said, and held him closer as the last of the lights went out, leaving them in a darkness that felt, for now, safe.
The darkness was a blanket, heavy and complete. Arthur listened to the hum of the building’s infrastructure, a sound usually masked by light. Clara’s heartbeat was a slow drum under his ear. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his back through the towel.
“A veto,” he murmured into the warmth of her skin. “A safe concept.” The words felt strange, bureaucratic, applied to what they did.
“Yeah,” Clara said. Her chin rested on top of his head. “We’re in uncharted territory. You’re uncharted territory. We can’t just… freewheel forever.”
From across the dark room, Brenda’s voice cut through, practical as a scalpel. “The client’s proposal involved hydraulic presses. Simulated drowning in various viscosities. Prolonged metabolic deprivation while under bio-waste loads.”
A cold knot tightened in Arthur’s gut. The previous fear, the suffocation under Brenda’s final slurry, flashed behind his eyes.
Clara’s hand went still. “No.”
“I’m just relaying the request.”
“Relay back that the answer is fucking no. He’s not a piece of lab plastic.” Her voice was low, but it vibrated through Arthur’s small frame. “The immortality is a condition. It’s not the point.”
Silence stretched. Arthur felt a sudden, desperate need to bridge the gap between the horror proposed and the strange safety he felt in her arms. He wanted to offer something, to participate in defining this boundary. The image came to him not as a fantasy, but as a correction, a simplification.
“What if…” he began, his voice tentative. “What if we tried something… just for us? Not for a client. No cameras. Just to see.”
Clara shifted. “Like what?”
He pictured the crude, intimate geometry of it. “A diaper. One you could all use at once. With me inside it.” He felt her intake of breath. “A shared space. Total immersion. But… I’m more into the thick, solid stuff. The unbreaking logs. The… architecture of it.”
In the dark, Mara laughed, a short, surprised sound. “The architecture? Fuck, Arthur. Only you.”
But Clara was listening intently. He could feel her focus.
“That’s our favorite, too,” Brenda stated, matter-of-factly. “The solid matter is more visually defined. It retains form. It’s structurally interesting. The logistics of a shared garment, however, are problematic. Standard designs wouldn’t accommodate three adult women of our… output capacity.”
“So we modify,” Clara said, her tone shifting from protector to co-conspirator. “We engineer it. A custom rig. Something that seals around all of you, forms a common basin. A closed ecosystem.”
The idea took root in the darkness, growing tendrils.
“Like a fucked-up sleeping bag,” Mara said, her voice gleeful.
“Like a womb,” Clara corrected, quietly.
Two days later, the prototype lay on the studio floor. It was less a diaper and more a bizarre, padded chrysalis made of waterproof laminate and medical-grade absorbent polymer. It had three separate, reinforced openings, arranged in a triangle, each with a complex seal meant to accommodate a pair of hips. The center was a deep, hollow pouch.
Arthur stood beside it, normal-sized for now, reviewing the schematics on a tablet. “The seals are key. They have to withstand pressure and movement without breach.”
“And the containing vessel here,” Brenda said, pointing to the central pouch, “has a calculated capacity of fifteen gallons before risk of structural failure. We should test to twelve.”
Clara ran her hand over the smooth interior material. “It’s like you’re going to be in a fucking soup bowl. Our soup.”
“Our stew,” Mara grinned, hefting a gallon jug of her usual fiber mix. “A hearty, chunky stew.”
Arthur felt a flutter that wasn’t entirely fear. This was his idea. His boundary. A scenario where the goal wasn’t spectacle for an unseen audience, but a specific, shared sensation. The intimacy of it was terrifying in a new way.
“Okay,” he said, putting the tablet down. “Let’s test it.”
He activated the return-field generator. The world shrank, the studio vaulting away. The laminate of the diaper-pod rose around him like the curved wall of a white, sterile canyon. He stood in the center of the pouch, utterly exposed.
Above him, three giants appeared, naked and businesslike. Clara, Brenda, and Mara each positioned themselves at an opening. They lowered themselves, guiding their bodies through the seals, which tightened with a soft hiss of pressure-release valves. The pod elevated as they settled their weight around its edges, their immense asses hovering just over the rim. He was surrounded by a triumvirate of flesh, a tiny figure in a Colosseum of looming, familiar forms.
The space filled with their body heat, their scent—soap, sweat, the anticipatory tang of arousal. The air grew thick, humid.
“Comfort check,” Brenda said, her voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space.
“Seal is good,” Mara reported, wiggling her hips. The material groaned but held.
Clara looked down between her legs, her gaze finding Arthur’s upturned face. “You sure?”
He nodded, unable to speak.
“Then we begin.”
They had prepared together, a synchronized intake of supplements designed for optimal consistency. The process started not with drama, but with a collective, focused stillness. Three faces above contorted in similar expressions of deep, internal concentration.
Clara went first. A low groan escaped her lips as she bore down. Above Arthur, her asshole, perfectly centered, dilated. The first log emerged with a soft, wet pop. It was magnificent—a thick, tan-brown cylinder that fell slowly, turning in the air. It landed beside him with a dense, heavy thud that shook the pod floor. It was exactly what he’d asked for: solid, unbreaking, a foot-long monument of waste. The smell bloomed, rich and fecal.
Before he could even process it, Brenda’s contribution began. Hers slid out with more mechanical precision, a slower, continuous extrusion of incredible girth. It coiled as it fell, a perfect spiral of dense shit that landed with a series of softer thumps, piling atop and beside Clara’s. The mound was growing.
Then Mara’s joined. Hers was shorter but impossibly wide, a squat, hefty pillar that dropped like a bomb, splattering slightly at the base where it hit the accumulating pile. The pod was filling fast, the walls of shit rising around Arthur’s knees, then his thighs.
“Fuck, that’s a good batch,” Mara sighed, the relief in her voice palpable.
“Round two,” Clara breathed, already straining again.
The second volley began. This was the true deluge. Logs and coils and pillars rained down from the three openings above, a synchronized storm of waste. They fell across Arthur’s shoulders, bounced off his head, piled in the space between his legs. He was being buried alive in the specific, solid matter he’d requested. A log from Brenda struck his chest, knocking him backward into the softening mound. One from Mara pinned his arm. Clara’s third, a smoother, darker length, rolled across his face, smearing his lips before settling against his neck.
The heat was tropical. The smell was so thick it felt like a paste in his throat. The weight was immense, pinning him in a seated position against the pod’s curved wall, shit up to his chin. He was packed in, a specimen in a jar of their collective production.
“He’s completely submerged,” Brenda observed, her voice clinical but touched with awe.
“Good,” Clara purred. “Now, the shared space part.”
She began to move. Not to stand, but to shift her hips, to grind down against the seal. The entire pod jostled. The mountain of shit shifted and settled, compressing around Arthur. Mara joined in, a slow, deliberate rotation of her pelvis. The logs around him ground together, releasing pockets of gas that bubbled up through the mass with low, foul gurgles.
Brenda, ever systematic, began a rhythmic oscillation, rocking back and forth. The combined motion churned the contents. Solid logs rubbed against Arthur’s body like rough, warm bricks. The pressure was everywhere, absolute, molding him.
Clara was panting. Arthur could see her face, flushed and glistening with sweat, through the forest of her pubic hair above. Her hand was moving between her legs. She wasn’t using her enlarged cock; she was frantically rubbing her clit, her eyes locked on where he was buried.
“You’re in our shit,” she chanted, her voice guttural. “You’re swimming in it. You’re made of it now.”
Her orgasm broke with a sharp cry. She bucked hard, and a final, softer stream of piss and loose filth jetted from her, hot as tea, cascading down the shit-mountain to soak into the packed matter around Arthur’s head. The acidic smell of urine cut through the heavier odors.
Mara came next, grunting like a weightlifter, her whole body shuddering and adding another, wetter layer to the mix. Brenda followed, her climax silent but profound, a series of tight clenches that pushed out a last, sticky trickle that sealed the whole terrible, wonderful cake.
Then, stillness. Heavy, sweating, panting stillness. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the occasional wet drip.
Arthur was encased, paralyzed, utterly filled with them. The sensation was not one of suffocation this time, but of profound, weighty incorporation. He was an ingredient. He had asked for this.
After a long moment, Clara’s hands, slick with her own fluids, plunged into the shit. They dug through the logs, finding him. She pulled him up, a filthy, birth-like extraction. He emerged gasping, coated in a packed layer of brown, pieces of solid matter stuck to his hair, his skin.
No one turned on the hose. Clara brought him to her chest, ignoring the filth, and held him. Brenda and Mara leaned in, their hands, also filthy, touching his back, his legs, a messy, claiming caress.
“The architecture,” Clara whispered into his shit-caked hair, her voice raw with emotion. “It was perfect.”