I met him in the consultation room at the Studio. He had the physique and overall appearance of a Beluga whale, except that he was not cute.
A Beluga whale in a very expensive suit.
He wanted to be “forced” to eat a turd.
“Sorry, I can’t help you with that. Would you like to meet another Mistress?” I stood up to go.
“Not one of your turds! A dog turd!”
I blinked. A dog turd. That’s a new one.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“How are we to acquire said dog turd? Did you bring in a dog turd?”
Beluga’s brow furrowed. Apparently this master of strategy had not planned that far ahead.
“Could you get one from someplace?”
I just stared at him. Do you see any dogs around here, halfwit?
He sat there, expectantly. That’s something about rich people: they expect things to be done for them, however unreasonable.
Eventually, I said, “If you pay me for the time it takes, I will try to find you a piece of dog crap.”
So, he paid me for a half-hour session (“I am not looking for dog shit for longer than half an hour,” I told the manager), ran in back to tell the girls oh my God, this freak wants me to go find a dog turd, donned latex gloves, and hit the streets, plastic grocery bag in my back pocket. A veritable Jason was I, on a quest for the golden fleece.
If, like me, you are fascinated by the diversity of human sexual programs, you may enjoy the comment thread discussion of why someone might want this.
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