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

Pig Connor - Chapter Two 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man speaks:

‘Hungry?’

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

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

No more words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Okay, round two!’ AJ says, breezily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Fuuuuck!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

‘Oh?’

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

‘Of course!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A-ha.’

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry,’ Kit repeats.

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

He takes a few seconds of thinking time.  

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

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

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

‘Yeah, exactly that…’ Kit starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah, that,’ Kit says.

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

***

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

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

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

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

‘Make me PROUD.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Fucking faggot pig!’ says the voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Tears only make a boy HOTTER.’

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

‘Plough on,’ I tell him.

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

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

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

‘You can breathe when he’s finished.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the door closes, there’s privacy again.

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

***

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

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

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

***   

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

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

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

‘Tell me…’ I start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kit doesn’t lift his head.

‘Fuck,’ he says, calmer now.  

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

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

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

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

‘Not quite there?’ he asks of me.

‘No,’ I say.

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

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

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

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

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

He gives me a shallow nod of acceptance.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

‘Eye contact!’ I have to remind him.

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

My tone is measured.

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

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

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

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

‘Yes….?’ I let it hang.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Kit corrects himself.

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

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

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

‘Get what?’ I ask.

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

‘Yep!’ I encourage him.

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

‘Exactly,’ I say.

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

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

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

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

‘Yes?’ I tease it out of him, gently.

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

‘No?’

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

‘Tell me, Kit,’ I push him.

The actor’s forehead has adopted a consuming frown.

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

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

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

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

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

The boy sniffs.

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

‘No point at all,’ I close it down.

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

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

‘Huh?’ he asks, confused.

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

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

‘Fuck, Sir!’

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

‘Sir, please.’

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

‘Other guys?’ Kit checks.

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

‘Holy shit!’ Kit recoils.

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

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

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

‘Sir…!’

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

‘No, Sir, but…;

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

‘Boss, you can’t expect me….’

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

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

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

***