Sindel's Medieval Times (Patreon)

The biting wind whipped Sindel’s long, grey hair across her face, tangling in the rough-hewn wood of the pillory. Her muscles, honed by years of disciplined strikes and intricate forms, strained against the unyielding oak that clamped her wrists and thighs. A dull ache throbbed in her shoulders, a stark contrast to the vibrant power that usually coursed through her limbs. Around her, a sea of faces, contorted by fear and malice, pressed in. Their shouts, a cacophony of accusations, hammered at her ears.

                "Witch! Demoness!" a woman shrieked, her voice raw.

                A gob of spittle, thick and warm, landed on Sindel’s cheek. She flinched, not from the insult, but from the sudden, nauseating lurch in her gut. The cold, the terror, the humiliation – it all conspired to churn her insides into a tempest. Her stomach cramped, a sharp, insistent pain. Her breath hitched.

                "Look at her, the devil's whore!" a man bellowed, his voice thick with loathing.

                Another spat, hitting her bare thigh. The chill air bit at her skin, but a different kind of heat bloomed low in her belly, a pressure building, insistent. Her voluptuous buttocks, usually a source of pride, now hung exposed to the elements, suspended just above the muddy ground. A deep rumble echoed from her core, a sound that she tried desperately to suppress, but it escaped, a low, guttural groan.

                "What was that? Is she growling?" a child’s voice piped up, tinged with a mix of fear and curiosity.

                Sindel’s eyes, usually sharp and defiant, squeezed shut. The pressure intensified, a relentless force pushing downwards. A tremor ran through her body. Her large butt cheeks clenched, then relaxed, a wave of involuntary spasms wracking her core. A low, wet fart escaped, a sound that cut through the jeers, momentarily silencing the crowd. A few titters rose, quickly stifled by gasps of disgust.

                Her face flushed, not with shame, but with the sheer effort of what was happening. Her body, betraying her in the most public and humiliating way, had given up the fight. A grunt tore from her throat, raw and involuntary, as her anal sphincter gave way. A thick, warm coil of fecal matter emerged, dropping with a soft plop onto the damp earth below. The stench, earthy and pungent, immediately wafted upwards, mingling with the crisp, cold air.

                "By the saints! What is that?" someone shrieked, their voice rising in pitch.

                The crowd recoiled, a collective wave of revulsion sweeping through them. Sindel, her eyes still squeezed shut, felt the warmth spread down her exposed skin as her bowels continued to empty. Her powerful thighs tensed, then quivered. Another grunt, louder this time, as a larger mass pushed its way out, followed by a series of wet, bubbling sounds. The shitting was prodigious, a seemingly endless stream of brown sludge piling up beneath her. Each release brought a strange, perverse relief, a momentary lessening of the internal storm, even as the external one raged.

                "She's shitting herself! The witch is shitting herself!" a man roared, pointing a trembling finger.

                Children, initially fascinated by the spectacle, began to wail, their mothers pulling them back from the growing mound of excrement. The air grew heavy with the smell, a primal assault on the senses. Sindel, grunting with each powerful expulsion, felt her large, round butt cheeks jiggle and spread with the effort. Her body was a conduit, a vessel for this grotesque, unstoppable release. The squelching sounds of the fecal matter hitting the ground, then piling upon itself, became the dominant sound, eclipsing the shouts and curses. Her face, beaded with sweat despite the cold, was a mask of strained effort, her jaw clenched, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The sheer volume was astonishing, a testament to the fear and shock that had seized her digestive system, releasing every last bit of waste. The pile grew, a steaming, malodorous monument to her public degradation.