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.