Soon: 'Capstan'

Written with another place of publication in mind, this is fanfic-inspired but you don't need to know who's who, to enjoy the progression (I hope). 

It's a one-off short that could go long, in multiple directions. 

It's a favourite niche fetish of mine, so an indulgence, but it has broken my creative impasse. 

Join Kit and his fellow unfortunates on the capstan, shortly. 

Pig Connor (2/2): MM/m; Anal; SCAT; fanfic vibe

Pig Connor - Chapter Two 

The poppers are branded Rush, in a black bottle. The label features a representation of lightning, in vivid yellow, promising striking impact from the contents. Boys about to do hard work for men, appreciate a masculine vibe from their amyl nitrite packaging.

I allow Kit a three-second sniff at each nostril, and he draws it deep. He’s on his back, head directly below the rim seat void. There are no restraints, holding him down. The popper high lasts three or four minutes, maximum, and I’m quick to introduce Kit’s first feeder.

We’ll call him AJ, though Kit won’t get to know the name of the guy dumping his bowel load, ass to mouth. Kit won’t speak, except if asked to do so.

From the floor, Kit’s appraisal of the guy walking to the stall nonchalantly is restricted to his legs, with a glimpse of his swinging dick and plump balls as he strides through the doorway, lost as the viewing angle closes. It’s sufficient, just, for Kit to register a man falling within his age of attraction range: 25-40. Yes, Kit goes for older guys but not seniors. His type is a big brother – or young daddy, maybe – with a hewn torso, who’s been around the block a bit and can put him through his paces. Little twinks and screaming queens aren’t Kit’s thing, at all.

Kit has been instructed not to tilt his head to check-out a newcomer better. Anonymity may be important to them, and Kit has no right to know who’s sitting for him.

It’s a smooth, shapely ass that casts shadow over Kit’s face as it settles on the toilet seat, shifting to find comfort, and the optimum position from which to aim shit bombs.

Now Kit can see some calf, if he swivels his eyes down in their sockets. Lightly furry calves, with unblemished skin.

This man smells good. Already there are pungent whiffs from his ass crack, but also, he has sprayed a rich aftershave with notes of the East. He’s super-clean, to start. The perineum on which Kit focuses is dusted with dark hair, but not forested. The hole has thick, pinkish lips, yet to wink at him.

The man speaks:

‘Hungry?’

Just the one word, but enough for Kit to deduce an Australian accent, probably. The tone was deep, though kindly enough in these circumstances of huge power imbalance.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit responds, lively. He’s liking this guy, already, and his deep reservations about serving men he hasn’t met, and can’t vet, are fading as his free dick stiffens.

No more words.

The feeding begins, with a couple of pre-emptive dilations of that cute ring, to prime the boy. Kit’s ready, of course: Be prepared is a toilet trainee motto, just as it is for a Boy Scout.   

A big, big, load of shit squeezed like Mr Whippy soft ice cream, from a dispenser in a van, during a scorching English summer.

Texture: even, throughout. Colour: mid-beige. The sort of shit I’ve classified previously to Kit as being creamy, because it’s important when training a boy to distinguish your logs from your soft stuff. I can give either, according to my preparatory diet, so Kit is well-trained for textural variety, but admits to preferring creamy turd.

The filth fills the poised mouth Kit brings close to the servery hatch by means of lifting his neck.

Kit’s cheeks bulge, extra-rosy. Though he’s not obliged to, AJ clenches his sphincters to stem the dump, granting the boy time to process – quickly! – and swallow.

‘More to come!’ the 29-year-old blond Aussie warns his eater, lest the boy imagine that was it.

And Kit feels compulsion to work for him, hard, as he knows how. By which I mean the jaws churn non-stop, the tongue helps to process, and the throat ripples like a rowing boat in a storm as shit starts to journey from mouth to stomach.

The technique, here, has been learnt well. I’ve expressed it to Kit as ploughing through. Dealing, at uncomfortable speed, with the sheer monotony of great piles of uniform turd. Leaving to one side the foul taste, any single foodstuff would be a struggle to ingest in this quantity, without variety or relief. No condiments – just this heap of soft mulch pressing at the cheeks and sticking between the teeth, tasting of over-cooked Brussels sprouts or damp socks, perhaps? The flavour isn’t the problem of the ‘chef’, of course – it’s for Kit to deal with, uncomplaining.

Ploughing through it: the skill of chewing and swallowing at pace, when it’s not nice, to give great service to a man who’d rather use a boy’s mouth for fun, than a conventional toilet. Being brave, and stoic, and submissive.

‘Okay, round two!’ AJ says, breezily.

Kit’s not finished processing round one but knows what he needs to do. Eyes on, and mouth at, the dump hole. Nothing else matters.  

The second instalment is approximately equal in quantity. A real mouthful. Kit’s jaws stop grinding. He’s re-composing himself – no panic.

I get down there, to his face, offering the popper bottle again like the generous coach I am. Kit sees me and nods for the stimulant. I manoeuvre the Rush bottle between his shit-smothered top lip and his septum, one nostril at a time whilst pinching the other, and Kit takes long inhalations of the magic performance juice.

‘Back to work!’ I warn him post-privilege, stern.

The heartthrob toils methodically, chewing and swallowing, rinse and repeat. His right hand moves to his semi-hard and he jerks it workmanlike, producing a string of precum immediately.

The over-stuffed cheeks deflate, and some of the tension unwinds from Kit’s rugby-built core. AJ has something important to say to his toilet for the evening:

‘Good boy!’ he purrs, with a Sydney-side jovial twang.

‘Good boy!’ I reinforce, in my metallic instructional tone.

It trips Kit into euphoria, hard. First, a tear wells in both eyes. Then, the gasp as his mouth clears the bulk of his meal and he self-accepts he’s crested the summit. The strong hand around his stubby ginger dick tugs harshly – violently, really – and Kit jerks himself to an orgasm that’s both explosive, and nightmarishly premature. Cum spurts as icing around his fingers, and to the insides of his thighs.

Kit’s eyes drift shut, and he moans around the remainder of his dirty meal, muffled by shit but comprehensible enough.

‘Fuuuuck!’

The boy keeps swallowing, at a reduced pace aligned with enthusiasm levels that have slumped 90% in post-orgasmic comedown. Now, it’s nothing but a hideous chore that has to be done.

Kit uses his brown tongue to prise shit from the accessible gaps between his teeth, and wipes that muscle over his splattered lips.

‘Toilet paper duty, huh?’ AJ says, as instruction rather than option.

And Kit knows it’s time to retrieve stray detritus hanging from the man’s hole, carefully with his curled tongue that’s feeling fatigue. Then, to push his Nick Nelson face into AJ’s ass and get that dumpster clean as a fucking whistle, wiping the tongue lavishly around the ass lips, then poking it with force up to the sphincter: lapping, and digging for dirt, and retrieving, and swallowing harder-set turd until AJ believes he’s had time on a high-pressure bidet.

Kit’s toilet paper duty is fulfilled mechanically, if thoroughly. 

The Aussie departs the scene with as much vim as his arrival, knowing he’s had his time sitting over Kit. There’s no thank you in either direction, nor any acknowledgement for 17 minutes of sewer duty performed competently by Kit. No ‘see you later!’ or ‘cheers, mate!’, though Kit had his good boy uplift, earlier, and that will have to suffice. It’s more than enough, from a feeder in a dump’n’go arrangement.  

As AJ leaves, Kit gets further, fleeting, visual insights on the man who just used him. He’s gym-trained and lean with a bronze tan – butt aside! 5’9”, maybe? His upper back is lightly freckled, and his hair, tousled. Close enough to the surfer trope.

AJ left his own cum over Kit’s chest, and chin, in hefty wads whilst toilet paper duty was performed on him.

A question for Kit, later, is whether he thinks AJ is the kind of man he’d have liked to get to know better and maybe go for a cosy drink with. Not that he’ll get that opportunity, because the purpose of this evening is to test Kit’s strength of character when service must be given without the bonds of association he’s known with me.

And now – after a short break – Kit will be asked to dig much deeper, as the ethos of anonymous toilet service is explored less compassionately.

***

Pepto-Bismol is retailed in shockingly pink bottles, as though it were a Peppa Pig merchandising spin-off. But the only pig in the building today is Kit, taking a role Alice Oseman would be stunned by.

I’ve asked him how his tummy feels, following AJ’s cramming load, and Kit says it’s turbulent. Hence the soother which I pour straight from the bottle into his open mouth, without much heed for dosage guidelines. Kit remains flat on his back, under the rim chair. With the timings, it’s not worth him getting up.

He burps, appreciatively, as the medicine goes down. I’ve always said there’s nothing more important to me than a toilet boy’s health, and with the pink sauce I’m role modelling concern for Kit’s welfare. Amusingly, his burp stinks of filth.

‘I have news, by the way!’ Kit says, randomly.

‘Oh?’

‘Keep it to yourself, please?’ he requests.

‘Of course!’

‘So… there’s going to be a Heartstopper movie, instead of a fourth series. And, they’ve asked me to take an executive producer role!’

Kit’s beaming. He’s very chuffed, and did well to hold back the news for this interlude. In fact, it’s an odd time to bring it up. Or maybe not?

‘Wow! That’s fantastic!’ I enthuse. And he deserves a congratulatory kiss, so I lean down for a quick peck of his cheek.  

My second recommendation to aspiring toilet boys – after staying healthy – is that they thrive professionally. I guide them to find a career they enjoy and then take steps to progress within it. Sometimes I’m able to open doors for them, with my contact book. Toilet service must become something they obsess over, but it’s not the whole of them – usually – so other time must be spent productively, improving themselves as rounded boys.

You’ll remember I vowed not to distract Kit whilst he was playing Romeo on Broadway, though it meant several months without training, for him. I want Kit to be successful and ever more celebrated.

‘I think we’ll shoot in the autumn,’ Kit continues, mulling the detail. ‘Though, there will be loads of work for me beforehand in pulling it all together, with Alice and Netflix.’

‘I’m sure,’ I say, wondering if he’ll detect my waning enthusiasm for this distracting conversation.

‘Honestly, I didn’t think we’d get a fourth series, and I’d kind of moved on from Heartstopper, anyway. And I didn’t want to get typecast as Nick.’

‘A-ha.’

‘So it was pretty fucking surprising to get the call about the movie. Totally leftfield.’

He looks back to me, sees my stern face, and twigs.

‘Sorry… am I holding things up? Are you ready to go again?’ Kit falters.

‘Yes,’ I say, bluntly. The understanding, after all, was that his two feeds would happen back-to-back, and whilst a short period of reflection between men is okay, I now have an impatient guy on the other side of the Bathroom door.

‘Sorry,’ Kit repeats.

‘How are you feeling, about the second meal?’ I ask.

He takes a few seconds of thinking time.  

‘It’s madness. Fucking wild!’ Kit says, serious.

And now I see why he bought-up the acting at a bizarre time. He’s anxious and feeling flighty, like he might not wish to go through with it. Kit wanted to divert himself. It’s important not to dismiss his concern.

‘Honey, it’s right that you’re nervous because, after all, this is a lot to ask of you and, again, you’re going to a brave new place in your learning,’ I say, spreading the empathy thick.

‘Yeah, exactly that…’ Kit starts.

‘But, let me say, I have full confidence in your ability. So, it’s just a question of you grinding this one out. You know exactly what to do.’ Now, I’m getting more directive.

Kit purses his lips. Involuntarily, he emits a rasping fart that envelopes the stall with his noxious gas.

‘And you’d be disappointed, if I said…’

‘Disappointed, let down, and fucking embarrassed, having set this up for you, Kit,’ I tell him.

He gives me a shallow nod. There’s no doubt, the kid would have taken a get-out if I’d offered it.

‘I thought so,’ Kit says. ‘But, I just wanted to…’

‘To let me know how tough you’re finding the prospect of a second feed, after you’ve shot your load too early?’ I suggest, moving things along.

‘Yeah, that,’ Kit says.

‘I understand. But this is important for me. Well, and for you, of course!’

***

Graffitied on the white tiles of the stall, in marker pen, are certain messages to give the toilet boys who use this place food for thought, as they contemplate another cruddy meal. My eyes alight on two of the motivational lines, written legibly and appropriate for Kit’s situation:

‘You can always give more; you can always go lower.’

‘You don’t need to see his face or know his name, to make him happy.’

 Kit’s familiar with the graffiti, but sometimes his return visits reveal fresh scrawling:

‘Make me PROUD.’

Watch closely and you’ll see the kid’s eyes dart to the walls, now and then. Note, these aren’t the lewd vibes of the cottage, but serious philosophy for eaters. Warnings, in fact, if read in conjunction with my declared intent.

The second man, Yue Shi, has suffered for his fetish by making himself unwell with a plate of food well past it’s use-by date. Egg, fish and rice, fuelled by a side of dates and banana. He’s desperate and the wait outside has been agony for him, hopping from foot to foot whilst Kit blathered with me about the leaf show movie.   

Feeder two is a Hong Konger of only 5’5”, but has built himself into a powerfully squat unit of a man. Yue is possessed of a dominant (verging sadistic) nature, giving me his early enthusiasm for ‘working with’ Kit. He cancelled holiday plans and gave himself a nasty tummy, to be here this evening.

Yue’s jawline is one of stone-like straight cuts and acute angles, giving him the forbidding appearance of a cartoon villain. For better or worse, Kit won’t see it – not even a snatched glimpse through the viewfinder of his toilet seat – because Yue wears a full latex gimp hood, with eyelets and a generous void for his mouth.   

Again, Kit is reduced to watching calves move from the doorway towards his stall, and this time they’re stockier, though smoother.  

A pellet of spit flies through the seat into Kit’s left eye and he flinches, on the floor. By the time he’s overcome his startlement, the spitter is squirming his muscular ass on the rim, and speaking.

‘Fucking faggot pig!’ says the voice.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit answers, reedy, but it was just an observation from Yue, not a call for response.  

‘I expect you to eat everything, mouth to ass. No spillage, no mess, no complaint,’ says the feeder. It’s an arrogant tone of voice, impatient with the little people it encounters in life. A touch of small man syndrome, perhaps.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit volleys his positivity, but as I watch him, I see the look spread across his face.

You notice the look quite often, on toilet boys undertaking moderate to difficult late-stage training, as with Kit this evening. The look is their realisation demands are being stepped-up quite radically, and that they’re about to be pushed hard. The look is a young toilet boy preparing to feel overwhelmed, and abused, and upset. When you see the look, it’s good news, because you know the boy is taking his situation seriously, as he must.

I feel I should add a thought of my own, not least to remind Kit I’m still here in the room beside him, ambitious for him:

‘Complete service, Kit. Nothing less,’ I call.

‘Yes, boss! Yes, Sir!’ he reassures us both.

***  

(I wrote, then redacted, then edited away a great deal in this section, because there’s gross and then there’s truly fucking horrific, and nobody needs to read that. Only the three of us will know, and remember, the full extent of the demand Yue placed upon his sewer.)

Yue’s induced food poisoning gave him diarrhoea, but that’s not an excuse for Kit.

Yue opts not to help Kit with sphincter squeezes, to moderate his purging flow, and that’s his right though Kit is used to more give-and-take in his training.

Kit is familiar with hard logs and creamy turd, like AJ’s, but is new to the squits. That’s why boys have training, though, because everything is new until you’ve tried it! I’ve removed most references to the texture and look of Yue’s output, but think of lukewarm liquid soup, flecked with colourful yet indeterminate vegetable matter. Then imagine a whole tureen of the stuff, dispensed relentlessly; cruelly.

There’s nothing much to chew so Kit’s job is, simply, to swallow, and he tries. I can see him trying and winning, initially.

The boy supposes the nice man will give him a break, as I tended to, but in reality this is Kit’s first time under the toilet seat with a truly bad man and a bully. I mean, I’ve modelled those traits and Kit got angry with me and frustrated with himself, several times, but – as he well knows – there’s a difference between acting a part, and authenticity. At the end of the day, I’ve been the coach willing to put an arm around his shoulders after new challenges, and offer constructive feedback. Yue is not that familiar man.

Kit tries to keep his mouth adjacent to the asshole of his feeder. It reduces the risk of spillage, at the cost of excessive force of flow.

My youngster makes himself unwell, gulping that diarrhoeal load at speed. It’s a lot, on a full stomach (of shit), and I can see his crippling cramps. Instinctively, his hands paw at his wretched tummy.

Kit and I have spoken, before, about toilet boys making themselves ill through their work. It’s a topic any responsible toilet master must broach. I’ve encouraged Kit to understand that feeling ruined, for a bit, is a trade-off that must be accepted in the interests of his self-development, not to mention the satisfaction of his feeder.

But I’ve assured Kit that nobody should give or accept destructive behaviours. It’s not always easy to know where a line must be drawn, of course, so I’ve suggested to Kit he take a relatively passive approach to health stuff, falling back on the experience of me and, in future, other men who might feed him and judge themselves where stretching goals end, and very high risk begins.    

The mouth – briefly emptying as fast as it was re-filled with hosed diarrhoea – is now filling faster than it empties through swallowing.

There’s a chaotic few seconds of spluttering, then choking. Kit’s core rattles.

The boy is tearful but, as one of the graffiti pieces says:

‘Tears only make a boy HOTTER.’

Kit catches my gaze. This is unfair, he thinks – I know Kit, and his self-imposed limits, so well – therefore maybe I’ll help him?

‘Plough on,’ I tell him.

It’s no fun, anymore. A flaccid dick, no poppers, and some unknown feeder guy behaving like a cunt, and not the considerate dominant of Kit’s spunky dreams.   

Kit chokes hard, drowning on diarrhoea. This is such valuable learning for a boy of (just) 21.

The colour drains from his face, but still he’s trying to swallow the gross squits being fed to him. A glorious losing battle. As another of the graffiti mottos says:

‘You can breathe when he’s finished.’

But Kit thinks he’s expiring and wants to breathe NOW! He turns his head away, and what remains of Yue’s runny load splatters over the side of his cheek, hair, bombs an ear, and cascades down his neck. It’s the mess that was specifically to be avoided. 

‘FUUUUCK!’ Kit shouts. It’s a drawn-out howl of despair. I’ve heard the boy at volume, but never this loud.

Through much of his training pathway I encouraged communication from Kit, because two-way exchanges are the most effective way to teach and learn. But I’d told him this evening – with other men – was different, and that they’d not want to hear from him. So it’s surprising he felt the need to rattle the door with his guttural yell.   

That’s it, for Yue. The sitter rises, exchanging a high five with me before he leaves.

‘I’ll address this, don’t worry,’ I say, nodding down at the wreck coiling foetal under the rim chair.

‘Yeah, wasn’t quite on-point, huh?’ Yue suggests.

‘A long way off,’ I agree. It’s all fine for Kit to hear, because it’s true.

‘Thanks for having me though, bro!’ Yue brightens. 

‘Pleasure!’ I say, and we back slap like dudes.

When the door closes, there’s privacy again.

‘Three minutes, to get your shit together!’ I tell Kit.

***

I’m going to describe a pose, carefully, and I want you to imagine it.

The soccer team, by virtue of an 89^th minute goal from their opponents, have just lost a cup final match that meant everything to them. Their star player remains on the pitch. He’s on his knees, and they’re planted wide – about twice the width of his broad shoulders. His back is bolt upright. His neck is cocked back, so he looks beyond the upper tiers of the stadium, to the empty sky. His hands are clasped over his forehead. He’s saying something, to himself, but the tilt of his neck makes it impossible to lipread and, anyway, it’s unlikely to be language that could be broadcast in family viewing time.    

Well, that’s Kit Connor in the stall, in the time I’ve given him to compose himself, except that he’s naked, oozing filth from one side of his head, and sweating rather harder than that soccer star who’s run his nuts off for 90 minutes. Also, you know how thick and fit Kit’s folded thighs look.

***   

‘I don’t wanna do this anymore!’ Kit whines.

He’s sat on his ass at the bottom of the airbed now, hands on his scrunched knees, head bowed so far it almost touches them.

Fine. This is not the first scene Kit has ended with a wish not to return ever again. He didn’t mean it then, and I suspect he doesn’t mean it now, but it’s the best evidence of a hard session when boys swear off the fetish as a first response.

‘Tell me…’ I start.

‘FUCK, that was nasty!’ Kit talks over me. I don’t think he even heard me, so no rudeness was intended. He’s in unpacking mode, lost in himself. ‘Like, WHAT THE FUCK!? What even was that last guy!? FUCK, that was hard! Like, he was massively unwell, and he didn’t even pace it for me!’

‘The texture? The taste?’ I probe, softly, because I feel Kit’s in the mood to unload it candidly.

‘Just… a different level of grossness on the taste, literally. And it was blasting so hard, I couldn’t…’

 ‘A harder ask, than man one?’ I suggest.

‘FUCK… that was so far beyond anything I’ve done before, and I thought I’d…’

‘You thought you’d seen everything, at 21?’ I say, dismissively.  

‘FUCK… that’s the end of this, honestly!’ Kit tells me a second time.

Our conversation is broken by Kit’s need to puke. A fierce eruption, striking at him with next to no warning. This is why the surfaces of the stall, plus the airbed, are wipe down. Two major heaves followed by a mini heave, and he’s done bar some flecked drool hanging from his chin, for now.

Toilet boys sick-up routinely. It’s not a big deal – it’s part of their process – and as their toilet Master I don’t remark on it at all: no sympathy, and certainly no offer of a bowl to catch it. Business as usual. Move on.

‘Mark yourself out of ten, as a toilet boy today,’ I tell him.

Kit doesn’t lift his head.

‘Fuck,’ he says, calmer now.  

‘Come on,’ I chivvy. ‘Tell me how useful you were, as a pure sewer.’

He’s self-evaluated before, for me. It’s cathartic, but so hard for him to tell me.

‘Nine and a half for effort… eight and a half for performance, across my two feeders,’ Kit proffers, subdued.

‘A-ha,’ I say. The kid senses the challenge in my tone. I’m standing over him, tall. I’m the guardian of his standards.

‘Not quite there?’ he asks of me.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Fuck… it was my first feed with new guys, and my first double-feed, yeah?’ Kit tries to justify himself.

‘And you’d like allowances made for that, yeah?’ I push him.

The boy lifts his head a fraction. A step back from the brink. He knows it’s time for a measure of self-criticism.

‘I don’t think allowances should be made, no,’ Kit says, humbled.  

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Because I wouldn’t accept that, and you don’t need that, and you know it.’

He gives me a shallow nod of acceptance.

‘So, I think eight out of ten for effort, and six for the more important performance score. You heard how I had to apologise to your second feeder? I can see why you’re thinking of quitting and sticking to acting.’

‘Jesus!’ Kit gasps at my numbers. ‘This whole thing sounds like it’s been waste of time, doesn’t it?’ he suggests, battered.

I move forward two steps, towering over his broken form.  

‘Stand up,’ I tell him. No optionality.

***

On his way up, Kit projectile-puked (second time) down his front and mine. That’s how close we’d drawn together, and I enjoyed the mess, though it prompted me to keep my distance for a bit. He will vomit once more, shortly, then feel much better until tomorrow, when he’ll suffer a serious episode of toilet boy hangover.

Wobbling, light-headed, Kit has formed himself into the pose I ask for most frequently: Feet apart – 1.5x times his shoulder breadth – back straight; chest puffed; hands clasped behind his neck with fingers interlocking; elbows pushed backwards, level with his skull; furry pits out for his boss. Neck straight.

Head to toe, the kid is coated in a glossy film of fetid sweat. This is usual for boys who’ve fed twice, or more. My warrior looks resplendent.   

‘Eye contact!’ I have to remind him.

We’re facing off. He’s finding it hard to keep still, though I’ve told him to quit his shifting and squirming. I wait for compliance. What I have to say is important, and deserving of his respectfulness.

My tone is measured.

‘Four out of ten, or less, is waste of time territory. Eight out of ten is near the mark. But your six out of ten means great potential, subject to further investment in training, and open-mindedness.’

‘Sir!’ Kit registers it, reciprocating my calmness.

‘And actually, I feel I’ve been too harsh with you. Call it six and a half.’

‘Yeah?’ he says, mistakenly sensing an appetite for informality between us.

‘Yes….?’ I let it hang.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit corrects himself.

‘Thank you. So – pulse check – how do you feel now, about eating for other men, without the same degree of connection we enjoy?’

The boy sighs and makes to let his neck droop but pulls it back up with a jerk, before I need to tell him. His lack of off-the-cuff emotive response suggests he feels some complexity.

‘At the end of the day, I feel like I get it,’ Kit says, pained.

‘Get what?’ I ask.

‘Well, I get that eating for other guys was the obvious next step for me, to go any lower with this.’

‘Yep!’ I encourage him.

‘And doing that, competently, pleases both the guy and you, as my boss, so that’s a win-win, right?’

‘Exactly,’ I say.

‘But… can I say something bluntly?’ Kit asks.

‘Of course you can. It’s cards on table time.’

Kit clears his clogging throat. The noise sounds theatrically overdone. It’s not a fucking casting call. He has something I don’t want to hear.

‘So, doing toilet service for other guys… random guys… when I don’t know what they’ve got for me – like that second guy – and there’s no talk, and no coaching from them, and not even a thank you when I’ve fed from them…’ Kit grinds himself to a halt.

‘Yes?’ I tease it out of him, gently.

‘So, it’s not the same as eating for you, like we’ve done over all those months, step by step.’

‘No?’

‘No. I find it much harder, overall, though the first guy seemed okay. Because if there’s basically no contact, it just becomes shit’n’go, and that… well, I dunno.’

‘Tell me, Kit,’ I push him.

The actor’s forehead has adopted a consuming frown.

‘So, it’s not how we started together, training. It makes me feel as though I have literally no purpose or interest to anyone, except for my mouth and throat. And maybe I’ve been really naïve, because you did try to explain things, I admit, but… I don’t know… I accepted there would be changes in how it felt, obviously, but even so.’  

I nod at the monologue. I want to help Kit through this time of revelation, very much, but he needs to work with me.

‘Of course, you’ll always have me by your side. I’m not abandoning you, Kit!’ I say.  

‘And it’s just so hard!’ he continues, in flow. ‘And I think that’s part of the reason I struggled with the second guy. Plus the ultra-grossness of it, obviously.’

‘But I think you understand, Kit, that unexpected grossness will always be a part of exceptional solids service, delivered?’

The boy sniffs.

‘There’s no point complaining, is there? he suggests, though it doesn’t sound as though he agrees with himself.  

‘No point at all,’ I close it down.

‘There’s just… I dunno… a different dynamic with other guys, when I don’t know what I’m getting and it’s all over, so quickly.’

‘I get that,’ I concede. ‘It’s why I tested you, and why I upgraded that six score to a six and a half. But I think you need more help, in changing your conception of self.’

‘Huh?’ he asks, confused.

‘Okay, so it’s what we’ve been working on together from day one, in fact, but never spelt out explicitly. I think, strongly, that you’ll come to find peace in a place where you have one important obligation to men, but they have no obligation or responsibility to you, at all.’

Kit steps back, and I allow it. His hold of the specified pose has become loose, and his rolling tears wet his puke on the floor by his feet.

‘Fuck, Sir!’

‘And only a coward would back-out now. You’ve come so far and made me so proud of you, much of the time.’

‘Sir, please.’

‘So, what I’d propose is that we focus your training, from now, on that area you’re struggling with, mentally.’

‘Other guys?’ Kit checks.

‘Other guys, and the kaleidoscope of complexity and rollercoaster of emotion that comes with random humans!’ I echo him. ‘Time for some new key words in your development, for you to memorise. I’m thinking anonymity, thankless, extremity, impersonal…  oh, and one I like very much, which is drone.’

‘Holy shit!’ Kit recoils.

‘But always with me as your long-time boss, there for you. And your reward at the end of a long day.’

‘FUCK!’ he’s vociferous again. Suddenly vascular at the biceps and thighs. Temples throbbing.

‘Is that a goodbye then, Kit?’ I serve the ultimatum.

‘Sir…!’

‘A waste of our time, as you said? So long, and thanks for the dirty memories?’

‘No, Sir, but…;

‘Because when we first met, you told me you wanted to become a greedy pig. And my job is to hold you accountable to your goal. But my judgment is that you could be plenty greedier!’

‘Boss, you can’t expect me….’

‘And I’m looking for a global hero, now, with the most open mind and willingness to up his work rate. A boy who’s right for the thankless jobs, and where…. I think this will become necessary, because of your profile… Kit loses his given name and operates simply as Toilet, 21.’

I’ve pommelled him mute. No further objections, for now. Stony face.

‘Now, time for our shit-kiss!’ I tell him, and pull him onto me by his limp forearms for the indispensable lingering finale, common to every session I’ve worked Kit through, since July ‘23.  

***

Pig Connor (1/2): MM/m; Anal; SCAT; fanfic vibe

Pig Connor - Chapter One

He’d sought the very best coach-practitioner and had played the sleuth in tracking me down, risking his reputation as a rising star of the wholesome kind.

I don’t – by and large – hunt my boys. They seek me out, by my reputation. You have to know who to ask, on the filth scene.

Cutting to the chase I’d been quick to ask Kit what he was searching for, at our first acquaintance over coffee.  

‘I want to become a greedy pig,’ he’d told me, certain. ‘At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what I want…’ he’d continued, at once burdened with doubt and delightfully flustered from the Kit-ish playbook I’d get to know.

I’d nodded, unfussed, as though it were the most routine of aspirations for a boy of 19.

‘Two things, then. I need to understand how deeply you feel it, and I want to know how hard you’re prepared to work for it. Because I only take-on boys who are prepared to push themselves.’

**

April 2025. A 2-hour drive from London, on ever smaller roads.

The mattress had been white but now it’s a disgrace, soiled comprehensively with yellow-brown stains of cum and piss, plus the odd speck of blood. It’s been dragged around the basement, wherever needed, to the point of irredeemable grey grittiness.

I fuck Kit in the missionary position: not the most adventurous of gay entanglements, but the coupling allows me to watch his face throughout.

Kit Connor doesn’t enjoy getting fucked in his ass. Before you become concerned, I stress that this is a consensual act. Kit has long accepted that being plowed is integral to his development and an activity he must be drilled in, often. He strips quickly for me these days, getting naked without the bashful hesitancy of that 19-year-old version of himself, back in July ‘23.

But Kit remains tight in his sphincters and though it now hurts less when I ramrod him, he continues to experience discomfort, manifested in the scrunched balling of his fists. So be it.

I fuck him raw having applied lube to my nine erect inches, sparingly.

He’s on his back, central on the filthy mattress, skull propped by a dirty old pillow crushed flat through repeated and tense compression by boys.

I’m kneeling, intimate in his groin, working Kit’s legs variously by their ankles, calves and thighs folded back, as I switch the angle of the penetration with unpredictability. I yank and twist those sturdy limbs. It’s the vigorous assault he’s become accustomed to, with a relentlessness about it that leaves him questioning – I see it in his grimaces – how the fuck I’m managing to hold-back my orgasm.

Kit’s pectorals shudder at my pounding. Those slabs are blushing a peachy hue, and moist. In the cleft, his perspiration is starting to bead.

Kit can handle this physical intensity. He arrived home, in London, broader at his shoulders after the four-month run of Romeo & Juliet in NYC: an energetic production requiring a disciplined gym routine, and avoidance of too many late nights. I took-on a boy for my coaching, but what returned from the USA was a young man, stronger and with rejuvenated focus on his ambition.

The actor wears chastity, in the form of a skeletal steel cage that’s small for him in a constraining way, verging on painful. Oh, and the metal is coated pink.

I’m Kit’s keyholder. I told him the cage would keep him honest and devoted, inter-session, but whilst he didn’t reject the new accoutrement, he’d been downcast at the prospect of wearing it for eight days, until we were scheduled to meet again. I’d counselled Kit to bank his frustrations and release them tonight.

He’s not an especially vocal fuckee, and I admire that. Just some gasping and raggedness of breath when I dial-up the speed of my pile-driving, without warning.

I lean down for kisses from time to time, but never over his lips. I peck his cheek; nibble a tit nub; ruffle at the patch of fuzz below his belly button but above his trimmed pube bush. Kit doesn’t mind this extra attention, but neither does he show any sign of craving it. The kid’s focus is getting through this bottoming episode, ASAP.

I pump through his inelasticity that’s still, pretty much, the teenage anal clench I first deflowered. It’s a battering and Kit’s sweaty palms – spare – claw at the fabric of the rank mattress. I push his bent knees all the way back, level with his shoulders, and elevate myself such that I’m screwing his ass from above, as much as from behind.

I watch his eyes glaze with his struggle, but Kit knows I’d be disappointed to see his tears fall. That’s not for now.

What does it feel like to ass fuck the Heartstopper hero? You want to restrict me to three adjectives? Try grippy, empowering, and unbridled.

He hasn’t prepared by douching his ass. He knows not to, per my standing instructions. So it’s a dirty fuck, literally.

The whole set-up is designed to challenge Kit’s perceptions of his own masculinity. He’s a contemplative sort, for a young guy, and I know he dwells on this stuff because we’ve talked about it.  

Kit’s chest thumps and in follow-on his core flutters, rippling his corrugated six pack. Bangs of auburn hair, made darker by sweat, mat to his slightly freckled forehead.

I release one ankle and reach for his hand on the same side, offered to me readily. It’s a big paw, vascular on the outside and wet in the palm I’m squeezing.

‘Feeling it?’ I ask him, with eye contact.

‘MMMmmm!’ Kit agrees, freshly skewered.

I don’t need to define what it means. I’ve taken him here before. It is the ecstasy but mainly the agony of giving it all up for Sir, as a twunk bottom, without reciprocal pleasure.

‘I’ll finish you doggy-style,’ I tell him, without the courtesy of asking his opinion. ‘Ready to flip?’

‘Mmm… yeah,’ Kit moans, unready but feigning willing. I extract my shaft from him with a single, swift movement, and his ass lips – brutally extended – are slow to purse shut.

In shifting from his back to his hands and knees, at the tail of the mattress, Kit is laboured. I encourage him with three stinging slaps to the ass mounds being reared for me. Pale English globes, imprinted with the reddening facsimile of my spread fingers. Kit has always, in my experience, been a boy who responds to discipline. He must be a joy to direct.

The broad, hairless back is arched, and that ass is thrust towards me. Kit props himself by spread elbows, and he swivels his neck to check on my whereabouts. There’s a degree of anxiety in his frowning worry lines and wide eyes. It’s natural for this, also, will hurt, and doggy is not a sexual position that gives the bottom much in the way of control.

Taking Kit by his hips, digging-in with my fingernails, I plunge deep with my dick in one turbocharged penetration. Still he refuses to squeal or scream, but this time he can’t override his instinct to tell me how I’ve made him feel.

‘FUCKING hell!’ Kit complains, but he dips the small of his back lower and pushes his mounds onto me a fraction more.

I make him take me to my hilt in a brutal sequence of flesh-slapping fucks, grazing his perinium with my pubic stubble. I claw at Kit’s upright thighs, seen first on the rugby pitch of Truham Grammar school in series one of that leaf programme, but a quantum thicker thanks to his gym work in the States, and maturity commensurate with age: he turned 21 last month. Kit’s old enough, now, for there to be no question of making allowances for youthfulness, still less giving concessions. This kid must werk.

Pivoting at my waist I shift more of my weight onto Kit, and into him via my fat prick. He feels ravaged, around my meat – a satisfactory conclusion, of course. I grab him by a clump of his hair, wrenching his head back hard by his scalp. At this he yelps.

I cum in a torrent, deep inside the darkness of his boy cunt. Kit tremors from his inside, out. The boy’s own pathetic dick stump presses hard into his rigid chastity. There must be no relief for him, yet.

‘Well bred!’ I observe, recovering my own respiratory cycle and muttering to myself, really.  

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit pants. He’s immediate, clear and certain in his response.

‘So, we’ll catch our breath for exactly… two minutes, I think… and then you’ll clean me, thoroughly,’ I tell him.

‘Yessir!’ Kit acknowledges, markedly quieter.

‘Chocolate lollipop time!’ I snigger, stroking his shoulder breadth.

‘No problem, Sir,’ Kit says, and his tone is exactly where I’d like it to be in this moment, namely dutiful and sure, but shorn of 90% of his enthusiasm.

***

Kit’s asshole leaks my cum onto the mattress with a sequence of burbling farts. It’s such a rude backflush, with my seed coalescing into thin strings that dangle from his pouting lips. Multiply this by eight boys – the extent of my current mentorship group – over several scenes each, and you’ll understand why the bed now looks so disgraceful. It’s all they deserve, though.

Kneeling, Kit stretches his thighs for lift to ensure his face remains planted squarely in my groin. I’m standing in front of him, hands by my sides except when I use one of them to waggle my flaccid dick, provocatively.

Kit’s job is to clean his filth from the prick that’s just fucked him, using only his mouth. He operates with quiet efficiency as expected, this being a ‘base camp’ tasking he’s undertaken at least a dozen times.

I handle Kit by the back of his neck, inserting broad parameters for the travel of his head without impinging too much on the minimal autonomy he’s permitted, to serve. There’s a tiny clump of scruff beneath my palm: it’s damp, as is the flesh behind it I caress with fingertips.

The boy works with practised technique, teasing me back to semi-hard with swirling strokes of his tongue, staining across it’s licking surface with his shitty residue. Unprompted he gets deep, tackling my shaft down to its girthy root.

Kit has learnt to control his reactions that irritate me, when his work is simple: The gagging, spluttering, retching, drooling hallmarks of a toilet boy’s abandonment of self-discipline. For the most part this boy has enjoyed training ‘controlled resilience’, over our sessions, and he understands why it’s so vital for an aspirant pig. As you’d expect, there were times Kit found it hard to suppress his instinctive responses to filth, and he’d flare-up with me. That was fun, because Kit is one of the most even-tempered boys I’ve known, so pushing him to the point of a raised voice, red face and finger jabbing told me I was extending him.

Kit makes eye contact as he sucks me clean. I’d had to nurture that nuance, and he’s still prone to lapsing, but it was worthwhile drumming it home because Kit’s a boy who can smile with his eyes when the mouth is busy.

A string of beige drool hangs from the boy’s chin, with it’s shady 48-hour stubble growth extending around his jawline. The seepage is an imperfection that doesn’t detract from his diligent effort. I feel cleansed, not to mention swollen in the actor’s mouth. I jab at his tonsils with my crown and he makes a surprised hiccupping noise, but it’s okay – deepthroat isn’t on the agenda this evening.

I release my hold upon Kit’s neck, step back, and drop to my knees so we’re equalised in height – more or less – as we face each other on the mattress. I’m silent for fifteen seconds. Kit drags the fuzzy front of a strong forearm across his mouth, swiping away that hanging drool and drying his lips.

‘Look at me, and not down,’ I chastise him. He’d let his neck droop.

Now, I have the kid’s attention.

‘Well, that’s been a positive start, Kit,’ I tell him, sincere.

I’ve chosen my words carefully, to exclude the buzz phrases that tend to make Kit euphoric, and erect. But it’s praise, nonetheless, and he blushes. The rosiness rolls in a wave from his cheeks, down his thickish neck, and across his pectoral meat though not into the cleft, with that gully remaining creamy in a sea of crimson flush.

‘Cheers, Sir,’ he says, casually, like a cocky fifth-former to a weary teacher who’s just accepted a lame excuse for late homework. Aspects of Kit (the service boy) require more solemnity.

‘How have you been anticipating what’s to come, then?’ I ask.

Sensibly, Kit pauses to collect his thoughts.

‘Um… complicated!’ he admits. ‘Like, I’ve been counting down the days and getting so wired for it. But also… just the last few days… I’ve been getting massively anxious at the thought of it. I’ve worried myself, and thought maybe I should text you, to call it off.’

I nod with a side of wince, designed for Kit to notice.

‘I’d hope, if you were going to cop-out, that you’d call me rather than send a pathetic text message. That’s a basic courtesy thing.’

The cute blush has made an encore!

‘Yeah… I mean… I should have…’ he stammers.

‘But you didn’t contact me by any means, in fact, and now you’re here, on schedule, and performing well,’ I cut across Kit’s blather to remind him of the actuality of his situation.  

‘I wanted to come, ultimately. Quite badly, in fact,’ Kit says.

I smile and allow a silence, releasing some of the pressure I’ve let accumulate on him.

‘You’re looking strong. Fit, and strong,’ I say, changing the subject.

Kit flutters his eyelashes appreciatively, maintaining his eye contact though his subby nature makes it hard for him to do so whilst receiving a compliment.

‘Thanks!’ he gushes. ‘First rule… I’ve never forgotten it.’

And he’s right. Shortly after we started a coaching relationship, Kit was astute enough to ask me what traits made for a good pig. And I told him the first rule was nothing to do with toilet service per se, but simply a foundation: Stay Healthy! Sweat hard in the gym, daily. Get bigger. Eat nutritionally. Drink plenty of water, but little alcohol. Get some sun (vitamin D), but not too much. Sleep at least 7 hours a night.

I’m gratified that my first rule is one Kit has adhered to, for 18 months. Though I’m not so vain as to believe he’d have gone to seed without my lifestyle tips.

There was a vice Kit proved unable to kick, which was a smoking habit exacerbated by nerves. Fans had snapped him several times in New York, at tables outside various bars, cigarette in hand. It was hardly the stuff of Breaking Bad, but still, the moral guardians had tut-tutted.

And I can taste the nicotine when I move in to kiss Kit Connor, catching him off-guard. A sensual cocktail of tastes and smells, around his mouth: That last, anxious cigarette of 90 minutes ago, lingering on his breath. A whiff of his shit, lapped from my dick. Cum – mine – from the clean-up job. Salty sweat, from the general vicinity of his lips. A dollop of nervousness and the impatient anticipation he’d admitted to. Young, driven masculinity with a deep submissive vibe.

I clasp Kit across his broad back, pulling him onto me, secretly admiring the musculature that had spurted and hardened over his time in America. He dares to wrap a tentative hand around my back, and I let him reciprocate without consequence, briefly.

I push a wad of golden bangs up from his left eye they were threatening to droop over, sodden.

‘I think you’ll find this quite tough,’ I tell him, gently. Our faces are centimetres apart.

‘I realise that.’ Kit says. ‘But, part of me wants it to be tough. Though some of me, doesn’t…’

‘That’s fine!’ I allow him the confusion. With thumb tips, I work both of Kit’s tit nubs like push buttons. He finds his titty rubber sensitive to my harshness. I continue:

‘Now, I want you to – number three – enjoy yourself a bit; number two, power through this like a true champion; and – number one – achieve everything that’s asked of you, as a solids pig. Strictly in that order of importance, obviously! How does that sound, Kitten?’ I ask him, with my widest of smiles.

He drops his head briefly, gathering himself, then raises it again with a certainty that’s reinforced by his stare into my waiting eyes.

‘It sounds fair, Sir, and I’m ready,’ Kit says, without faltering.

I squeeze his left cheek, lovingly.

‘Fine!’ I say. ‘Shall we take you down to The Bathroom, then?’

I remind myself that Kit hasn’t shed a single tear today, whether of anguish, fear or joy. Mentally, he’s become a tougher boy under my coaching, and I believe he’s well-prepared for today’s nasty piggery.   

***

In case it wasn’t clear by now, Kit has trained – is still training – to serve as a human toilet: a sewer mouth, for piss and shit. That’s where he considered his destiny lay, at the age of 19, having become enchanted by some deeply troubling content on Scatboi.com, and after ‘experimenting’ in an unsatisfactory (but still revealing) way with a few dominant men, who proved inadequate for his all-round development, leaving Kit despondent and searching for premium experiences.

Enter me: an accomplished filth Master with a fistful of testimonies from under-25s. Okay, I’ll lay-off the Trumpish self-aggrandisement now.

The thing is, functioning as a full-service toilet isn’t as glamorous as it sounds, and there’s plenty of societal phobia about this fetish. So, Kit needed to train with someone discreet: someone who’d ignore the background noise around Heartstopper, season 2 – a month from it’s Netflix release – and gatekeep Kit’s reputation, without compromising on the stretch of his learning in those early days of drinking piss straight from my hose, fuss-free, and giving me blumpkins.

I’m that keeper of dirty secrets. I’ve kept some astonishing scenes of degradation private, with names both household and unknown. I develop capability and trust as parallel necessities. With time, boys feel liberated to express their full gamut of emotions during my training scenes, ranging from ecstasy to the total despair every toilet boy is made to feel, at junctures on their intensive service pathway.   

Kit takes the familiar walk with a confident gait, three steps ahead of me. Chest puffed and curvaceous shoulders flared, he models a cool pride that does an effective job of masking his nerves.

We hustle along the corridor – a concrete box tunnel strung with strip lights – and down the metal staircase to the lower basement; my boots clanging on the treads, Kit with barefooted taps. I’m dressed to dominate, and he’s naked.

Then a further passageway to walk end-to-end, without slackening of pace, before we get to the door. It’s wooden and finished in dark green gloss paint with a small, square window glazed opaque and wire meshed. We’ve re-created the entrance to a high school toilet block, or some other faded institution. The door opens for Kit on a hydraulic ram, and closes behind me with some force.

It's dank down here, and private. A pig boy knows he can work without fear of being interrupted, or heard, by outsiders who wouldn’t understand. But equally, the boy can be pushed – hard – with zero prospect of intervention by that appalled passer-by. That’s the function of the lower basement chamber known quite innocuously as The Bathroom. It’s a place of progression, and achievement.

We’ve arrived. I swivel Kit by his shoulders so he’s facing me, and not his workspace in the corner.

‘A quick check-in. How are you feeling now?’ I ask.

Kit confects a thin smile for me.

‘Excited… but shitting myself!’ he admits. He’s not talking literally, yet.

‘Fine,’ I say, with a hint of empathy. ‘Hungry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Very hungry?’ I hassle him.

‘I hope so!’ Kit says, anxious.

‘Because you know my expectations of you today, Kit,’ I remind him, solemn.

‘Yeah, for sure.’

‘And also, I don’t want you feeling forced into anything you believe would ruin you. But, that said, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t feel deeply uncomfortable, along the way. Does that make sense?’ I ask. It was wordy, but I see he gets my gist.

‘I wanna eat well,’ Kit assures me. His flesh is taking-on a suitably piggy look, flushing dappled strawberries and cream. Feeling the pressure, he’s damp to my touch. It’s stuffy, down here.

I nod down, towards the boy’s groin.

‘I think we could usefully take your cage off now, huh?’

‘Yeah, I’d like that a lot!’ he enthuses, straight back at me.

‘How has it been, staying unfulfilled?’ I ask.

‘Hard!’ Kit admits.

‘Worthwhile?’ I ask.

‘Umm… yeah,’ he says.

‘Thought provoking?’ I suggest.

‘Yeah,’ he says, down to a bare whisper, now.

‘It really wasn’t that long, to go without,’ I challenge him. ‘You know, I should have put you in chastity before you went off to do R&J. That would have been a torment!’

‘Fuck!’ Kit recoils at my train of thought.

All he can focus on is the hex key I’ve retrieved from a shirt pocket. I bend towards Kit to turn the twin locks, one by one, feeling the sudden elevation of his warm exhalations on my neck, and hearing the excited raggedness of those puffs. The chastity cage components fall into my waiting palm. The boy flourishes to semi-hard immediately, cherishing the feel of his unconstrained sex.

‘No touching until you’re eating well, okay?’ I warn, rule-setting.

‘No problem!’ Kit says, but he’s making impatient fists with his hands, and I know he wanted one of them around that shaft, like, now.

***

We had not planned to meet whilst Kit was performing in Romeo & Juliet, on Broadway. His schedule was gruelling, the Kit fandom was everywhere, and it would have been hard for him to accommodate for our purposes. We’d agreed to leave it until he returned to London, in March.

But as I’d suspected he might, Kit struggled without personal development, week after week in an unfamiliar city. He loved the theatrical role and the young cast but grew tired of the unrelieved repetition through the dark months of the year, and the selfish selfie seekers at every door.   

We kept-up contact via messaging, and Kit told me with escalating frequency how much he was missing drinking and (especially) eating from me. I expressed concern his competency would regress, through lack of muscle memory. But he was 3,500 miles away and we were both busy, so what could we do but wait-out our time?

In the dog days between Christmas and New Year, late one evening (EST), Kit posed me a question by our regular secure chat channel:

What do you think are the next steps for me… if I really wanted to push on with this???

I hadn’t silenced my notifications overnight, and was onto it right away.  

I considered the possibility Kit was alone in his room, horny, and looking for me to supply him with some masterful words to jerk off to. But we’d never done cyber, and I’d like to think I carry more gravitas than that, with my boys. With a short exchange Kit promised me he wasn’t wanking, but was feeling bluesy.

Kit’s opener was the sort of question a toilet Master loves to hear, and the office I run was like tumbleweed over the holiday period. Impulsively, I booked return business class flights from Heathrow to JFK, and set about asking Kit when, and where, he would be free to meet me for an hour or two, just to catch-up: nothing more.

***

‘I’ll be blunt. In fact, I suspect I’ve spent four thousand on air fares to tell you what you must know already,’ I said.

‘No… genuinely… I don’t have a conception,’ Kit said, breathless in his anticipation.

‘Right,’ I said, arching a sceptical eyebrow. ‘So, you asked about next steps, and here they are. Number one – we get you serving and eating from men other than me: guys you won’t have met before, and may not meet again. Number two – you eat more than one meal in a sitting. That would obviously be new for you, too, but such a valuable experience on your journey.’

Kit gave a single nod to register he’d heard me, pushed back in his chair, and sighed with a prolonged sucking of air that made his gappy teeth whistle. Plus, he made a tent in his jeans.

‘Fuck!’ he said, regaining composure. So profound!

In his hotel suite – not a penthouse, but swish enough to host in – Kit and I talked for seventy minutes over bottled beers. It was enough alcohol to lubricate his tongue, but not so much as to get him making bold promises he’d regret in the morning.

A serious conversation that returned, repeatedly, to Kit’s understanding of his role and how it could change, subtly, as he went lower, which is one of my favourite euphemisms that sugarcoats degradation, a bit, for unsure toilet boys. A discussion around mental strength and the perverse pride he would (or damn well should!) feel at accomplishing toilet service that was more frenetic, more mechanical, but less loving. And a great deal about the pride I’d feel in him, watching what I summarised as an extended display of his piggery.

He'd been wearing a white T-shirt that hugged his core and turned barely an inch over his shoulders blades, at the arms. When Kit spoke at length, verbalising his weighty thoughts for me, I let my attention drift to the freckles of his upper arms, and the two unruly patches of wispy hair that sprouted from them: imperfections, as some would see it, but characterful to my eyes.

In photoshoots, stylists were prone to putting Kit into baggy pants that irritated me. Why hide his blooming muscularity, in the name of fashion? But that afternoon in NYC he’d worn jeans from his own wardrobe, and the denim stretched tight at Kit’s thighs whilst he sat opposite me in an easy chair, knees apart and casual, using hand movements to add expressiveness to his narrative in a very actorly way.      

I nodded and smiled, switching off as Kit tortured himself over what he wanted, or thought he wanted, and what he needed, or needed but was too anxious to make a commitment to, right now. Etc, etc.  

I knew what I wanted from Kit, my leading toilet boy.

***

I built the stall in the corner of The Bathroom utilising the side and rear structural walls, already in situ. To complete a U-shaped space – open at the front – I had a third, partition-style wall constructed, eight feet in height.

Glossy white tiles were applied to all three wall faces in the stall, with larger black tiling to the floor. The space is 3m square, giving plenty of room for feeder and eater to work, and for any guests to watch the action intimately, toilet-side.

The regular rim chair, thin framed with a slim toilet seat, is towards the back of the stall. It was a bespoke order, with a design brief for unobtrusive elegance. It’s wholly black. Under the seat and extending in front of it, across the floor tiles, is an air bed – also in black – to make life more comfortable for a toilet boy digging-in over an extended period of service. But the inflatable has a dual purpose, in raising the lying eater nearer to his food servery.

Kit has eaten in this stall on eight previous occasions, from the moment I judged his training to have progressed sufficiently to introduce him to downstairs, and The Bathroom. He knows the stall very well as a place of intensity, tears and rigour. Progress in the stall has given Kit recurring nightmares, the trauma of which is offset by his orgasms, with the same root cause.

There have been a few tantrums, in the stall: the collision course of a dominant man (sadist?) with the highest expectations, against a boy who thought he was utterly beaten, and that I was – sometimes – an unreasonable coach. Always, I tried to wave Kit off with a smile on his face, though.  

The stall in The Bathroom has become Kit’s domain. Per se, the walk downstairs holds little fear for him anymore. We’ve worked so carefully together, over the last few months, adjusting Kit’s sense of identity until he came to terms with feeling comfortable on his back, under the rim chair, as the space where he fits-in. Kit’s destinal place. 

‘You’d like a sniff of the poppers, I presume?’ I ask him.

‘Yes please, boss!’ Kit livens, appreciative. He’s still just a kid, relatively speaking, but Kit has a particular way of turning-on the charming respect, in his chat, that in-turn switches me on, and he sees. It’s my moment to wrestle back some authority.

I pinch him by his rubbery tit nubs, tugging up until Kit rises onto the front of his feet with a slant-necked wince.

‘Give me some good words… the words we’ve thought about together lots, in your training,’ I demand of him.

‘Sure…’ Kit huffs, making slits with his eyes in discomfort as my fingernails bite into his titties. ‘Selfless… hungry… err, disciplined…’

‘Some more?’ I push the young star on his recall. This is simple stuff. People pay him to remember lines!  

‘Attentive… stoic… err, grinding… thorough…’

‘Good!’ I encourage him, but retain my finger vice on his teats.

‘Err, satisfying… no, total satisfaction…  hard-working… respectful.’

‘Nice!’ I say, putting him down. My hands revert to spanning Kit’s shoulder joints, one last time before he lays. I stare him out but find him hazily unfocused, and that doesn’t wash with me.

‘Eye contact!’ I remind him again, and Kit hears the rebuke in my tone.

‘Sir!’ he barks, accepting the reprimand and now he’s with me, unblinking.

‘Are you feeling ready, to eat from other men?’ I check, before the point of no return.

‘100 per cent, Sir! Ready to push on!’ Kit snaps back, definitive.

‘I’ll be standing by, start to finish,’ I remind him.

‘Thank you, Sir!’

‘So, if you experience a crisis of epic proportions, then you can tell me and I’ll take action, because we’re working with trust and consent, as always.’

I retain Kit’s complete attention, and he makes to mouth something but it’s silent. I give him the time he needs to put thoughts to voice.

‘I’m very grateful for that safeguard, boss!’ he says, and it’s so airily non-committal. I confess, it’s not the response I expected from Kit, either in substance or tone, at this stage of his education.  

‘But my preference is not to hear from you, at all, start to finish,’ I parry, brusque.

His eyes start to fall, slow motion, towards the stall floor.

‘Yes, Sir,’ Kit acknowledges.

Progression (2/2) M/mm; NC; SCAT; WS

 

Check-in 2

It’s difficult to overstate how much they welcome my approach, down the stairs with my particular gait, teasingly slow. Their relief is seen, and heard in the form of low groans, chorused. It’s just me (!) and not another user, but also, their second three-hour stint is up.

And I like to feel welcomed by my toilet boys – it’s encouraged behaviour.

I stand at their socked toes, arms folded across my chest, ready to deliver a considered opinion.

‘That started to look quite ragged, even on screen. What do you expect me to offer those men, as excuses, after all the training I’ve given you?’

Neither boy speaks, but there’s uncontrolled retching and deep, pitiful sniffing.

‘Fin, your gulping began to lack vigour… you stopped acting greedy for your piss drinks like you were a thirsty boy, and the pace of changeovers seemed to floor you.’

‘Sir!’ the blond says, neutrally, neither fighting my charges nor accepting them.

‘Tom… seven feeds: Not all of them bulky, by the way! But I could see a handful of challenges for you around quantity, and waste consistency. Your last hour, though… the mouth-to-ass was tortured, your chewing was glacially slow, and you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else than flushing turd for a man.’

Silence. The diver’s eyes close, and he’s newly limp on the floor. Upon my chastisement the boy drifts in and out of consciousness, liberated – temporarily – from the need to muster total concentration for his customers.

‘Tell me about Tom’s mood during that last hour, Fin?’ I ask the alert teamster.

The 21-year-old responds with certainty.

‘When he could still talk properly to me, ages ago, he told me he felt totally fucked, Sir. He said ruined, in fact.’

‘Thank you for the honesty, Fin,’ I say, gravelly. ‘And so, I wonder whether Tom has any capacity left for solid service, during your final third? Maybe not, I’m hearing?’

The blond youth clears his throat, startled.

‘I think he definitely has, Sir!’

The tune has changed pretty smartly, and Fin amuses me.

I believe Fin is astute in his judgment, but there are several possible permutations.

I decide they both need a change of gear, with Fin swapping to brown socks from yellow, and Tom switching to yellow/brown striped, from brown. It’s a resolution that leaves both of them looking sullen and feeling hard-done-by. The ideal resolution, for a finale. 

‘What were your preferences, then?’ I challenge them.

‘Yellow, Sir,’ Fin barks.

‘After that hell… yellow, please Sir,’ Tom wheezes.

‘Ah-ha. But you understand how that doesn’t work, okay? You know we can’t have two toilet bowls out of service, right? Think of the complaints I’d get, eh?’

‘And what’s the reason you can’t put me out of service, after SIX hours of shit?’ Tom has rediscovered his imperilled voice.

I scoff at him.

‘Because you deserve to be kept available, Tom,’ I say.  

**

If you’re squeamish about what they’re eating, don’t dwell on it but think narrowly of the sheer quantity of food they must ingest, though appetite is zero and they’re stuffed. If it helps, imagine bowl after bowl of porridge, thick and starchy and packed dense with rougher material acting as a coagulant. The best porridge is heavy, but near flavourless. The worst bowls taste of damp socks and overcooked Brussels sprouts. Sometimes, but unpredictably, the porridge arrives barely mixed as a torrent of grey liquid followed by a concentration of gritty, grainy base.

The porridge must be swallowed immediately, however served, and when each feeder confirms they’re finished, the toilet boys have been trained to offer a response of gratitude through their oval window, with a forced smile:

‘Thank you, Sir!’

Remembering thankfulness was never a life-or-death matter, but in early training there were small rewards, or privileges, I’d distribute when a boy recalled the need to be appreciative of his user.

It’s a mark of how intense the eating exhibition is, this evening, that I’ve not heard a word of gratitude since the first hour. The common response to yet another ‘bowl of porridge’, concluded, is violent vomiting rather than a word of courtesy. However, thinking again of respect, they’re trained to keep everything down until their feeder has left the bathroom.

Resisting the urge to puke right now is amongst the hardest disciplines a toilet boy learns, and the cause of countless tears as we argue whether, or not, it’s physically possible to stifle an urge to sick-up (it is, and eventually it clicks!).

By his sixth hour of solids the quantity of ‘porridge’ has left Tom with a domed belly; that famous tanned skin stretched thin, glistening with his perspiration. It’s an interesting visual counterpoint to the dipped, emaciated look of his tummy during the recovery days between recent scenes. By week six, toilet service blows boys up then deflates them fartingly, like party balloons.

**

When the tasking breaks new ground in a significant way – only to the extent lives are at risk, let it be noted – there’s a privilege I can give, to add longevity to the process. It’s not a right, it’s irregular, and it’s not a safe word.

For the final third of their scene, the boys can mark themselves Engaged and unavailable for new shit deposits. The Engaged light can be set as many times as needed, subject to three rules:

1.        1. A boy can only go Engaged for a total of fifteen minutes over the three hours.

2.        2. Boys cannot be Engaged simultaneously – there must always be a toilet mouth available for solids. Status is given to the first boy on the button.

3.        3. A boy cannot switch to Engaged mid-feed.

I add colour to my act of benevolence:

‘You don’t have to use it, and ideally you won’t. But if you do, use it sparingly – I’ll look kindlier on the boy who finishes with ten minutes still available and unused, than the boy who has zipped through the entire allowance in ninety minutes. I don’t expect you to use the privilege in the first hour, or because you’re feeling just a bit rough. This is a warning, and please take it seriously: If, at the end, I feel my generosity has been abused, I won’t make a lifeline available again. Clear?’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ (Fin)

‘Sir, I desperately need more time, and a break!’ (Tom)

Straightaway, I speak via radio with the techie guys in the box, and order Tom’s privilege (only) be reduced to maximum ten minutes. His jaw drops as the preliminary to whiny protest.

‘Clear, pig?’ I ask Tom again.

‘Yes, Sir, and thank you, Sir.’

‘Good boy.’

**

T+2    Re-brief

The dust has settled or, more accurately, they’ve cleaned the bathroom of their voluminous orange vomit, diarroea and uncontrolled piss, being the outputs of their exhibition and, particularly, the final third. It was an epic mess, and great fun to view – I take Bitcoin for the downloads, by the way.  

With reference to ‘they’, you’ll have gleaned that both Tom and Fin are still around. 48-hours later, their puke has more or less dried-up, their body temperatures are receding below 40 degrees, and they’re starting to at least contemplate the protein and vitamin shakes I leave for them. Many pounds have been lost, and more of Fin’s straw-coloured fringe has fallen out in clumps.

It’s important not to go overboard and foster a sense of arrogance in the pair, but yesterday, T+1, I told them once and won’t repeat:

‘That was robust toilet service in harsh conditions. Give yourselves a pat on the back and reflect on the positives for a day or so. Well done, both of you!

And Tom: that was a very concentrated half-hour of shit service, towards the end – five feeds in thirty-seven minutes, and I saw you panic, but you didn’t clog-up. One of your feeders, who admitted to being very full for you, rated you 8.5/10 and commented that you’re a very capable flusher. I hope that gives you confidence to push-on!’   

 

Now I’m perched on a bar stool and they’re on the floor, naked at my feet. Chains of 60cm link the steel collars around their ball sacs, with floor-anchored rings. Subject to the limitations of reach the boys may squat, kneel or sit, but not stand.

I’m ready to address Tom and Fin, on next steps.

‘You’ve done your training, and you’re ready to move-up,’ I say, looking into attentive eyes. ‘The cycle of parties is over, for now.’

I let the news hang, watching them compute it. There’s no doubt their cognitive ability has slowed, over their time in my custody, and they look to each other for clarity but find blank faces.

‘Yes, I doubt there’s anything new you could learn from men around texture… taste… technique,’ I say, swishing my hand dismissively. ‘And I don’t want to leave you in a limbo.’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ Fin says, encouraging me in his interpretation of my train of thought.

‘You’ve still got drive, and there’s other things for you to be doing, and excelling at,’ I say, pushing back on my stool until it tips to two legs.

‘That’s… it, then?’ Tom falters, daring to dream.

‘It’s a new phase,’ I say, shattering the dream.

‘Shit!’ Fin raises his voice.

‘Yes, you’ve both earned the right to move into my private quarters. I’ve asked you to see me, so I can explain to you what will be involved in your new, 24/7, service.’  

‘No way!’ (Tom)

I start by running Tom and Fin through the long list of positives associated with their advancement:

-            Less frequent party service, though I can’t promise never

-            Working with familiar toilet users, not a bunch of strangers

-            More consistent regime, day to day

-            More teamwork and personal responsibility for scheduling

-            New experiences

In truth my four-minute monologue, full of nebulous management-speak, doesn’t motivate them. Heads are right down and they’re busted. I don’t joke on matters of predicament and beyond my bullshit, they smell deep shit.

‘But let me tell you what you’ll actually be doing, day in and day out.

Between the two of you, you’ll provide 24/7 coverage for the toilet needs of my household. The cycle of party events followed by days of lazy downtime for you, is over as of now.

I have what conservative critics might call a non-traditional household. There’s me, obviously, but you’ll also meet my domestic life partner, Chris – he’s lovely, by the way, but sadly we’re incompatible sexually, so we have an understanding. Duncan is my kinky partner, and he’s not so lovely and sometimes drives me up the wall, but on the other hand we have a deep sexual connection, in depravity. You’ve met Duncan, unbeknown, because he’s been one of your party toilet sitters!

Then there’s Theo, who’s studying psychology at university in London, but often pops home – whenever he needs washing done or runs out of money, basically – you know how it is! Theo is my adoptive son, with Chris, and he can switch from adorable to ultra-mean in an instant. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy being submissive with a queer boy around your age, Fin.

The last man you’ll get to know is Jerome, who’s the Business Manager for the studio, and indispensable to me. Jerome is Dutch and prefers not to commute, so he has an open invitation to stay with us whilst working, which he does for weeks at a time. We’re so close, I consider Jerome an honorary member of my household.

Now, as you’ll have gathered, it’s rare for all five of us to be at home together – we’d quickly get under each other’s feet! But it happens from time to time, when our schedules align.

For me, Chris, Duncan, Theo and Jerome, you will be providing the full-flush toilet service you’re expert at, for the duration of their residence. None of us will be using traditional plumbed toilets, ever.

Also, me and Chris have dogs! There’s Bruno, my German Shepherd, and Rolo, who’s Chris’s cuddly cockapoo. I mention this because you’ll be meeting Bruno and Rolo before long – that’s just the way of the household dynamic.

You’ve probably realised, by now, that teamwork is essential. Every night needs a mouth on call, and you’ll need to decide between yourselves who provides it. To be honest, 24/7 household service runs best with three toilet boys and one on semi-permanent nights, but as you know, your friends fell away at earlier stages, so you’ll deal with the situation.

That was a hell of a download, I know! Any questions, so far?’

Every sentence had been a fresh body blow, with physical recoil. They’re disorientated. It’s news requiring assimilation, but none of the developments will feel better following contemplation, I can guarantee it.

If questions do come, it’s always of interest to hear whether they’re philosophical, or plainly practical.

‘Five guys…’ Fin moans.

‘But rarely gathered together,’ I remind him.

‘For how long?’ Tom asks, bleating. ‘I mean, is there any point, whatsoever, in carrying-on?’

‘For first review at one month from today, Tom,’ I say.

‘So? And then? Another month, and then another six months, I suppose?’

‘We have new boys, starting the training you’ve just taken at day one. It’s possible that one or more of them will make the grade and relieve you. That’s how you’ve come to be progressed, after all.’

‘But just as likely, not,’ Tom the cynic says.

I pause for impact.

‘There are uncertainties, for sure, so your mindsets need to adapt, now, to a concept of permanence. Park the other possibilities – it’s easier that way, believe me.’

He’d been stunned into silence, but now there’s a whimpering from the young blond.

‘I don’t wanna eat more shit… I can’t eat more fuckin’ shit, every fuckin’ day!’ Fin snivels.

 ‘Honey, you’re a superstar eater! You can do this, so well,’ I enthuse.

‘There’s never any fuckin’ HOPE!’ Fin rages.

I think it’s best to move on, and not indulge him.

‘I want to let you know my expectations in the 24/7 gig, boys… well, pigs. This will be a step-up for you, not backwards or treading water. No days off, right?  When you become a toilet around the clock, it’s basically a lifestyle for you, okay?’

Deeply bowed heads shake.

‘You’ll be held to the highest standards of service, by all of us. Continual feedback and evaluation… you know the score. The first time I have disobedience reported, the Engaged privilege gets withdrawn: I’ll explain to you, later, how that lifeline button will work under the new arrangements.

The second time I have a problem with you – woe betide! – I will introduce an aspect of household service that disgusts even my broad mind, and which I’m only withholding on day one out of my soppy sense of compassion. That’s the second time you fuck-up, not the twentieth or one-hundredth, understood?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ Tom says. It’s as though he’s perceived fairness in my warning, and the continuation of an Engaged panic button is better than he hoped for, I suppose, but I expect it to be withdrawn within 48-hours. Bear in mind that the decision as to the acceptability of their performance is at my discretion, entirely.

‘How long have we got?’ Fin asks.

‘You start after dinner, tonight,’ I say. ‘There’s three in residence, overnight. Decide between you, ASAP, who’s going on-call from 23:00 to 07:00.’

‘Da fuck, man!’

I survey the naked youths, on the floor before me.

‘Look up at me,’ I tell them. Slowly, the nascent sewers comply.

‘Which of you have I broken irreparably, then?’ I demand to know.

They shoot a glance at each other, reluctant to move individually. Perhaps they’re imagining a scale of brokenness, and they look confused, but neither raises a hand though I give them twenty seconds to think about the proposition.

‘I see. And, which of you expects to be broken by 24/7 household toilet service?’ I follow-up, projecting my sense of fun in their dilemma.

Both of them snort, but neither are going to give me the pleasure.

‘Because – cards on the table time – you must know I’m trying to break you with shit, right? I’d be fine – happy, in fact – to push one, or both of you, over that cliff-edge.’

‘We can tell!’ Fin blurts, derisive.

‘And so, exactly as it was six weeks ago when you started learning, then as it is this evening and onwards: You drink, and you eat, and you try to smile for a feeder occasionally.

But also, if you happen to be presented with something new and nastier than you’ve seen before… you stifle the complaint and overcome your every instinct to resist, okay? Work hard for my extended family, and you can trust me to be as fair with you now as I was on day one, so we never get to that cliff-edge of brokenness, okay? That’s my promise.’  

‘What?’ Tom squeals, confused by my smoke and mirrors game.

‘Maybe in thirty days time we’ll be sat back here talking about your future again. Who knows!?’

Looking at them, there’s not much sign of appetite to carry-on, but they’ll probably talk to each other and rally themselves out of their immediate doom loop. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that toilet-trained boys become stiffly resilient.

‘Just a few hours to go, then,’ I remind them. ‘It’ll soon be time to get those heads and eyebrows shaved, and some steel chastity locked on. Yes, pigs?’

**

Their cell – soon to be former cell – is wired for sound and vision, recording constantly. They established this early in week one, after they’d been disparaging about my toilet training programme behind my back, or so they thought. It made me upset.  

Tom and Fin have two hours to fill, and not much to pack for their move to household quarters: toothbrush and paste; mouthwash**; safety razor and shaving cream; flannel; the print of their favourite photo each, selected under supervision from the galleries on their phones during day one, before the devices were confiscated ‘for safe keeping and return’. Plus, their individual performance books, updated daily over the last six weeks with their answers to the same question, repeating:

What have I done and learnt today, that’s new?

( ** Some feeders prefer a fresh-smelling toilet boy before first use, hence the mouthwash.)

In the vacuum the pair do as they’ve always done and worry each other unwittingly with speculative talk. Cradling a coffee mug, I watch a segment of interaction on screen:

F:  So, I’m trying to work-out whether this is gonna be easier, or harder, than the last couple of weeks?

T:  Really?

F:  Yeah, seriously – no parties, he said. No more gangs of eight, thank Christ! That was fuckin’ killing me!

T:  Yeah, I know how you feel. But I think this will be worse, Fin. Sorry!

F:  Hmm, I dunno. Remember, he said not all of the four guys actually stay there at the same time. Sounds as though that student guy could be away for, like, weeks at a time.

T:  It’s five men, though, not four.

F:  No, it’s… the two partners, the student son, and the business manager…

T:  And the boss himself!

F:  Ah fuck, yeah! Can’t believe I’d forgotten that.

T:  So, I suppose we have to look at typical best – and worst – case scenarios.

F:  Yeah? Sounds like a plan. What’s a best-case scenario look like, you reckon?

T:  Well, I think it will always be minimum two men in residence. They won’t let it go lower than that, I’m pretty certain. There’s not going to be any relief.

F:  Right, so – two guys means one eat for both of us, each day.

T:  That’s a minimum, though, because they will shit two loads sometimes, for sure!

F:  True. But not all the time. And what do you reckon the worst-case scenario looks like? I mean, basically – kill me now, huh!?

T:  I’m worried there’ll be long periods of four guys in the house, I guess. Look, it could easily be even worse than that – all five guys together – but he’s kind of guided us away from that, as a regular thing, I think?

F:  Yeah, he definitely played that down, I heard it.

T:  Yeah, so let’s say it’s four guys…

F:  Two eats each… per fuckin’ day!

T:  Minimum. I think it looks really bad, to be honest.  

F:  Because basically, two out of our three meals each day become shit-substituted. Fuck!

T:  Yeah, I’m really petrified about that. All nutrition has to come from one normal feed per day, which inevitably we’ll have no appetite for, because they’ll see to it.

F:  Fuck. Do you reckon it’s that bad, mate? Seriously?

T:  Eh, yeah! This is every single day for a fucking month, Fin. It would be relentless.

F:  Shit. And, by the way, what happens if there are three – or five – men around? That gives an uneven split between us, yeah?

T:  I mean, fair point. I guess we have to take the third man in turns….

F:  But… how do we know, in advance, who will be around the house? Did he say?

T:  No, I don’t think he mentioned it, but maybe they will let us know… give us a list or a rota or… something, so we can prepare?

F:  Maybe, but he didn’t promise that. Do you reckon we’ll always actually know who’s around?

T:  Well, sometimes he doesn’t mind answering questions, so maybe we should ask?

F:  Yeah, it can’t hurt.

T:  But, thinking about it, it’s possible – or likely, maybe – that we won’t know who’s arrived, and we’ll just have to respond to bells or something…. actually, I’d say that’s definitely likely.

F:  Fuck, man!

T:  It makes it difficult to plan, between us.

F:  Cunts! I hate it that they’d do that.

T:  They’d do it because it makes it difficult to plan between us!

F:  So, how da fuck do we manage five-man days!?

T:  I honestly don’t know… but Fin?

F:  Yeah?

T:  I’ve been thinking about something else the boss said.

F:  Yeah? What?

T:  Did you register his mention of the dogs?

F:  In passing. I didn’t think much of it. He said we’d be meeting them, I think?

T:  He did say that.

F:  And? What are you worried about?

T:  I don’t know any more than you do…

F:  But? Come on?

T:  I could be crazy… but… the particular way the dogs were mentioned as being a part of the household. I think it’s possible they’ll force some sort of… interaction… between us and the dogs.

F:  Holy fuck!

T:  I dunno, though.

F:  Like what? You’re shitting me, now! C’mon!

T:  I don’t even want to think about it… to say it.

F:  Fuck, man! You’re thinking sexual interaction!?

T:  I dunno. I just don’t know, Fin.

F:  Mate, come on!? NOT sex? What? What da fuck!?

T:  There’s been no sex since we started, has there? I thought he was certain to try and force us very early, but he hasn’t.

F:  I know, we both thought that motherfucker would try it on.

T:  But it never happened, did it? It’s just been piss and shit, always. Sorry – toilet service! Better get it right.

F:  Yeah, of course. But you reckon the boss might try sexing us with the fuckin’ hounds!?

T:  Maybe. You know as much as I do. But…

F:  Yeah?

T:  There’s another scenario, where he stays consistent with what we’ve been trained through so far. But he just extends the concept.

F:  Mate? What?

T:  I still think the mention of dogs was too… deliberate.

F:  Wait… no? You’re shitting me, right!? Please… tell me you’re just fuckin’ me along!?

T:  Well… I’ve been driven at least half-mad, and probably have the situation completely wrong. Like, he’s getting into my fucking head, y’know? Just forget about it, huh, and don’t waste energy on speculation, because there’s nothing we can do, anyway.  

F:  FUCK, Tom! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

**

Though I speak of them to their faces as just the latest batch, with boys preceding them and more to follow-on, in truth this process is a one-off. It’s a process of exploration, informed by customer feedback to my big question of six months ago: What form of sadistic torment should I develop, for film?

My clients have different fetishes, but their commonality is eroticism in watching boys pushed as hard as they can be, then harder again and again, until failure. Since the early days this has been an experiment in endurance, with Tom and Fin, but Tom is right in his supposition that the heat is about to be turned up.

I have a vision for their month-end which, unlike their rookie training to date, isn’t defined by specific inputs.

The vision of them I’ll craft, is a duo of boys marked not by athletic muscle but by haunting rib cages pushing at paper-thin, see-through skin. Eyes bulging prominent from sunken sockets, in faces narrowed and harrowingly gaunt. Limbs – all four of them – thin as sticks, where they’re terrified of my anger because one moderate shove from behind would have them tumbling into a sprawl of broken bones, from which they’d never recover.

The vision is one of filth drones, able to attach themselves by lips to twitching assholes in their sleep, practically: And, given the rigours of 24/7, that’s a state they’ll need to achieve damn quickly.

The vision is of pathetic, snivelling, crawling gratitude at the announcement of an afternoon off, for one of them.

The vision is five men in residence, greeted without a single tut, groan or curse but with proactive volunteering; enthusiasm feigned in weeks 1-3 of the new start, but somehow authentic by week 4. (It’s that drone thing).

The vision is a cumulative ocean of vomit and the live threat of a recycling mandate, ready to launch.   

The vision is their readiness – and we’ll do this at the back end of week one, when they’ve settled – to be sat down during a day of 4-man service and reminded of an extension I touched upon during their briefing. It will be an addition, not a substitute activity. Because they’re well-trained, obedient boys, the introduction will be deep end, so we’ll discuss frames of mind, but it’s going to be fine!

The vision is two pigs, in a month, weaned to the extent they neither ask for, nor expect, traditional food from one day to the next. By then, they’ll have a varied diet anyway.

But this is the future, and it will be a long month for Tom and Fin. If six weeks of boot camp felt like six months, this coming month will compress a year’s worth of character transformation.

It’s going to start tonight as a foretaste of what’s to come, with a hectic overnight – the truly filthy small hours – that shreds their nascent planning around teamwork and shift work. An overnight designed to have them at each other’s throats by 07.30, turning their fury inwards, opening the schism I will exploit within a few further hours by withdrawal of their solitary privilege, and then – a few days later – with my solemn advice of their additional duties.

The vision, is brokenness.