Artist’s Scat Virginity Broken: Human Toilet for Cash, Cucumber & Cum

Bianca had always been the quiet one in the life-drawing class. Twenty-eight, freckled across the nose, dark hair usually twisted up with a paintbrush stuck through it. She painted nudes—clean, classical, the kind of work that hung in small galleries and sold slowly to people who liked their eroticism tasteful. Then one late night she followed a link from an art forum into a corner of the internet that was not tasteful at all.

The stories were blunt. Women on their knees. Mouths open. The sound of a man grunting and the wet, heavy drop of what came after. She told herself she was only reading for the psychology of it, the way the characters justified the act. She read until her laptop burned her thighs. By the third night her hand was inside her shorts while she scrolled, and she came with her teeth clenched around the name she had given the feeling: curiosity.

The curiosity turned practical. She bought a cheap plastic funnel and a roll of paper towels. Alone in the studio bathroom she tried, once, to position herself under her own body. The angle was impossible. She ended up crouched over a sheet of canvas paper she had intended for a still life, shaking, laughing at herself, then not laughing when the smell hit and her cunt clenched anyway. She wiped the paper clean, sealed it in a bag, and painted over the faint stain the next morning so no one would see. The painting sold. The buyer said the colors looked “lived in.”

She began calling the practice research. For the next piece she hired a model—a quiet man from the life-drawing list who answered her vague ad about “process-based body work.” She paid him cash. In the studio she set the camera on a tripod, framed only her face and shoulders, and told him what she wanted. He was nervous until she opened her mouth and stayed still. The first time he finished he aimed for the funnel she held. She flinched. The second time she did not. She swallowed what she could and let the rest run down her chin onto the canvas she had stretched across the floor. When he left she locked the door, stripped, and used a cucumber she had bought on the way home. She filmed that too—her own hand pushing the green length in and out while she stared at the camera and said, out loud, that she was still an artist.

The videos stayed on a locked drive. The canvases went up on the gallery wall under the title Afterimage. Critics called them visceral. One reviewer wrote that the work “smelled of something the artist refused to name.” Bianca smiled for the photograph and went home to reread the stories that had started it.

She met Chat and Lisa at an opening for a group show three weeks later. Chat was tall, soft-spoken, the kind of man who wore expensive sneakers with a cheap jacket. Lisa was shorter, sharper, with a buzzed undercut and a camera always in her hands. They stood in front of Bianca’s largest piece—the one with the faint brownish bloom she had never quite covered—and Lisa said, without lowering her voice, “You actually did it.”

Bianca’s mouth went dry. “Did what?”

“Don’t,” Lisa said. She smiled. “We recognized the look. Come outside.”

They walked to the loading dock. Chat lit a cigarette he did not smoke. Lisa offered Bianca a business card that had only a phone number and the word sessions.

“We’re not critics,” Chat said. “We’re collectors. Of a certain kind of process. If you’re still curious, text that number.”

Bianca texted at midnight. The reply came in under a minute: an address, a time, and the instruction to bring nothing but herself and the cucumber she had already used on camera.

The apartment was clean in the way expensive Airbnbs are clean. Lisa opened the door in a black tank top and bare feet. Chat sat on the couch in jeans, already hard enough that the outline showed. They did not waste time on small talk. Lisa set up two cameras—one on a tripod, one in her hand—and told Bianca to strip. Bianca did. She stood in the middle of the living room while Lisa walked a slow circle, filming the freckles, the small breasts, the way Bianca’s thighs pressed together.

“On your knees,” Chat said.

Bianca went down. The carpet was soft. Lisa handed her the cucumber. “Show us what you did alone.”

Bianca pushed it in. The stretch was familiar now. She worked it slowly while Chat watched and Lisa filmed from below, catching the shine on the green skin and the way Bianca’s mouth fell open. When Bianca started to shake, Lisa said, “Stop.” Bianca stopped, the cucumber halfway inside her. Lisa pulled it out, set it aside, and nodded at Chat.

Chat stood. He unzipped. Bianca opened her mouth without being told. He fed her his cock the way the stories described—steady, deep enough that she had to breathe through her nose, one hand on the back of her head but not forcing. She sucked until her jaw ached. When he pulled out he was wet from her throat. Lisa was already behind her, fingers between Bianca’s legs, checking how soaked she was.

“Ready?” Lisa asked.

Bianca nodded. Her voice came out small. “Yes.”

Chat turned her so she faced the wall, hands braced on the couch. He pushed in bare. The first stroke made her gasp. He was thicker than the cucumber. He fucked her in short, hard thrusts while Lisa filmed over his shoulder, catching the way Bianca’s back arched and the wet sound every time he bottomed out. Bianca came once with her forehead against the cushion, then again when Lisa reached under and rubbed her clit in tight circles. Chat did not stop. He kept going until Bianca’s legs shook and she was making the helpless, high noises the stories had trained her to expect.

He pulled out before he finished. Lisa guided Bianca onto the floor on her back, head tilted, mouth open. Chat stroked himself above her face. The first rope landed across her tongue. The second caught her cheek. He kept going until she was painted, then he pushed the head between her lips and finished the last of it down her throat. Bianca swallowed what she could. Lisa wiped the rest with two fingers and fed it to her.

They let her rest for ten minutes. Bianca lay on the carpet, sticky, breathing hard, the cameras still running. Lisa sat beside her and stroked her hair.

“That’s the easy part,” Lisa said. “You still want the rest?”

Bianca looked at the ceiling. Her cunt throbbed. Her mouth tasted of salt and skin. She thought of the canvases, of the critic who had smelled something unnamed, of the stories that had started with curiosity and ended with women on their knees saying please.

“Yes,” she said.

Chat left the room and came back with a towel and a small plastic bowl. He set the bowl on the floor. Lisa adjusted the cameras so both faces would be clear. Chat stood over Bianca, one hand on the wall for balance. He looked down at her.

“Open,” he said.

Bianca opened her mouth. She kept her eyes on the camera lens the way she had practiced alone. Chat’s face tightened. The sound was low and private. Then the weight hit her tongue—hot, heavy, thicker than she had imagined. She flinched. Her throat closed. Chat stayed still until she relaxed again. The second push was slower. She tasted it this time: earth, salt, something sharper underneath. She swallowed because the stories said the girls who swallowed got to keep going. Her eyes watered. Lisa’s hand found her hair and held it back.

Chat finished in three careful pushes. When he stepped away, Bianca’s mouth was full and her chin was wet. Lisa filmed the close-up while Bianca breathed through her nose and forced the last of it down. The aftertaste stayed. Bianca’s hand moved between her own legs without permission. Lisa caught the wrist.

“Not yet,” Lisa said. “We said we’d break you properly.”

They moved her to the bathroom. The tub was clean. Bianca knelt in it, elbows on the rim, ass up. Lisa set one camera on the sink. Chat stood behind her. He was hard again. He pushed into her cunt first—bare, deep, the way she was already stretched—and fucked her until she was dripping down her thighs. Then he pulled out, spread her, and pressed the head against her other hole. Bianca made a small, punched sound. He went slow. The stretch burned. Lisa reached under and rubbed Bianca’s clit in the same tight circles as before, forcing the pleasure through the discomfort until Bianca’s body opened and Chat sank in to the base.

He stayed there. Bianca shook. Lisa kept rubbing. When Bianca came the third time it was loud and ugly; her voice cracked and her knees slipped on the porcelain. Chat pulled out of her ass, turned her, and put her on her back in the tub. He straddled her chest, cock still wet from her, and jerked himself while Lisa held Bianca’s head steady.

“Open,” he said again.

Bianca opened. This time she knew what was coming. She kept her eyes open for the camera. Chat grunted. The first thick rope hit the back of her tongue. She swallowed on reflex. He kept stroking. More followed—hot, bitter, coating her mouth until she had to swallow or choke. When he was done he wiped the head across her lower lip and stepped out of the tub.

Lisa turned the camera off. She ran the water. Bianca stayed where she was, mouth open, breathing, the taste thick on her tongue and the ache in her ass already turning into something she wanted again. Lisa crouched beside the tub and stroked her cheek.

“Still an artist?” Lisa asked.

Bianca licked her lips. The taste stayed. She nodded.

“Good,” Lisa said. “Because tomorrow we film the glory-hole scene, and the day after that you’re the lifeguard who gets paid in cash to stay after the pool closes. We’ll need the cucumber again. And you’re going to come on camera every time we tell you to.”

Bianca closed her eyes. Water ran over her collarbones. Somewhere in the apartment Chat was already queuing up the next set of stories on his phone, reading the descriptions out loud so she could hear them over the sound of the faucet. She listened. Her hand slid between her legs under the water. Lisa did not stop her this time.

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, Bianca swallowed once more, just to feel it, and opened her mouth for whatever came next.