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Squatting beside Tom’s pulsing temples, face cloth withdrawn to appreciate his rich features in full, I give him a factual state-of-play.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