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. 

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.

 

 

Progression (1/2) M/mm; NC; SCAT; WS

Progression

Chapter 1 (of 2)

‘And you thought you’d retired, huh!?’ I quip, but Tom doesn’t react: no snigger, of course, because I’m not a guy to laugh along with, but also no scowl; no tut. Tom’s way beyond expending energy on response to my nonsense.

The five Olympic rings are tattooed inside his right bicep. It had been such a glorious farewell in Paris, as summer ended, with Tom’s thoughts turning to a future career in front of the cameras. But now he’s in front of mine and, task by task, I’m ruining him.   

I’m mopping his brow with a flannel, chocolate brown, that’s darkened on first contact with his perspiration. It’s a malodorous film on his forehead, dense and vaguely sticky to the touch, so layered is his sweat.

Naked – nearly – Tom is damp from scalp to ankles. It’s been hard work, but life in this role is a perpetual grind. No, the last three hours have been worse, as the boys had feared. It’s been a desperate struggle, for them.

Squatting beside Tom’s pulsing temples, face cloth withdrawn to appreciate his rich features in full, I give him a factual state-of-play.

‘Three down, six to go. One-third of the job done, yeah?’ I say, in a tone conveying encouragement, speaking of hours because that’s how the scene is defined in duration.

I wouldn’t have begrudged a sotto voce curse at this juncture, but instead his acknowledgment is a barely perceptible nod. If not completely broken Tom’s well on the way there, but from this point on the scene becomes insane(r), unfortunately for him.

‘Just a short break, huh?’ I remind him, smiling benevolently. ‘Then, straight back to it.’

Those are the rules.

A flutter, from his near-dead eyes.

‘Has it been harder than you expected, so far?’ I ask.

And now I receive a much deeper nod in response, certain, and he rests the lids on those pretty brown irises, exhausted.

‘I thought it might have been,’ I say. ‘But, you’ve done okay over the first trimester. Thorough, respectful, and calm… or so it seemed, at least.’

‘Fuck!’ Tom murmurs, at last, though his lips barely move.

**

Six weeks ago, though it must feel like six months, a team of five boys began learning toilet service from starting positions (all-round) of zero experience, little comprehension it was even a thing in freakish circles, then active revulsion when we first broached the notion of piss as a long drink.

Sadly, three trainees fell by the wayside in the interim, due to lack of application and removal (x1); total surrender and removal (x1) and, last week, a sudden death rooted in toxicity, which was genuinely sad for all concerned because Oli had been trying so hard. The fatality shook the remaining trainees, but misfortune is an occupational hazard.

So the crew is reduced to Tom and Fin, taking-on through necessity the work of the excluded others, just as that workload accelerates in intensity. There was bitterness, because they’d assumed their service would be reprofiled to take account of the depleted field of toilet boys, but that’s not how my programme runs.

Therefore this afternoon/evening it’s just the two of them and their pair of bullied, coerced mouths, serving as full-flush toilets – piss and shit – for a party of eight men. The ratio of 1:4 is the meanest they’ve been cajoled through, and it’s a continuous shock when they’ve never serviced a gang at a ratio worse than 1:2.33 recurring before, toilet to feeder.

I move to the straw blond, Fin, in what we refer to as trap 2 alongside Tom, though the service area isn’t divided by partitions. Both boys lay flat on their backs, elevated twenty centimetres by latex-covered mattresses little wider than their shoulders; their faces framed by the ovular holes of rim seats whose frame uprights straddle the mattresses at the boys’ heads. The logistics promote an intimate mouth-to-ass, feeder-to-eater relationship.

Peer through Fin’s oval toilet window and you see a face bleak, way beyond sadness. He’s only 21 and was an athlete – an aspiring footballer, shooting for the big time – though that’s all confined to the past tense now, whatever his outcome here.

Fin started his learning as a fiery boy, and I guess it’s the fight that’s seen him through where others have succumbed, but over the weeks he’s been beaten (physically) and subdued (psychologically) into obedience, of a kind. There’s slightly more life in Fin’s blue eyes than Tom’s doe brown ones, but it’s marginal.

In fact the whole scene is marginal, now, and they know it. What began as nastiness, the month before last, has become dangerous, and I’m unapologetic.

Fin’s soggy bangs cling to his forehead, where I do believe his fine hairline has receded since I’ve known him, for understandable reasons. He’s been under a great deal of pressure.

After some serious chowing over the last three hours, Fin’s strong jawline is luxuriating in stillness, hanging open a little, lazily.

‘Tongue, Fin,’ I say, and he knows to poke it out as far as he can, for me to inspect.

The boy’s muscle is beige, tinged slightly but concerningly green in patches: he’s not in the best of health. I have spoken to the pair about working through regular illness, in the interests of candour.

‘Okay, put it away,’ I tell him. ‘Now, can you remember how many loads you’ve eaten?’ I quiz him, mostly as a test of his coherency.

Fin stares up at me as I crouch, blank but with a thought process flickering, deep.  

‘Five?’ he offers, barely whispering.

I smile at him, pitying. ‘No, hun. You’ve been fed only four shit loads, plus your piss drinks – seven of them, to wash the filth down.’

The youth turns his head away from me fractionally in a small act of defiance, but he’s otherwise unresponsive. It’s fair enough, for when we’ve got this far in the programme I don’t demand conversationalists beneath the toilet seat. Actively, I prefer them more machine-like.

‘I’ve had no bad feedback,’ I report, positively. ‘How are things, for you, one-third done?’

In slow motion Fin twists his neck back, to face me off. Now he’s summoned the old fury in those battered toilet-boy eyes.

‘Shit!’ he says, and I can see his irony is deliberate.

‘I understand, Fin. But you know very well there’s six hours to go, and I’ll be asking you – and Tom – to dig-in for more, huh?’

‘Sir,’ he acknowledges with only a hint of petulance, staring straight up through the seat hole through which he feeds, and past me as though I wasn’t there.   

‘But I think we may mix things up a bit, for you both,’ I say, contemplatively.

**

The core discipline is a simple one. Much simpler, in fact, than the multitude of skills an Olympic diver or a professional footballer are required to master.

Suction lips, I call it: Pucker-up to the ass that’s presented to you, form a tight seal, and stay connected whilst the waste transfers into your mouth – all of it, mind.

It’s not the form of celebrity a feted Olympian sought, and having turned 30 with a ring on his finger, I know Tom was considering a range of mature – for want of a better word – opportunities to launch his next decade with a high profile.

At the other end of his sporting career, having recently been promoted from youth ranks, the timing of his abduction was, perhaps, more poignant for Fin. Swept away on the cusp of notable achievement.

Tom and Fin have shared a cell since day one, and maybe that’s significant when considering this pair as the last two still going.

The dynamic in their bunk room is full of interest, pitching a voluble gay alongside a confident, homo-sceptical straight, nine years his junior. With another couple a father-son vibe might have flourished, but Fin isn’t a boy to be taken under a wing by an assertive queer, whilst he in-turn wound Tom up with his macho front; his detached coldness; his choice of language.     

Through design of their tasks I gaslit them, at different times, until both were convinced the other wasn’t taking a fair share of the filthy workload. Tom was being ‘let off’ due to his celebrity and unrivalled capacity for whining, whilst Fin was being ‘treated gently’ due to his youth, and a certain boyish charm.

There have been harsh words, in their cell, and shoving – Tom gives amusingly camp shoves of straight athletes.

More significant, was the incident. For context this was in week two, and neither of them would hold grippy suction lips as shit was purged in bulk. They’d break away at crucial moments during feeds, eugh-ing and retching like mad, moaning it was grossly unfair. For the same offence, the punishment of the day could be administered jointly, saving my time.

So, I had gay hero and straight apprentice press tight into each other, front to front, naked. They were hoisted from the floor by their wrists, shackled together – all four – in a single cartridge, raised until the shortest boy (Tom) stood on tiptoe. A harness belt, drawn tight, squeezed their abdomens into a rubbing situation.

I deployed a single-tail whip on the suspended package of boys, and that tail was a fucking long snake, curling its way from the butt cheek of one lad to the adjacent hip of the other. At every cracking landing of the flogger I asked the boys a rhetorical question: Is this really an easier option than eating properly, lads?    

I whipped for longer than they (or I) expected, until my trainee toilet boys burnt at the slices taken from their skin. I whipped until their tears fell to the floor, and then I carried-on whipping.

I finished with Tom, more or less, then spent a few minutes dedicating my lash to Fin, without reason beyond my particular enjoyment of the desecration of his soft, creamy, butt flesh. The 21-year-old screamed for me, blubbering profusely, pleading for it to JUST FUCKIN’ STOP! And as I disciplined sweaty Fin, Tom made a point of belly-rubbing him in a squirm whilst whispering commiserations and snippets of pep talk, smooth as honey, into a convenient ear. In his anguish I don’t think Fin saw the eroticism in Tom’s advance, nor his semi-hard.  

Late that night, after lights-out, the footballer felt Tom’s greedy lust beyond doubt. A hand slipped under the top sheet on Fin’s upper bunk, as the stinging blond drifted towards sleep, searching for his welted ass mounds or prick – I’m not sure which, and maybe it didn’t matter to Tom whether he copped hold of butt or dick. The diver just needed a boy, badly, to hold at that moment.

That’s how Tom got his black eye – no, it wasn’t one of my injuries! The atmosphere in cell Tom/Fin was icy, and it threatened the cohesiveness of the process, so I needed to sit them down for one of my solemn chats. To precis:

‘Tom: I understand your frustration, but there’s no excuse for sexually assaulting Fin. And Fin: It was a brush of the hand, because you’re an attractive boy, and there’s no need to be a stroppy diva about it. To both of you: Now you’ve worked through your anger, it’s time to re-focus on toilet service. Today has a difficult programme, but let’s see some high quality, mouths wide open, chewing and swallowing from you.’

I don’t want you to think that service came easily to Tom or Fin. As any normal boy would, they thought eating shit was an outrageous proposition, and rather than cooperate they fought, sulked, and felt sorry for themselves. I’ve mentioned the whip, but far more persuasion was needed, besides, over a condensed fortnight. Balls pommelled until bruised black, and tit nubs used to stub my cigarettes. Electrical torture of the Russian POW variety, to their pricks and nuts until they screamed themselves hoarse. Breath control in the form of bagging, close to the point of knock-out. Forced exercise under the lash, and cruel stress bondage.

Getting a boy into the frame of mind to give good toilet service is hard work, and both of them became damaged extensively on every level in the interests of persuasion, but it’s worth the effort because once the principle of opening the mouth – and keeping it open – is accepted, the technical aspects of the role can be trained, on coping with quantity, and low-quality feed.       

To return to where we started, that core discipline of suction lips is now learnt. Whether the toilet sitter is 18 or 80, rake thin or obese, black or white, Tom and Fin are straight in with lips puckered. It’s still the last place on earth they want to be, but now they have one in a million capacity to cope with it, I can nurture them further.

**

Early doors, I forced Tom to knit for me. I’ve heard he finds it therapeutic, anyway.

Now, at work, the boys wear the fruits of Tom’s needlework in the form of woollen socks. It was ingenious, if I do say so myself.

My party guests need direction as to where they should piss and shit, and the socks provide colourful guidance to this end. A boy wearing plain brown socks must be used as a shit dump only, whereas a kid clad in socks of alternate brown and yellow bands, knitted carefully by Tom, has a mouth trap which can be used for piss or shit.    

Sock advisories aside, men may use ‘trap 1’ or ‘trap 2’ at their discretion when they visit the bathroom, and in matters of equality the boys must remain silent. Therefore, workload is not planned and rarely delivered fairly. Men conspire, sometimes, and it’s possible to see a queue develop for one toilet mouth, when another is a blissfully vacant trap.

Another tell-tale to identify boys with a urine workload is the allocation of a funnel with a long hose to ‘their’ chair, to ease the practicalities of fluid flow. Solid-only boys have no need for a hose.

Tom knitted plenty of socks in week one, of all varieties, and now we’re down to just two boys they could wear the same colours (brown and yellow, striped), throughout. That would be the simplest solution for all concerned, but I’m a cruel tactician.

In the first trimester I had Fin wear striped socks, whilst Tom wore brown and ate, but didn’t drink. Once I’d communicated my decision, Fin started to contest it with as much vigour as a boy in week six believes he can project, which is to say, not much:

‘Sir, please…’

Let’s get this straight: drinking piss is always a burden, despite the airy language I use with mixed intake boys about ‘washing down’ their shit loads. Feeder piss is pungent and overly plentiful; arrives from the funnel far too quickly to gulp comfortably, and though it’s less of a horror than solids, I’d expected Fin to feel put-out. Even when stripped of all dignity and status, I find boys remain alert to perceived favouritism.

‘You never know, Fin,’ I’d said to the indignant blond. ‘Some men might see your socks and take pity on you, yeah? They might switch their solids to Tom’s trap, huh?’

‘Sir, I doubt it…!’ he’d argued, no longer naïve here.

‘Well, let’s not get too flustered about hypotheticals. Trust the process, and let that piss flush down your throat sweetly, like a warm white wine.’

‘Sir, this is gonna be the worst test yet, by far. Please, just set it equally…’

‘Enough, Fin,’ I’d cut him short. ‘Toilets don’t answer back. You know that.’

‘Sorry, boss, but…’

‘I said enough, Fin!’

As I’d strategized, there was an inequality over this first session with Tom eating three shit meals to Fin’s four, though daddy hadn’t been required to drink, either. Little wonder that, lying flat, Fin’s belly looked pumped pregnant.

I scratched my chin, standing over my toilet boy charges.

‘Yes, for your second three-hour session, I think we’ll use a pair of all-yellow socks, huh? I wonder which of you might prefer pure urinal play?’

**

They’re under scrutiny, always. The boys must eat cleanly, and any one of the feeder men can report them to me as a broken toilet, if they fail to do so.

Broken toilets are removed from service immediately, then hung or crucified to my whim. The remaining boys watch the snuff spectacle, as a lesson in conduct.

You see, I don’t force-feed boy mouths using tubed gags. There’s no lasting fun in intubation. Successful boys work proactively, mouth to ass, catching diligently then chewing (if necessary) and swallowing whatever is dumped for them by the asshole on the toilet seat. With limited bondage (ankles and wrists only, to hold them down against their flight instincts) and ‘free’ faces, I and my feeders get to see all that’s important in these exercises: the reactions to relentless terror unfolding, and the exquisite despair of sewer service.

Why do they continue to present themselves at the cell door? There’s a multi-faceted answer, I’m sure, but key to it is the preservation of hope, in my toilet boys – their understanding that if they push-on and succeed, being ultra-obedient, fulfilling every objective I set for them, they may have a future of sorts.    

Precocious boys have been known to ask me, directly, whether there’s an end and a release. The response must be kept vague, which maddens them. Notably, their next scene must never be held-out as their last, but it’s acceptable to imply they’ve accomplished most of the goals in the process:

‘Next time out will be hard work, right? I’m not going to lie to you, boys. But I can say, I’m pleased with what you’ve achieved, so far, when your friends have fallen by the wayside. I see good attitude – diligent toiletry but not quite model toiletry, if I’m honest  – so I really think it’s worth you finishing this thing off.’

That’s a reasonable statement to make, at the latter stages of training. Because what’s their alternative, having come so far with me?

Universally, boys detest and dread being judged a mere toilets, when one complaint of a bad flush is enough to see them out and off. But with trained submission, they’ve understood why I seek this feedback from feeders – it’s crucial boys! – and they’ve come to trust the integrity of the sitters in judging them fairly, which I insist upon. We can do depravity without tricks.

Tom and Fin wouldn’t (yet) think of it in these terms, but I’m fostering dependence alongside the blatant subservience of eater to feeder and thereby to Master. Ticks in boxes mean everything, and that’s the beginning and end of their lives as trainees.

**

They get little rest. I’ve been kind in prioritising trophy events such as today, over a daily service schedule. But I’ve compressed their breaks between scenes as the training has progressed.

It was only four days ago that three boys (as was) serviced seven men – and for only eight hours, incidentally.

T+1 was a day lost in a fog of feverish sickness. Vomit aplenty.

T+2 was similar, but we got Tom and Fin exercising again, and rehydrating though their appetite was limited.

T+3 saw tougher gym work, to keep them in shape, plus a focus on food intake and multivitamins to speed a quality recovery.  

T+4 – last night, and this morning – involved the usual pre-scene purging they hate so much, draining and rinsing bladder and bowels to, ultimately, get them clean empty for the start of this event, timetabled for 15:00.

At 14:00 they’d been sat down for the now familiar pre-scene huddle: a cod motivational talk laced with broski cliche, designed superficially to give them confidence but, in reality, accentuating their ‘pre’ panic:

‘Tom, Fin, this is going to be a real nasty one, but I know you have it in you to pull it off. Remember to act respectful, to a devotional level, yeah? Eat quickly and without fuss, however vile it will get. It’s just your food, right? Support each other, and let’s see both of you come through. You have this, and I know you’ll smash it!’

Waiting around, it was Tom this time who’d dared speak his mind with one of his whines:

‘Sir, I don’t think we’re ready for this one, yet.’

And as we had a few minutes until the lead-out at 14:45, I told him how it was:

‘Tom, you know this isn’t week two. If you’re feeling ready, you’re not giving the frequency of service you’re capable of. Being a professional sewer isn’t about how you feel, and whether the time sits well for you. It’s about being challenged all the fuckin’ time, always being used hard, always feeling rough not ready, right?’

Bravely, smooth Fin linked-up with his queer cellmate, to back him:

‘Sir, Tom’s right, though. I only stopped puking yesterday. If we had another day to prepare, even, then it would literally make a world of difference!’

And I nodded, raising the palms of my hands to field their protest and hush it. I paused, considering my words.

‘Maybe it feels dangerous now, right? Far too risky, boys?’ I suggested.

‘Exactly!’ Tom agreed quickly, with what remained of his athletic six-pack rippling with anticipation.  

‘That’s what we mean, Sir,’ the youthful blond said. ‘We’re not asking you to abandon this or nothing. We’re not demanding to stop being toilets, though that would be fuckin’ nice! We’re asking for, say, two more days, because this is fuckin’ mental to follow-on so quickly. Do you see what we mean?’

It was 14:43, and I was amused but needed to keep a sour face.

‘That was the last time you’ll get an interval of four days, pigs. But now, you focus only on today, and my requirement of universally positive feedback.’

‘Sir, this isn’t fair!’ Tom bleated. Just for a moment he had regressed badly, to week one and my earliest and simplest lessons on positive behaviours.

I snorted.

‘You’re thirty years of age, Tom, so please act it. And just consider, for a moment, all that you have to lose. Think of that, and step back from the cliff edge.’

‘Sir, I beg you…’ Fin starts. ‘We didn’t mean to be disrespectful, honestly.’

‘Okay – enough talk. Sixty seconds, to compose yourselves for the hot chocolate feast.’

**

‘Remember, this is split two of three, so there’s more change to come, but… for the next three hours I’d like to work the discharges discretely, with one urinal and one shit bowl. Fin – I want you to wear yellow socks, and to take all the piss that comes.’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘And Tom: Just for this next session, you’ll wear brown socks and service any shit requirements.’

A weedy, weakened voice raises a defiant shot, for what worth:

‘No!’

More profound are Tom’s tears, spewing abundantly from nowhere. He has been more prone than Fin to the waterworks throughout the process, so this is no great surprise. I console him, as I caress his thighs still disproportionately meaty for his modest height.

‘It’s disappointing for you, I know, but Fin’s had it tough and I do need to see you worked hard as well, Tom. And some of the guys, surely, won’t be ready to push shit again just yet, huh!?’

‘I just wanna die,’ he whispers. But I feel Tom’s lying, so I get right up to his nearest earlobe and itemise all he has to live for, which amounts to a lot more than most men his age.

When I stand, I address them both.

‘We have a queue forming, boys, so we need to crack-on. See you in three, and do the unbelievable, my piglets.’     

**

Despite gruelling, enforced workouts including weight training, the sportsmen have weakened since their acquisition, and the deterioration in their physical form became marked over the last fortnight. On both the diver and the footballer, muscle mass has been shed. Hip bones are now starkly prominent, whilst abdomen have sunk from griddled six pack to something approaching concavity. There is a new gauntness about their cheeks, and broad shoulders have narrowed, tending to curl in a comforting self-hug. The boys now shiver in temperatures that didn’t bother them, last month.    

The weakening is inevitable and, to a significant extent, welcome. Fragile boys are less inclined to fight, so easier to manage. Because these two arrived in a high state of fitness, their decline curve has been – and will be – longer, granting me more time with them, I hope.

What I can’t tolerate is boys unable to work due to frailty, but we have well-honed regimes to sustain boys in service with the most basic level of functional health. Tom and Fin aren’t in that dire state, yet.

They scarcely require the situational advice I provide, but my party of toilet-needy men prepare themselves well for a session, to get maximum pleasure from it:

They avoid opening their bowels for 24-hours beforehand, but eat extravagantly 2-hours prior to the exhibition.

They take long drinks at the courtesy bar I open at 13:00, until bladder discomfort is felt.

As they mingle, the men socialise the facts as to which of them squeeze hard turd, versus those who jettison a torrent of near-liquid filth, and they laugh over their findings. Usually, there’s at least one guy suffering a ‘funny tummy’, and that’s welcome.

Then, there’s the cruel deception. It’s true to say that, over each third, the boys eat and drink from the same eight men, only. But – there are thirteen guys at my toilet party, and the composition of the eight, for each third of the scene, is determined on the fly according to who feels full or is likely to feel full in a couple of hours time, whilst the others eat and drink hard, replenishing their tanks for later.

Don’t the boys mind, and get furious? Well no. I wouldn’t care, anyway, because the rules are mine alone to determine, but practically they don’t seem to notice. They’re in states of high distress; the men disguise faces with full masks; the boys only really see assholes in (great) detail; there are two boys between whom the men flit, to confuse the situation; the men are guided to say little, and the focus of the boys is on hard, anonymous consumption.

I mean, I suppose if I introduced the only Indian guy in the final third, one of the kids would be smart enough to notice a new ass and cry foul, but I’m not that stupid.

It’s heartbreaking for Tom and Fin, because I talk a fair bit about men getting spent and giving the boys a natural break, but it’s a deliberate false prospect when 13 into 8 means there’s always a man ripe and ready to use them for liquid or solids, or both.

Of course, hosting thirteen men for an official eight spaces means more income for me, and these trusted guys pay tens of thousands for the experience. They get to watch the whole thing live on 4K monitors, anyway.

I’m not a fan of OCD-style even scheduling for the toilet users, and they respect why. I’m a lover of queues (well, I’m British!), for the nuisance and harassment value they add. The boys know when there are men waiting for them, because there’s a speaker system in their bathroom that I use, sparingly, to broadcast updates:

‘I have three in line for shit service. Boys with brown responsibilities – let’s quicken the eating pace and get that motherfucking queue moving!’

The flip side of bunching is that one or more boys might then get downtime. Occasionally, twenty minutes passes without a toilet user disturbing them: plenty of time for self-pitying tears, digestion (or indigestion), and breathless bitching talk with their fellow sewer mouth.

Concerning their environment, there’s nothing to give solace in that downtime. The set resembles an old, vandalised public toilet run by a cash-strapped local authority that can’t afford to maintain it. Some keywords so you get the flavour of the ambience:

Gloom; dripping taps; chill; broken tiles; lewd graffiti; small, cobwebbed windows of wire mesh toughened glass; shit-loving flies; echoing; broken fluorescent lighting tubes; chewing gum and fag ends; stink.

The bathroom is entered by a steep staircase, down, that bursting men in boots tread slowly, exchanging bro greetings if they meet on the risers.

Atmospherically, everything is authentic but for the lack of bowls with cisterns and associated plumbing, where almost-trained boys provide the alternative waste disposal facilities.

Oh, and the unattended cameras mounted strategically and operated remotely are expensive kit, hardly in keeping with the dilapidated look, but I have movies to make for the dark web.

Priorities (2/2) M/m; D/s; control; minor violence - Heartstopper fanfic

 

Naked on his knees, between my spread legs as I squat over a toilet bowlful of filth is, I think, the most natural place in the world for Nick. It’s his home - not Charlie Spring’s camp boudoir of a bedroom, as I imagine it. In fact, I should ask Charlie for a picture to confirm.

His scrumming thighs, folded at my feet, are thicker than they were in the changing room at Truham, and I credit Nick for not skipping leg day in his university gym routine. Physically he’s much more of a man than the confused dweeb I hooked-up with on the down-low after that fight in the cinema that left both of us with surprise erections. But kneeling on my bathroom floor, adoring and worshipping and giving me everything, he’s reduced to a whimpering boy, and honestly that’s the Nick Nelson I love.

Using both of my hands flat against the back of his neck, I leverage Nick’s head forward and onto a deeper oral penetration by my dick. The touch of that neck – the breadth of it, his slippery perspiration and the scruffs of hair awaiting a fresh trim, sliding under my clammy fingers – is enough to keep me rock hard.

As I’ve trained him, Nick pays attention to me during deepthroat sessions, being careful to look up and into my eyes to receive my feedback. Does it feel good for me? Should he be using his tongue to stimulate me more with detailed lapping – or am I looking for a simple, speedy throat job? Consideration of me before him, always, didn’t come easy to Nick, but over time I flipped his mindset 180 degrees such that now he’s a drone, working from my commands and focused on my sexual satisfaction. Well, most of the time, anyway – Nick’s a far from perfect slave boy.

For the ninth time, Nick attempts a passable kiss-n-hold at my dick root, where my pubes are thoughtfully trimmed down to a manicured lawn for the convenience of passing girl and boy mouths. The attention of his tongue to the sensitive base of my prick has it spasming, and the jabbing of my uncut crown at the very back of his cavernous throat has it leaking precum on touch.  

Instinctively he’d use hands on the floor to anchor himself, but I’ve denied him that security – that flexibility – by trussing his wrists, tight. My ‘ropes’ are improvised – my old Truham Grammar school tie and his, donated enthusiastically once he clocked my intended purpose of ‘fun’. In diagonal stripes of alternate dark and light blue, our tattered school ties draw Nick’s wrists together in the small of his back, squirming futilely.  

The kids at the mixed comprehensive across town, rated Inadequate by the school inspectors at their last visit, joke that the boys of Truham Grammar are massively gay. The barbs never stung me, obviously, but there’s a proper fuckin’ faggot struggling on my big dick right now. Our boys’ school made queers out of some of the lads, for sure.

Nick gags hard, choking on my quivering meat. His eyes are in panic mode, pleading with me, but why? He doesn’t want to stop, and I won’t let him anyway.

I nod back at him with a self-satisfied smile, but no words. By his neck, I force him onto me further. He’s so close to hilting me for the penultimate cycle, but drool is starting to spew again from the corners of his mouth, uncontrolled like a saucepanful of rice boiling untended, and his fingers and toes agitate furiously. I accept he’s trying very hard for me, but a wall has been hit.

Nick overcomes the opposing force of my hand grip and tears himself off my shaft, left throbbing wet and useless mid-air. His chin slumps to his chest as he gasps, hard, almost wheezing. He can’t look at me yet, because he knows he’s a disappointment.

I gather my own drool and roll it into a pellet in my mouth. I’m highly skilled at this.

Tentatively he looks up, facing the music. He’s still panting.

My ball of spit travels with such velocity that it hits Nick’s left eye before he’s able to react. His upper body jolts backwards and, far too late, he closes the lid on my goo, now foaming across his cheek. I’d love to say I’m able to hit an eyeball square, every time I spit in anger, but in truth my aim isn’t that reliable, and this was a fluke, though it couldn’t have happened to a nicer boy.

I’ve stung him, and not just literally. He wants to wipe away my spit, but his hands are tied.

‘Fuck, Harry,’ he groans, but there’s no anger in his tone, just failed resignation.

‘You need to be much quicker, mate,’ I laugh.

‘Yeah,’ he sniffs.

‘Or a more reliable submissive, in the first place,’ I say.

‘Okay,’ he notes, sullen.

‘You think I’m mean, Nick? Like, unfair?’ I ask.

He looks straight back up at me, even though it’s inviting danger were I inclined to launch a second gob bomb on him – and he knows I’m unpredictable. His spit-lashed eye has felt the assault and is bloodshot.

‘I think you’re mean, but also fair,’ Nick says with confidence, giving me one of his hedged university-standard responses that tend to wind me up.

‘Still the two face fucks to complete, then,’ I remind him.

‘Definitely,’ Nick agrees, hungrily.  

**

Our horseplay competitiveness started with school rugby, I suppose. Always bigger than me physically, Nick had the edge in the rough and tumble of scrumming and was tricky to up-end in the tackle, but I was quicker in the sprint and less clumsy with my feet, so found I could dance around his lunges, frustrating him as he chased after my disappearing greyhound legs.

We’re fighting again on Nick’s tenth and final throat fuck, which I’ve made special for him because I know he loves to finish in ecstasy – and so do I. Using his strength Nick tries to wriggle off my veiny dick, but with my stamina, I’m determined to keep him impaled by his mouth for as long as it takes.

It’s not an equal contest: he’d arrived fatigued, and servicing me perfectly – or attempting to, at least – has sapped Nick’s energy further. Now he’s drained, I dial-up the pressure: Okay, I admit it, I’m mean with gay boys.

I tug Nick by his hair and yank him by a shapely ear or two – anything necessary, to stop him writhing away from me. It hurts him, and he makes deliciously muffled yelping noises around my fat dick meat. Outwardly he wants this to stop, now, but I don’t. I reckon a large part of him won’t want it to stop, either – I get Nick Nelson too well.

It will feel as though he’s starting to suffocate on my engorged prick. When able, I move a hand to the front of his neck and press down, firmly, on top of his Adam’s apple. This distresses and disorientates him but his pretty gingernut dick, bobbing semi-hard, shows me his confusion of sensations in the moment.

Like suction pads Nick’s lips are mashed into my abdomen, taking me to my girthy root. I have hold of him by his scalp, and the colour in his face has changed from his natural strawberries and cream wholesomeness, through flustered raspberry to something approaching blackcurrant. His neck, though, remains pale.

For throat fucks 1-9 the deal was that he’d hold at my root for a measly four seconds, counted, but deepthroat round 10 is freestyle, to be held to my whim indefinitely.

In the end it’s Nick’s desperation that accelerates my climax. I burst down his throat to the sight of his rope-like vascular tension and the cacophony of his wild gagging. My cum spurts in four intense pulses, shot to the rear of his throat, cramming a mouth already swirling with his drool, and his regurgitated puke.

Nick’s eyes are at their most beautiful when they’re loaded with his free-flowing tears. One last time I stab him with my dick, brutal.

He gurgles on my precious seed. I know he wants it – who wouldn’t? – but right now he hates it, and me, and himself. I fucking love breeding throat.

A lava-like mess spills wherever the seal of his lips is broken, seeping stickily, occasionally orange.

Well broken, Nick’s choking splutters that once roared from his core, die in a steady decrescendo. His beetroot cheeks drain of colour at pace, but his eyelids droop closed in slow motion. I pull him by his hair until I, too, am drained completely.

He hasn’t bitten down on my dick once, throughout, and that’s a totally awesome achievement by Nick. When he deserves that praise, he’ll get it.

I drag him off me vigorously, and vault over his slumping body so he can collapse onto the rim of the toilet where – with great violence and noise – Nick heaves-up my spunk with his sick, layering it onto my filth festering in the bowl. 

I stroke his sticky back and make soothing noises for as long as it takes him to feel slightly human again. It’s several minutes but there’s no rush, now.  

Once his need to puke has become less urgent, Nick straightens himself on his knees in front of the toilet, gasping between cummy coughs originating from his tickling throat, still partially clogged.    

‘Wow!’ he puffs. (That’s definitely accurate – not Fuck! or Shit! but Wow!)

‘I need you to clean my dick,’ I say, pointing to my flaccid shaft and a stray string of cum dangling from the head, halfway to the bathroom floor.  

**

‘What’s eating you, Harry?’ he asks. ‘There’s something, I can tell.’

It’s highly unfair of him, because I’m caught in a mellow comedown mood.

I need a rest so I’m back on the toilet seat puffing a menthol flavoured vape, to chill with. Nick’s standing (as instructed), taking drags of a bubble gum vape: I’d found it in the convenience store and thought of Nick who, I’d heard on the ex-Truham grapevine, has a passion for bubble gum flavoured milkshakes. Totally, pathetically, tragic – it’s like he’s 9.

His is a rude question I don’t have to answer, and I shouldn’t, but I do, because I feel the need to share.

‘You’re the only person I see professionally – boy or girl – who I don’t charge,’ I say. ‘And yeah, that gnaws at me.’

He blanches, having opened Pandora’s fucking box in his well-intentioned but naïve Nick Nelson way.

‘Well, in principle I’d be happy to pay to see you, but you know what it’s like for money, as a student,’ he stutters.  

He has failed to understand.

‘Nah. What nags at me is that I don’t even want your money. It feels like we relate in a much deeper way than any of my other clients. But that’s our history, isn’t it?’ I say.

He gives the shyest smile that starts to arouse me again.

‘We had three difficult years, but working through that sexual tension with you, session by session, taught me a lot about myself,’ Nick says. ‘And honestly, I am grateful you see me for free.’

He’s perceptive, for sure, but I’ve often wondered whether Nick is too smart for his own good. Him doing psychology at university isn’t something I’ve ever got comfortable with or approved of. I would have preferred him to become a personal trainer, or a builder maybe – anything useful that wouldn’t involve trying to drill into my head as an academic case study, every time he reappears. Still, it is what it is.

‘I may have learnt a bit from you too, mate,’ I say. ‘Over the years, anyway.’

‘Cheers,’ he shrugs, embarrassed.

‘And I thought you did okay today, right? Not brilliant, and there’s always room to improve a throat fuck, but your… devotional technique… has come along fine.’

‘Absence makes the dick throb harder,’ he jokes, but I don’t laugh along with him: too familiar, and I need to keep distance.

‘Come to me,’ I tell him, pointing to the floor whilst snapping my fingers. Obediently he leaps to it, laying down his vape on the bath top then stumbling back onto his knees, one each side of my feet and close to the point of hemming himself in.

‘Charlie tells me you’ve put up your rates. £150 an hour?’ Nick checks, with an undercurrent of concerned surprise on behalf of his boyfriend.

‘Yep. It’s the same rate everybody else pays, to see me. Charlie has to empty his fuckin’ piggy bank each time he needs to get off on his submission!’

‘Right.’

‘Charlie Spring… piggy bank…get it?’ I rock with laughter. ‘Oink oink!’

‘Sure,’ Nick says, in serious mode, and it disturbs me when he fails to appreciate my humour. So I decide to rub it in.

‘Mate, I’ve had Charlie’s face shoved deep inside this toilet bowl, right onto my shit and used toilet paper, whilst I gave him really nasty verbals, and he fuckin’ loved it! He was sick everywhere, but as we know, Char is used to being randomly and abundantly sick. Also… I had the toilet brush handle shoved right up his ass… mate, I wish you’d seen it!’

Nick’s head has flopped, and he looks directly to the floor. I’ve touched a raw nerve, taunting him because I can satisfy Charlie sexually in the way his own boyfriend can’t, even if he were around, which he wasn’t for the ten weeks of term. My power dynamic is working sweetly just as their relationship becomes a distant one, for large parts of the year.

‘He says he’s seen you three times, whilst I’ve been up in Leeds?’ Nick checks.

‘Four times,’ I snap back, sure of the number. It’s no lie.

‘Okay… well… maybe one of us lost track… or I mis-remembered the conversation,’ Nick agonises.

‘Maybe,’ I say, taking care to add a slice of incredulity to my tone.

I wonder what he’ll do next. Break down in tears? Have a go at me for being morally repugnant? Storm out? Grab his phone and text Charlie in a rage?

Nick raises his head.

‘Thanks for… y’know… sorting out Charlie, whilst I was away,’ he says.

‘It’s always a pleasure. But you and I have a problem we need to resolve, Nicholas Nelson,’ I say, ruffling his damp hair like he was my pet dog.

**

Fucking Nick hard up the ass is special.

Number one – he’s tight, and though I’ve done my bit to loosen his boy cunt, he’d benefit from serving as the party pass-around at an end of season rugby bash, fuelled by drink and lowered inhibitions. Basically, Nick is an anxious bottom prone to complaining that it hurts, though he self-controls his whining with me because I find it irritating, and I couldn’t care less that he’s sore when his hard dick tells me I’ve got it right.

The easiest way to turn Nick charmingly bashful? Tell him his destiny is to power bottom.  

Number two – I use minimal lubricant. Dryish is the way I like to fuck, boy or girl. Sorry, not sorry.

Number three – as stated, I choose to tap Nick’s ass in irregular places where he’s uncomfortable, mentally and (usually) physically. It was fun to breed him on the tabletop in his mum’s dining room, and because I had the horn too badly, we didn’t even bother to clear all the cutlery away, before we started: he wanted to, but I forbade it. The laid silver canteen rattled like mad as I ploughed his ass; Nick on his back on the tablecloth, legs folded-up to his flanks as I held his ankles for leverage. The grimacing of his face as I shafted him with my full length was a sight and, yes, there were a few boy tears which didn’t discourage me.

I pulled-out quickly, post-orgasm, and my cum backflushed over the delicate cream tablecloth from John Lewis. Yes, Nick’s mum had a dinner party arranged for that evening and – no – Nick had no idea how to launder a tablecloth in four hours, and neither did I. The icing on the cake was Nick’s excellent relationship with his mum: he was absolutely mortified by the cummy mess he’d made before her special occasion, and it was too funny. Helpfully, I told him that if all else failed, he should blame Charlie Spring for overexuberant bottoming. The ludicrous thing being that we believe mummy Nelson is of the understanding that her son fucks!

Anyway, where I get to is this: Tonight, I spent myself in Nick’s throat pussy, and he only has an hour in my diary which isn’t enough time for me to get the horn back and have another run at his ass. But I do need that warm clench, because I’ve missed it and I’d be seriously pissed if he took the anal opportunity elsewhere, so we need to have a bargain.

I ask Nick to excuse me for a minute or so, during which time he mustn’t move. In fact he’s very self-disciplined, and where most lads would reach for their phone and scroll social media in a vacuum of ninety seconds, Nick remains rooted to his position of supplication in front of my toilet throne, head bowed.

I settle back.

‘If you genuinely respected me…’ I start, letting my sentence tail-off.

‘Harry, you know I respect you.’

‘And, if you actually loved me…’

‘Well, Charlie is my love interest, but I suppose, in a way, I…’

‘Then, you’d consent to me being your keyholder, Nick.’

And from the small cardboard box I retrieved from my bedroom, I flourish the cock cage in silvery, skeletal steel in which I intend to imprison Nick’s dick, for an unbearable sentence.

‘Chastity…’ he twigs, like he’s slow.

‘Yep. To be worn until the next time I’m available to drill your ass. Then, I promise you, it will come off.’

Nick frowns, balancing competing emotions, I hope. He is, at least, taking me seriously.

‘Hmm. I dunno, Harry. I’m really not sure this is a good…’

‘We make a bargain,’ I cut through his prevarication. ‘You save your sweet ass for me, and only me. In return I give you your pleasure back, as a priority, the day after I fly back home. I promise.’

‘You’re going away?’ he asks in a higher pitched surprised tone.

‘Sure. Me and my dad are going to Dubs for ten days. It’s gonna be fuckin’ lush, mate.’

I swagger a bit on the toilet. It’s the holiday of a lifetime, so far.

‘You’re going to Dublin?’

‘Ah, no! We’re going to Dubs… Dubai, you fuckin’ pancake!’ I gloat through my putdown.

‘Oh, right. Nice,’ he concedes, sounding unconvinced. I don’t think Dubai is a Nick Nelson sort of vacation destination – he’s more of a caravan in Skegness with factor 50 sun lotion type of loser.  

‘But don’t worry, I’ve thought of everything,’ I tell him. ‘In case I die during the desert 4x4 experience, or sink my jet ski, I’m going to leave a spare key for your dick cage back home. With Ben. Obviously, I’ll explain the situation to him and ask him to keep things discreet, cos it’s sensitive.’

I watch anger rise again from Nick’s thick neck, flushing his face afresh.  

‘Umm, I’d rather you throw both keys down a fucking well, than leave one with Ben Hope!’ he rants.  

I laugh. ‘That’s a bit extreme, mate!’

‘Seriously, Harry, it’s totally out of order to involve Ben in our…’

‘Relationship?’ I finish his sentence. ‘You know, you should be thanking me, Nick? Not only do I let you see me for free, but I’ve actually spent my own money investing in you, with the cock cage. Like, how proud does that make you feel? Who else takes that much interest in your future?’

‘Plenty of people!’ he blurts, riled.

‘Also – this cage was pretty much a bespoke order, for you. Not many fetish suppliers stock male chastity in size XS, to suit your weeny peanut dick.’

I roll back on the toilet seat, howling.

‘Oh please, Harry – give it a rest. You know my dick is barely smaller than yours! I’m bored of your shit, now.’

I’m sure Nick senses what’s coming, and perhaps he was actively inviting it? I even give him a pause during which time he could shuffle backwards on his knees or turn his head, but his poise stays rigid between my feet. He’s prepared and accepting. Dare I say it, welcoming? 

Nick appreciates the fact I’m an ambidextrous slapper. This time, it’s his right cheek that takes the force of my open palm, and now his head does spin in recoil at the hefty clap.

‘Matching stripes, huh?’ I suggest of the second handprint, though my first on the opposite cheek has faded.

‘Yep,’ he agrees, weedy. Inevitably, Nick has watery eyes again.

‘Look, the time will pass quickly,’ I reassure him. ‘And the Saturday I get back, we’ll go for a curry at the Truham Tandoori, maybe, and have a proper catch-up whilst you’re still locked-in and sitting opposite as my wifey. We’ll come back to my place, I’ll fuck your desperate ass on the pool table, I reckon, and then that chastity comes straight off, I absolutely promise.’

‘Harry, it could be hot, but please just give me some time to think…’

‘You know, it would be great to hang-out with you, over the summer,’ I say. ‘Like, spend quality time with you… talk more… not just sex. We probably should have done that more, ages ago.’

Nick looks stunned – totally wrongfooted. He wasn’t expecting this conversation to turn leftfield, but I needed to strike whilst he felt pressure.

He clears his phlegmy throat, emotionally choked.

‘Um, I only see you, Harry. I hang-out with Charlie and our friends. I’ve never, ever, wanted to hang-out with you and your bunch of twats.’

And now it’s my turn to be stunned by the definitiveness of his rejection. It was brutal, and he’s the very opposite of a brutal character.

‘I meant, just the two of us,’ I say. ‘My twattish mates are just as dispensable as Charlie’s alphabet mafia crowd, right? Like, what is Isaac claiming to be this week? Ace, or is it incel, because he’s honestly too fat to fuck?’

I’ve pushed Nick hard, and it’s like I can feel the heat of his fury down there in his submissive position. Most boys would lash-out but Nick remains very still aside from his sexy pensive blinking, collecting his thoughts, thinking before saying.

This is literally the first time I’ve shown a glimpse of my torment to a client, and I know I’ve fucked-up royally. Submissives don’t see me to give me therapy, though it often works the other way around.

‘You’re lonely, right?’ Nick says. In his honey-smooth tone, there’s no sense he’s judging me.

Of course he’s right, nail-on-head, but I can hardly admit it. His sexual needs are intense, and I know Nick’s had his own tortured anguish over the years, but in every sense he’s always been a good boy: straightforward, honest, trusting, hard-working – the best sort of qualities. I can’t claim any of those attributes, and that makes me feel so fucking low.

I’m mute, for once, and rely on him to break the suffocating silence.

‘So, I won’t be hanging out with you…’ he declares, solemn.

‘Look, it’s okay. Let’s just move on,’ I say quickly.

‘But it would be an honour to have you as my keyholder,’ he says. ‘And, if you’re willing to get harder and darker with me, when you’re back from holiday…’

‘Of course I am, you doughnut!’ I agree, fast.

‘Well then, in that case, would you like to kiss, before I clean your bathroom and get going?’

The right answer is no, but my guard rails have already fallen, so is there any point in continuing my act?

‘Yes,’ I say.

I fidget back on the toilet seat, tap my knee to shepherd him, and he straddles me facing the cistern. The plastic groans under our combined weight, twisting.

Nick hesitates, taking sharp breaths. Moving at the same time we wrap arms and hug.

My dick and asshole have been swiped by Nick’s tongue on countless previous occasions, but never my own tongue, and he’s been monogamous in reserving his most intimate affections for his lover, Charlie. 

Joining lips then probing, I extract fragments of cum deep inside Nick’s mouth and remember it’s my own juice I’m retrieving from the awkward gaps between his imperfect teeth. Memories aligned, still powerful, we’re all over each other at once, greedy as fuck.

**