The piles were well picked over by the time Dines on Shit and Searches for Shit squeezed through a hole in a screen and got outside. Their tardiness was Dines on Shit's fault. He was so low on energy he could barely keep his buzz going. Catching sight of the pile -- a mellow, inviting, two-tone brown with a delicious smell -- put some spirit in their flying. They made a perfunctory circle to make sure Bigsmelly and Badbreath weren't lurking nearby, then dive-bombed their first meal of the day.

Dines on Shit was tucked in, enjoying his breakfast, when things became quiet. His cousin normally made enough noise for 10 flies, but not now. He looked around the pile. There was no sign of him. He took another bite, then stopped. Walking up the pile toward him was none other than Aglow with Shit. What a fine, fine looking fly she was. All kinds of improper, procreative thoughts rushed him like thugs in a dark alley.

They talked about the pile, and how they had seen better. But this wasn't about food, and they both knew it. Dines on Shit reached out a foreleg. Aglow with Shit shied slightly, but let him touch her. It was a short hop from there to producing his rock-hard flystick and shoving it between her mandibles. Like a good girl, she took over from there, and she knew her business. He buzzed his wings in exhilaration as she worked the stick, taking it all in. He pet the sides of her face as she bobbed up and down aggressively. He almost exploded in a cataclysm of flyspunk, but, through an iron will, he held back, pulled out, and spun her around in the brown soup.

He looked around to make sure the dumb animals weren't sneaking up on them. He caught sight of a small black dot circling high above. His cousin may not be too bright, but he was a good wingman.

Back to business. He paused for a second to admire Aglow with Shit's sultry, round rump and her juicy, pulsating flygash. Unable to contain himself, he mounted her like a mangy dawg. He rammed it in without mercy. He fucked her hard. He fucked her slow. He fucked her hard again. He fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.

"You're a dirty little whore!" he said.

Her wings buzzed in ecstacy while he freight-trained his white-hot flyspunk deep inside her.

In no time he was hard chargin' and ready for another round. This time it was back to her mouth. He held one of her mandibles and thrust his flystick in and out of the purdy, supple little Shit intake. She gagged a few times but made no move to halt an experience she could not have dreamed possible. This round lasted even longer than the first. Dines on Shit found himself admiring the stamina of her mouth muscles -- for the love of Shit, she was really something. Just before mercilessly slamming her with another giant dose of hot flyspunk, he moved his stick into her cheek, stretching it beautifully in the process.

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"That's my slut," he said, "lap it up. That's a good slut."

She swallowed most of the gooey mess when it volcanoed into her mouth. She gagged a little, and some dribbled down her cute little chin. Aglow with Shit was a bad, bad, bad fly.

It was all so erotic that Dines on Shit moved directly into round three. To his elation she had no objection to him fucking her hard, hard, hard in the flypucker and stretching that bitch out like a motherfucker. POUND! POUND! POUND! Every thrust drove them deeper into the soft brown soup. Dines on Shit realized in a flash of philosophic insight that he would not have minded dying then and there because life could not offer more (The death certificate would read, Fucked a great looking piece on a tall pile of delicious Shit, then died of pure, uncut pleasure.)

"Oh, yeeeaaaaaah!!" he cried for joy amidst her deep moans of pleasure. "Oh, yeah!! That's it! Fuck yeah! You belong to me, you bitch! You whore!!"

By the time every last explosive ounce of radioactive flyspunk had been pumped, nuclear bomb-like, into her flypucker, she was so stretched that the humans could have backed one of their cars into it with room to spare. That was one hell of a hole. His flyspunk weeped matter-of-factly from the orifice with a prosaic burbling noise reminiscent of a small trout stream in the backwoods. There wasn't much in the way of prolapse, but that was a minor fly in the ointment.

The young lovers wallowed together in the brown, more like pigs than members of a species possessing a certain amount of class. And that was the point. Interesting things happen when clean folks get dirty. Dines on Shit stared up at the deep blue sky and took several deep breaths. The little black speck was still up there, circling. Catching sight of Searches for Shit made him think of his hangover. It was gone. There was nothing like a delicious, if somewhat stale, pile of Shit and some spirited fucking to make one feel better.

"I knew it was gonna be good," said Aglow with Shit, "but I didn't know it would be that good."

"You should never have doubted, sugar." He sat up and swirled his own pudding as it oozed from her holes. He paused and became thoughtful. "I want you to lay the eggs in Bigsmelly's ears. Our maggots are gonna drive him wild."

She giggled and said, "You're a bad boy."

"Sugar?" he said.

"Yeah, baby?"

He propped her up on all sixes, flystyle. "Let me tell you about handshakes..."