Soon: 'Capstan'

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

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

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

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

Pig Connor - Dinner (2/2): M/m; SCAT; CNC; fanfic vibe

Chapter Two  

The poppers for today are branded Hard Man XXX, and the line drawn image on the label is the upper torso of a muscled dude, flexing. Again, I find irony in the truth that a boy about to take a fist up his ass or, in this case, an XL portion of man shit down his throat, gets his masculinity reinforced by a little black bottle projecting power.

One long drag of amyl nitrate under each nostril, with Kit’s eyes closed as I hold the bottle for him.

The flies of the kid’s trousers are unzipped and his white CK hipsters tugged down clumsily, beneath the trouser. I’d required access to unlock Kit’s chastity cage, liberating his modest prick. The cage had arrived at his London lodgings 13 days ago as a tracked parcel, with my instructions to fit the steel appendage; lock it; record and send me a video as evidence of compliance, then return the hex key to me in the small postage-paid envelope provided. 

It had been an excruciating fortnight for Kit, hating me as every caged boy does within 48 hours, or less. But Kit Connor, of all my boys, has a grounded understanding of why we must do this, to keep him honest, single-minded, and ready for hard work.

The timing of his uncaging was a surprise, and Kit had grovelled when I’d suggested we do it now:

‘FUCK yes… yes please, Sir!’

However: Kit knows the release of his chastity and the poppers aren’t freebies, because the quid pro quo is that he eats-up.

‘Tell me how you’d like to feel, leaving here later tonight?’ I ask.

Kit looks perturbed that I’m wasting his popper high with pointless chat. He answers quickly.

‘Sure. I wanna feel I’ve progressed, gone lower, and satisfied you with my achievement, Sir.’

‘A-ha,’ I say, with the fork already in my hand. I’m going to take a turn at feeding Kit from the startling pile of swede he’d tried to abandon.

Hand feedjng, Sir to boy, can be dangerous because it builds dependency, whereas the toilet boy must be able to function autonomously, at any level of demand.

But there’s no denying the intimacy of returning a struggling boy to the days of his highchair, bib, and attentive mother – not that we use bibs, of course! And visually, filth can bear an uncanny resemblance to the pureed mush spoon-fed to weaning infants.

Without exception, boys on the precipice of brokenness have taken comfort from me nuzzling close as their beloved mother, purring encouragement and helping them to chow it down. It’s as though slicing a load and lifting the fork to their mouth were the toughest bit of this ask; and maybe that’s true?

The side of my fork bites decisively through the sandy-coloured mass, separating a generous mouthful for Kit.  

The underarms of his shirt have darkened in broad circles from the pervasive sweat of his pits. Kit’s rug of chest hair, too, is visibly moist. His forehead bubbles abundantly. My toilet boy is experiencing the pressure appropriately, now.  

‘No need to look down at the plate, because I’m doing the digging. Just wait for the fork and open wide for me, huh?’ I soothe.

‘Yep,’ Kit agrees, quietly.

‘But I want to see a brave warrior out there, yeah? My brave warrior, okay?’

‘Boss,’ Kit accepts, barely audible.

‘Because you know we’re operating in a place with you, now, where we need to see great bravery every time? You’re my favourite twunk soldier, and I’m loving watching you fight.’

Only six visits of the fork required from the block of mustardy swede, fibrous and flavoured in a complex way that Kit finds so unappealing. Not too much to ask, I believe. It will go down.

Kit doesn’t refuse my fork – he’s better than that – and he works his mouth in a shapely way to draw the full extent of it from the tool. But the acts of processing and swallowing are laboured. He’s been hustled through a scene where any positive sense of anticipation vanished a long time ago. Then it became a drudge, and now it’s nothing but a horror show. The actor looks full of sadness; wet in his eyes as I make him descend to his stated ambition: being a greedy pig.  

I’m not too fussed about speed, at this stage, so long as the shit gets gone. Kit accepts second and third visits from my fork. The kid gurns at each new contact with the filth. He slits his eyes as though experiencing biting toxicity, and clenches his fists on my tablecloth. He’s becoming vascular through stress and indignation.

Kit plays with the turd in his mouth, liquefying it until he sports a hot chocolate face and trying to remember how to swallow the truly nasty stuff when his every instinct fights it. Close by his side, I motivate him:

‘Let’s not stall, huh? We’re making progress together – let’s keep driving this forward, yeah?’

When he’s gulped the third, he wants to talk with me:

‘Sir. I feel desperately, critically…’

‘Ssshhh,’ I silence him, left hand square on his back as the right cuts him a fourth treat.

***

It’s an event of exceptional violence.

It strikes Kit without sufficient warning. No time to brace himself, or to aim.

Toilet service and episodes of vomiting are indivisible, and I’ve seen everything over the years, but Kit’s latest is a spectacular eruption; frightening, actually.

At once, the multi-coloured porridge launches with the widest distribution, spraying down the boy’s shirt and into his open groin; over the table including one side of his plate; straight to the floor, and spewing unsparing over his left forearm and that pricy wristwatch he treated himself to only last month.   

Unusually, this isn’t a puking marked by multiple heaves. It’s a single torrent, purging my filth tutee in one outburst powered from the depths of his core, lasting eleven seconds.

Kit stops and then faints, briefly – no more than three seconds and he’s back with me, but it’s enough for his forehead to slump to the tabletop with a soft thump. His stray bangs mash his warm puke. He’s avoided his plate, by chance. He wobbles in his chair but tenses before he topples.

It’s all a soggy rainbow mess.

‘Fuck!’ Kit moans, and it’s almost a squeal, such is his desperation.  

His tears are re-grouping without a sobbing soundtrack, for now.

This would be an appropriate juncture to call time on Kit’s dinner, but he acts unilaterally. With two trembling forefingers the boy pushes his plate away, twenty decisive centimetres towards the centre of the table.

***

‘Did I black out, there?’ he asks.

‘Momentarily,’ I say.

Kit’s upright on the chair, stiffer and fighting to restore his coherence.

‘I should probably have stripped before doing this,’ he says, rueful, examining his spoilt formalwear.

And it would have been fun to watch Kit dine naked, but his smart gear imposed a standard, and it was amusing to watch him lose it so degradingly, soiling himself in front of me.

‘Well, I wanted you this way,’ I say, closing him down.

‘Yes,’ he agrees.

But Kit has more to tell me.

‘I feel so utterly miserable, you know? Like, completely train wrecked. Punched and kicked,’ he whines.

‘A-ha,’ I say, unbothered. ‘The usual toilet boy trauma, then.’

‘Far worse, actually,’ he shoots straight back at me, cold.

And now Kit sobs hard, dropping chin to chest. The kid’s shoulders heave with his sorrow, and I wrap an arm around them whilst he cries this self-absorbed angle out of his system.

This is the pivotal moment. There’s a safe path to take or – alternatively – an ambitious one, required as proof of capability for a toilet boy I’d like to place into a greater challenge still, after today.

With pinched fingers, I pull Kit’s dinner plate back from his self-declared finished!! position, over his puke to the edge of the table where it started. To Kit, I explain why:

‘There are several contributing men to honour, one boss to respect, and a toilet boy who must be satisfied he’s prioritised completion above any other consideration. With strong emphasis on the any.’   

Kit boils to steaming point. He tenses and clenches.

‘FUCK you! Just fuck you, right? I’m sitting here falling apart, and it’s still not enough for you!? Whatever I manage, it’s never enough! So, take it away – end of – and FUCK you!’

Smiling thinly, I let him cool for as long as it takes.

The thing about raging toilet boys is that when they explode at their feeders, their anger is really with themselves for getting involved in the filth world, and becoming perpetually persuadable to go lower, for a bigger high.

It’s a nasty addiction they know they must stem before the consequences ruin them, but they can’t kick the shit habit. To the extent a toilet Master bears any responsibility for their dilemma, it’s with his willingness to drive a boy deeper, not even pretending to be the therapist these kids need, to wean them off waste.

‘You’re going to feed yourself what remains,’ I tell Kit.

‘Fuck off,’ he says, but my boy has turned down the volume and his resistance is half-hearted.

‘First, a moment of reflection,’ I suggest. ‘Take five long, deep breaths, looking away from your plate. And then do the same meditation but whilst checking-out the rest of your dinner, because that’s your job to complete, huh?’

‘For fucks sake, Sir, I…’

‘Just try it, yes?’ I say, calm but persistent. ‘Compose yourself, then pick up the fork, take a slice of dinner, and work to convince me I’m partnered with a hero – an authentic waste hog, yes?’

‘Sir, please…’

‘Two final mouthfuls of veg, the last of that second sausage, and some gravy to lick from your plate. That’s literally all I’m asking at this stage, okay? I’d like to think it’s not a quantity we’d fall-out over, yeah?’

‘Boss, I feel so…’

‘Deep, confidence-giving breaths, yes?’ I insist.  

***

The sun has set to a fiery semi-circle on the horizon, and the veranda is darkening by the minute. This can’t become a candlelight supper.

I’ve resumed my dining seat, opposite Kit, to watch the culmination of his struggle. I don’t hassle him, and I say nothing, but he feels the weight of my expectations and the way he works hints at a moral compulsion to get this done.

He’s slow, for sure, and every swallow is a fresh torture I enjoy experiencing secondhand, with my view of his contorted facial expressions. It’s become horrific, as it must. A fattening belly pushes-out the corrugations of his six-pack abdomen. 

Kit’s delirium has progressed and he’s operating from muscle memory, now, without conscious thought. It’s the drone state of existence I’ve encouraged him to conceive of as his next developmental step as a sewer boy. He’s grindingly methodical, and suppressing what I know will be the strongest urge to throw-up, as a form of rejection of his food. He’s not as quick as he’ll need to be, for progression, but it’s a controlled performance – and self-disciplined, at last.

Just a final half-fork of swede and the plate to lick, now.

‘Plough on, yeah?’ I coach him.

‘Plough on,’ Kit echoes our trope. The emotion has been sucked from our interaction. He’s on auto, with his personality switched-out but his fighting character very much switched-on.

Apart from the diarrhea gravy puddle, there’s a splattering of Kit’s puke on the side of his plate, spilling over to the tablecloth. When he lifts the plate towards his mouth, ready to extend his tongue and lap at it, a question of task scope arises. I’ve not mentioned his vomit, after all.

Kit throws me a dead-eyed look, wanting instruction. He gives a shallow nod, showing perception, and I return it. There’s no misunderstanding, and no verbal order is necessary.

‘Cold comfort,’ I say, poignantly, as he starts swiping the plate. ‘Finally, something of your own, to eat.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Kit agrees, without fuss. The first time he has recycled, and it passes without ceremony.

***

Kit crouches in his seat as though he’s looking to pounce; bent at his waist, head hovering above the table, hands grasping my tablecloth and squeezing onto it.

His temples throb and the veins of his neck are heavy cords engorged with blood.

Three strands of sickly drool hang from Kit’s chin, and the entirety of his visible torso glistens with his sweat. The boy’s eyes are narrowed, and his forehead furrowed. Fuck knows what his blood pressure reading would be, taken now as a snapshot. Anyway, we’ll avoid measuring his vital signs this evening.

Kit roars continuously. Not at me, or at himself, but as general release of what’s been building over dinner.

‘FUCK!’

‘FUCK!’

‘FUUUUUCK!’

He needs a short time to work through the immediate emotion, and I allow it.

‘FUUUUUCK!’

‘FUCK ME!’

‘Oh Jeeeeezus, FUUUUUUCK!’

I’d said I wanted a warrior, so I can’t complain when Kit manifests as one.

‘That was FUCKING lunatic… level 10 crazy!’ Kit tells me.

‘Yeah?’ I say, keeping it light.

‘That was FUCKING outrageous… scandalously mean!’ he says.

‘Yeah?’

‘That was totally fucking IMMENSE, Sir!’ he concedes.

I’m gratified, of course. I let his hyperactivity drop from level 10 to level 8, before moving on.

‘Ready for honesty?’ I ask, solemnly.  

‘Yep,’ Kit puffs, reversing his slouch and pushing against the chair back, unreasonably alert for a boy with a stomach full of mixed filth.

‘Thank you. Well, it was a shaky start, and then we had an uncharacteristic refusal from you. So, quite a distance from the smooth, quick, clean eating we now expect from you every time, Kit. But to be fair, there was significant challenge on your dinner plate this evening, and you made a decent recovery at the end. Overall, then, I’ll call it a 7/10 performance.’

I see him banking the score, neither cheering nor deflated. Kit knows how hard I mark. He’s distracting himself with a hand in his groin, stroking already.

‘Now, look at me respectfully,’ I say.

Kit tries to lock onto my stare across the table, but struggles. He’s shattered and has a horrible sickly fever rising. Only narrowly has Kit swerved the line of brokenness he feared crossing. He’s looking up, down and sideways, skittish like he’s desperate to score again.

‘Eye contact, and sustain it,’ I reinforce.

The kid strains to bring his tics under control. He fixes my gaze, and I wait five seconds to prove he will hold it until I’m ready.

My tone is authoritative. He’s impatient for this:

‘You should feel pride in yourself. Very good boy.’

He groans, works that glue stick of a prick with vigour, and has cum noisily within ten seconds.

***

For wind down activity, I offered Kit the choice of getting fucked in his boy pussy – which he doesn’t enjoy – or a sharp session of corporal punishment, opted for readily.   

Kit has a love/hate relationship with my flogger. It hurts a lot, and most of the time it’s not fair, but he has admitted to finding it cathartic. Whipping offers Kit time to reflect critically on what went well, but also on what could be improved with his eating, and then to move on.

We’re in the basement – the one with the dirty mattress I’d otherwise be fucking him on – and Kit is hoisted by his manacled wrists, to tiptoe. His ankles are split by a short spreader bar. He’s naked, having stripped from his soiled formalwear and chucked it onto the mattress. I have clean jogging bottoms and a T-shirt for him to ride home in, soon.

Kit hasn’t washed, so he remains a stinky pig caked in sweat and his vomit.

I use a leather flogger with twenty ribbon-like tails, landing it on Kit’s ass with thuds, lubricated by his perspiration. The flogger paints Kit’s globes red-raw, but it’s a broad-brush instrument of discipline, not focused and biting like the cane, or the single tail whip.

The evening is getting late. Kit’s shit hangover is worsening, and he’s mentally finished.

I will flog my toilet boy twelve times, aggressively from over my shoulder. He counts the strokes for me, shrill.

Kit jerks, thrashes and yells at each impact. His ass mounds are a muscular canvas, and I strike blow upon blow, on target, transforming those creamy English curves to raspberry blush.

The kid twists in his bondage, desperate to prevent my whip tails licking into his crack and striking at his sensitive pinky boy hole. 

I pause. Now, I can hear Kit’s low sniffling and the tears he’d tried to stifle but now finds it too hard to suppress.

‘What do we say, at this sort of time?’ I ask him, stern.  

Remembering right away, Kit nods.

‘You’re only as good as your next job, boss,’ he says.

Correct. It’s never too early to move a boy on from the transient agonies and ecstasy of today, to consideration of how they could go further, deeper and lower.

‘Exactly!’ I say. A toilet boy must always leave a training session aware there is much more to do, out there. 

And then I conclude my flogging of the stinging, weeping, Kit.

***

Epilogue - four days later

The timing of my email to Kit’s single-purpose secure inbox is deliberate. I’m catching him as the worst of his bedridden shit fever subsides, just as his temporary state of euphoria returns. Leave it too long, and gnawings of regret and self-loathing will dominate:

Kit,

Congratulations on Thursday evening, and the notable progress you made with me over dinner.

I know you’ll remain hungry.

I’m sitting on an opportunity I’ve hesitated to offer in your direction, because – to be honest – it’s suited to eaters who are more advanced in their capabilities.

It’s a chance to level-down and propel your name to the bottom of the filth pyramid. It involves socialising you more widely with dirty players – notorious feeder men, and famous name toilet boys (some surprises!) who’ve taken your path in previous years.

I doubt the time is right for you. But don’t worry, you’ll get there with further learning! The workload would be extremely heavy, and you would answer to other toilet Master(s), less patient than I have been with you. Buzzwords: over-feeding, teamwork, heroism, desperation, edge play, darkness, triumph, sadism, recognition.  

Any toilet boy introduced by me upholds my reputation, and this is where I struggle, because you’ve been feeding to a 7/10 standard whereas elite openings like this demand minimum 8/10 performances, and ultra-submissive attitude.

I appreciate that, for you, this journey has been more about ‘having fun’ exploring your fetish than an other-worldly conception of total surrender to superior men. So far, the pig is just a role you like to play, and not the beginning and end of your sexual identity. That’s fine! (For now).

Therefore – too early for you, I think, which is a shame because there are significant financial incentives, as well. Another year, maybe?

If you’d like a coffee with conversation (no training attached!) over the next couple of weeks, then let me know. Otherwise, best wishes for the filming of Rapture, which I’ll watch with interest.

Sir

***

Pig Connor - Dinner (1/2): M/m; SCAT; CNC; fanfic vibe

Pig Connor – Dinner (book two of the Pig Connor trilogy)

Chapter One 

August 2025. Once again, a 2-hour drive from London on ever smaller roads

Aromas, from the kitchen.

It’s your mum’s roast dinner you need little persuasion to return for as an adult. These days you appreciate her two hours of graft in the preparation, and express your thanks in a way you didn’t as a hormonal 15-year-old, desperate to return to your bedroom.  

It’s the basted beef, sizzling behind oven glass that’s always a fat-splattered brown, because your mum roasts once a week and those doors are a devil to keep clean. The golden retriever – it replaced you as a companion when you left for college – circles the kitchen, taunted by the meaty smells, anticipatory drool seeping from his jaws.

The vegetables – in the largest saucepan that sees use outside Christmas holiday mega-gatherings – simmer away, and the extractor fan over the hob groans in its struggle to clear the steam. There’s a bearing that will need replacing, soon.

The gravy is oh so rich, and stirring it is – probably – a safe enough job for Mum to leave with you, so you’ll notch it up as your contribution. On the middle shelf of the oven, roast potatoes are crisping.

God, is there a worse torture than the ten minutes it takes to carve and plate your mum’s full-works roast, on an empty stomach?

Well yes, actually.

***

A lapse of self-control, on my part. Unfortunate, when I’m perennially impressing upon my toilet boys the necessity for them to regulate their emotional responses.  

Kit Connor had arrived in an Uber Exec he’d booked, though I’d offered to send a car. He’s self-sufficient, now – a young man of means.

I met him at the porch. The tyres of the Mercedes E-class were still crunching over the gravel of my driveway, scrabbling and popping on their return towards the tall gates, when Kit told me as his opener:

‘I’ve missed you.’

He spoke softly. And he stood there in his tailored suit, The North Face backpack straps slung casually over one shoulder, blinking with his trademark Kit smile that’s unassuming, shy, but somehow perplexed.   

‘Likewise,’ I said.

And I launched onto him with a kiss. Greedy kisses, in fact, securing Kit by his shoulders and extending my spanned thumbs into his thick neck, pressing hard, wresting some physical control over his head as I jabbed inside his mouth, forcing his tongue to dart out of my fucking way.

Taken by surprise, the boy was a passive participant. This was an irregular way to start our precious time together, however described: over our two-year coaching arrangement I’ve referred to training, sessions and scenes, but whatever the terminology it’s always amounted to the same thing for Kit; namely his opportunity for progression. This evening, however, I’d invited Kit to dinner.

I tasted tobacco, ineffectively masked by a minty breath freshener with a much shorter half-life. He’d been nervous, but unable to smoke-out his worries during the long cab ride. Still, as it goes, Kit was calm. It was a hot day, but my boy was cool. The lips I mashed were dry but not cracked, and his poise wasn’t impaired by anxious tics. It would have been natural for Kit to feel concern at the prospect of dinner with the boss, but his presentation on my doorstep was  composed.

Demeanour is an aspect of character I ask my toilet boys to work on and, again, Kit showed me his capacity to listen and learn.

Still, I made a misjudgement in allowing intimacy before performance, and an inexcusable error in becoming semi-hard as our faces twisted together. I had work to do in reasserting my superiority.

***   

We’re dining à deux on the expansive veranda overlooking the landscaped garden. It’s an honour, for him.

Kit has dressed for the occasion and, without asking me for a code, has styled himself well. I think I recognise the navy-blue suit from a photoshoot of his last year, so it was probably gifted, but no matter. The two-piece is intelligently profiled around Kit’s form, highlighting his shoulder breadth, pinching at his hips and – in respect of the trousers – shadowing the muscular sturdiness of his thighs without overdoing it by clinging to them, skintight.

Kit’s shirt is sky blue and button-up; smart, but not stiff. The boy wears it with the collar and two further buttons undone; no tie, of course. He’s opted for a white undershirt but the neckline plunges deeply towards the centre of his chest, so I see more of his soft pectoral fuzz across the table.

We’ve just enjoyed a starter of sautéed shiitake mushrooms in a creamy truffle sauce, on sourdough. It was a relaxed twenty-five minutes of pleasantries, leading to more weighty conversation.

I’m picky. I expect my apprentice toilet boys to be under 30, handsome and super-ambitious. As though that doesn’t narrow the pool of candidates sufficiently, I insist that the boy be able to hold his own, socially: no airheads, or excruciatingly awkward autists. This is why I work with, at most, a handful of boys at any one time. It’s about quality over quantity, for me.

So there I was with Kit Connor over our starters, appreciating his nuanced takes on American politics (informed by time spent in NYC), his childhood in suburban London, and the dubious value of theatrical agents.  

Once we’d placed our cutlery down, Kit asked for my nod in taking his suit jacket off. It was 18:45 but 26 degrees outside, still, and humid. His undershirt was one layer too many, for now, but perhaps Kit had anticipated a long evening of fading light, with the kind of chill that creeps up on you during a late summer sundowner in England?

My boy rolled his shirt sleeves, painstaking in the way he bunched them above the elbows. The freckles and muscles of his punchy forearms would add to my distractions, over dinner. New (to me) was the designer watch on his left wrist: nothing too blingy, just a sleek silver strap and a restrained, dark blue face.

There’d been another hiatus in Kit’s coaching whilst he shot the Heartstopper movie, in which he will be credited with a production role. In line with my principles – supporting boys to become the best they can, in their careers – I’d told Kit we wouldn’t be meeting during filming, and that he should focus on his work for a while.   

So it had been seven weeks and, even then, I’d left Kit to chase me rather than vice versa. His message landed sixteen days ago:

Hey Sir. I hope you’re okay?? If possible, I’d like to talk about continuing my development? I am much freer now, Sir, and can discuss this literally anytime.   

***    

Ben is busy in the kitchen, from where the veranda is accessed by way of bi-fold doors that open with near-silent mechanical precision. I’ve been able to glance at Ben as he scurried between oven and island, plating-up, but Kit has his back turned to the action and can only smell the work in progress. It’s a traditional beef roast with all the trimmings, tonight.

I don’t need a full-time chef, so – accomplished as he is, in the kitchen – Ben also serves as my PA and confidant. Occasionally, we fuck. He found me as a 19-year-old, but Ben is 23, now, with a permanently tanned appearance that betrays his Cypriot heritage. Of course, he’s fully aligned with my coaching programme but supports it in an administrative capacity only, these days.

My brown-eyed helper rings a bell, alerting me to the readiness of the dinner he’s prepared. He awaits my signal.

‘Thanks, Ben,’ I say, raising my voice and beckoning him to begin service. With a twist of his neck, Kit checks-out the situation in the kitchen.

‘I want you to enjoy this,’ I tell Kit, keeping my tone optimistic.

‘Smells great!’ he says, brightly.

Ben balances a plate in each hand whilst walking with ease in his whites – he makes a fine waiter, too. Both plates are covered by stainless steel cloches, forming domes over the eatables. Ben serves me first, laying the large plate perfectly between my cutlery on the tablecloth. He shuffles to Kit’s side and likewise places his plate with pleasing symmetry.  

It remains only for my aide to remove the cloches, starting with me again.

‘Bon appetit!’ Ben whispers into Kit’s ear as he whisks away his cloche before retreating, sharpish, to the sanctuary of the kitchen.

There are fifteen seconds of silent processing time, on Kit’s part, before he reacts.

The actor develops a catch in his throat, and I watch his Adam’s apple ripple as he looks down, contemplating his food. Kit holds his stomach with one hand. The colour washes from his rosy cheeks with alarming speed.  

‘No,’ I warn him, sensing where this is headed. There’s no excuse for vomit, yet. Still, Kit gives a short, lubricated cough and leaks a string of drool over his plate.

‘Fuck!’ the kid sits back in his chair, pressing onto his draped suit jacket. He swipes his lips clean with a bare forearm.

Ben has plated Kit’s dinner with brilliant artistry, so it pleases the eye. It’s not a roast: Kit and I have different mains.

The core of Kit’s meal – the ‘meat’ – is two fat ‘sausages’, once dry but now rehydrated in the humidity of the kitchen, and perspiring queasily on their ‘skins’ through time spent enclosed under the cloche.

The rest of the dish is neatly sectionalised. The bronze ‘potato’ looks fluffy; whipped and stylised with whimsical crests like Christmas cake icing. There are two ‘veg’, of starkly different colours. The first – let’s call it ‘boiled spinach’ – is the darkest item on the plate, looking grimly fibrous. The second – let’s say ‘mashed swede’ – is sandy-pale verging on orange, and served as a dense block without apparent variance in texture.

Kit’s dinner is served with ‘gravy’: a weak-looking juice made interesting by vibrant strands of vegetable matter. The gravy has been poured such that all meal components sit in it.

‘Am I allowed to know who’s this is?’ Kit asks. It’s fired intensely at me, as a serious question.

‘No,’ I tell him.

‘Fuck,’ he says.

‘But, fairly obviously, five different men have contributed. That’s not hard to deduce.’

‘Holy fuck!’ he says, and his tone becomes an elongated groan.

‘Does it matter to you, Kit, that it’s anonymous and from various sources?’ I ask.

The kid stops in his tracks. He’s clean-shaven, this evening, with hair cut as Nick Nelson of Heartstopper – floppy fringe and boyish – though it’s growing out into something more mature. I guess he’ll arrange for a big trim, soon, because he’s done with that leaf show look, now.  

‘Sir… this is just, well….’

‘My question, please?’ I re-focus him, curtly.

‘Sir, I know it shouldn’t fucking matter… but, even looking at it… it’s just so, so, fucking hard!’

I’ve made Kit tearful. By no means the full waterworks, thankfully, but individual glassy rollers to be wiped away with the back of a hand.

‘It shouldn’t matter, at all,’ I say. ‘And it’s great that you recognise that, because – at the end of the day – there are generous feeders to serve, around the world, and your service has to be just as on-point delivered remotely, as personally.’

‘But FUCK, Sir! Just look at it!’ Kit whines.

I straighten my back in my own chair, elbows on the table with hands clasped in front of my chest. Time to get philosophical.

‘Okay, I admit this is new for you. I think you used the word hard, and I’ll pick-up on that because hard work is worthwhile, and necessary, and pleasing for me – and maybe even for you, with the benefit of hindsight. So – before my roast gets completely cold, we’re going to headline a strategy that will start you eating fuss-free, huh?’

***

This is what’s going to happen.

You’re going to calm down, take nice deep breaths and compose yourself.

You’ll be attentive to your plate but give your visual attention to me. Look up, not down, yes?

We’re going to find interesting topics of conversation to engage our brains and drag your mind away from food hang-ups. Then, as we talk, you’ll pick up your fork and cut good, brave loads. And you’ll swallow them, straight down, whilst we gossip, until it’s habitual and barely registers. You know you can eat mechanically, Kit, because you’ve trained it so often with me!

When you do glance down at your plate, you’ll be pleased to see your dinner getting smaller, and that will give you even more confidence.

You may also notice my frown turn into a smile that becomes bigger as you eat. Perhaps you’ll find that motivational, too?

It’s a great plan, yes?

So, whilst I make a start on my roast: Spill the tea on the Heartstopper movie! Do you still find Will Gao fun? Is Joe Locke headed for stardom, or obscurity? Do the books translate well into film? What will Rotten Tomatoes make of it?

Don’t wait for me, by the way! Dig in!

***

One-third of a sausage. Three fork loads of potato; relatively appetising, it would appear. Nothing else touched. Knife and fork put down heavily onto the plate. A petulant gesture of refusal? My strategy hasn’t succeeded, yet.

‘It’s not too much to ask of you, is it?’ I question him.

A pause.

‘It’s a lot to ask,’ Kit swerves.

‘That’s not an answer,’ I say, becoming impatient.

The thing is, I recognise when a feed is particularly difficult for a toilet boy, and when I see maximum effort I’m prepared to cut some slack, as a responsible coach should.

Every boy I work with is left in no doubt as to how I define maximum effort: it’s ploughing on, relentless through the nasties, feeling sicker and more degraded with every bite, but totally determined. And Kit is capable of maximum effort, as he’s shown me on occasion, but this evening he’s not giving it.

‘Sir… I’m not answering because I’m just so…. intimidated… so scared,’ Kit warbles, around a phlegmy throat.

It’s admirable honesty. I’ve not seen him quite like this, before: challenged, for sure, but not frozen.

‘Tell me why,’ I ask.

His head is buried in his hands, elbows on the table. He huffs. 

‘The stupid quantity. The frankly freaky colours… like, this orange section.’ Kit points towards the swede. ‘The lack of any personal interaction with a hot feeder man. This fucking evil diarrhea gravy. Also, I feel so bust, already….like the fever has hit me early,’ he complains.

I nod to acknowledge Kit’s candour. ‘Hard work, huh?’ I suggest.

‘Yes, Sir. I mean, you know I’ve put in big shifts before, and I’ve downed loads of dubious stuff, but honestly, Sir…just….fuck!’ he says.

I lay my own cutlery down, temporarily. (It’s a superb roast that Ben has delivered, by the way, and I’m eager to polish it off.)

‘Well, when I put this module together and then went farming for anonymous shit, my objective was for it to be unreasonable. Not impossible or crazy, for an experienced boy, but downright mean, okay?’

‘Alright,’ Kit mumbles, blatantly not alright.

‘Because you told me you wanted to progress and go lower, hey? And we don’t meet regularly because of calendars, so this plan I had was to skip two natural progressions and test you with a long leap. But perhaps I’ve misjudged you, huh?’

‘No, boss, I’m not saying I won’t…’

‘And you’re not a prisoner here, Kit. We can call back that Uber, any time!’

‘Sir, I didn’t…’

‘But one thing that grinds me is boys who won’t at least try. So, I’m wondering whether you’d think about making a fresh start? Like, summon some resilience.’

The knife and fork go back into Kit’s reaching hands.

‘Well, I’m sorry if it looked like I was giving up,’ he says, sounding sincere.

‘Sorrow is demonstrated by action, not words,’ I tell him.

***

‘Do you still keep in contact with the Warfare lads? That tender kiss with Charles Melton almost broke the internet! And Will Poulter is looking good – what do you make of him?’

The latest topic of conversation to accompany Kit’s ploughing-on, and he’s keeping his shit together at a level just sufficient to sustain dialogue, though on the substance of my questions the kid’s responses veer between rambling and drug-addled nonsensical.

About the potato and vegetables, x2. (I’ve dispensed with the inverted commas, now, as you’ve got the gist). My meal specification, which Ben followed faithfully, required portions equal to six heaped fork-loads of each component. It was to be a filling dinner, for Kit, but in fixing the quantities of veg I had, of course, allowed for the stodginess of the sausage meat.    

My starlet is finding the going to be heavy. And the problem is, the lighter he makes each fork, for his comfort, the slower the resolution. It must be dispiriting for Kit to look down and not see clear progress on his plate, but it’s his fault.  

Kit’s physical changes began with the clinging moisture above his top lip, and now I see the first sign of shit-induced delirium in his eyes: wider and sometimes staring, but at the same time struggling to hold focus. It’s less critical than it sounds – for now – and it’s a common toilet boy consequence, but I’ll watch it. Kit has been drilled on the importance of hanging tough through feverish adversity.

He's not addressing each section of the plate equally. The wispy potato is getting woofed down, whereas the sickly yellow swede has been trialled gingerly, then left.

Kit’s telling me of his admiration for Warfare co-star Will Poulter (on-set nickname Daddy, and isn’t that cute!?) when he breaks-off to puke. The irrepressibility of his need to vomit is anticipated by the boy, and therefore this chundering is well controlled, directed away from and to the left of our table. Two heaves, then a dry third, and he’s stabilised. There’s a pizza of sick on the veranda floor, but don’t worry, it’s tiled and will wipe clean easily enough, after dinner and not during.

Kit uses one of my expensive napkins on his sicky lips, and that’s not ideal, but I don’t pull him up. I don’t mention the vomit at all, except by way of a ‘joke’ to re-start our conversation:

‘Is it usual to react to Will Poulter like that!?’

It’s the way I tell ‘em!

***

‘So, how’s the crazy Kit/Heartstopper fandom affecting you? These people seem like total nuisances, hanging around outside every door. I hope you’re finding moments of peace, honey?’

Having finished my delicious roast and found Kit to be lagging, I’ve switched sides to sit alongside him, but slightly behind. Watching the kid struggle prompted me to help, as any reputable coach would.

My left arm drapes across to his left shoulder, and my face slants close to his right ear so I can speak softly to him, as necessary.

I’ve already buoyed Kit’s spirits, slightly, by divulging more about the sources of his dinner. Sure, I don’t know identities – that’s the truth – but the batch codes provided by the shit farmers told me every single component of Kit’s meal came from a man of 35 or under. That’s quite the preferential selection!  Also, whilst the source men wouldn’t get to know Kit’s name – because privacy works both ways – they’d get feedback on how an anonymous Toilet-21 had dealt with their waste, be that efficiently or disruptively.

And this led to a monologue from me on the complexities of shit farming, about which Kit was ignorant. You know – choosing locations and donor men; grading the filth by texture etc; bagging and barcoding it; the storage and delivery processes. An eye-opener, for Kit, on the booming trade known colloquially as Anon Shit. A time for humility on his part.

My proximity gives Kit moral support but, on the flip side, adds imperative. I know he feels it, as a boy whose psyche drives him to please. Kit’s always been submissive, but through long-term toilet training I’ve tempted him beyond subservience, to a place of mindless compliance.

I finger rub his shoulder through the blue cotton shirt, aiming to calm my boy as he responds to me with more satisfactory pace in his eating.

‘Plough on, hmm?’ I whisper our old trope into his ear, encouraging.

Busy, Kit nods.

The potato has gone, along with a whole sausage and much of the ‘green’ veg.

The boy lays down his cutlery for a moment of respite, to process his recent big efforts. His eyes are wet and red in a way that I suspect to be stinging for him. In their focus they are occasionally with me, intense, but prone to drift away into another state – a third state – that’s neither faithful nor disaffected but silently lost in task.   

I move my delicate rubbing to Kit’s upper back.

‘Give me a few relevant words as you swallow, huh?’ I ask.

Kit’s heard me and will respond, but points to the clogged throat he needs to clear first. I’m patient as ever.

‘Umm… anonymous… total satisfaction… resilient… ploughing on…’

‘Yeah, we both like ploughing on, don’t we?’ I laugh at the over-familiar. ‘But how about a word we’ve learnt recently, that seems highly applicable to this situation?’

He looks blank and gulps filth nauseously, eyes slitting as he ponders.

‘Errr… extremity?’ Kit offers, tentative.

I grin. ‘Well, that’s a great term, but not really where the level is pitched today. Anything else come to mind, huh?’

Kit looks to the sky for inspiration, and it clicks. 

‘Ahh… drone?’ he suggests.

‘Mmm yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking about your dinner session, yes? I mean, you’re not at drone standard, yet, but there are encouraging glimpses of it, right?’

And I can see Kit’s uncertainty. Does he apologise for not being up to scratch, or thank me for acknowledging flashes of inspired work? I want him conflicted, of course: I need him to be.

‘Sir,’ he says, neutral and brief. And deflated.

‘Time to show me what you can do, then?’ I suggest. ‘Because I love to feel proud.’

‘Sir,’ Kit repeats, as his hands return to his silver cutlery.

***

‘This is so unspeakably vile! Honestly, I feel so very broken!’ Kit sobs.

I love Kit’s choice of language. His private education, wide reading and drama school experience make him the only toilet boy of mine who’d use the adverb unspeakably in the context of a shit-triggered meltdown.

The kid’s head is buried in a nest formed by his forearms, on the tabletop alongside his dinner. There are free-flowing waterworks, and plenty of sniffing. I have a self-pitying toilet boy on my veranda, as the sun dips.

I’ve undraped my supportive arm, severing our physical contact. I’m unimpressed by the histrionics, and unsympathetic.

On Kit’s plate remains half a sausage, most of the puddled diarrhoea gravy, and the sandy-orange mashed swede simulation in virtual entirety. It’s the swede, in particular, that Kit’s getting awkward about. He’s tried to persuade me this section of his dinner is outstandingly noxious, mostly in respect of taste but compounded by the heavy texture. In Kit’s words, there’s something wrong with it.

I didn’t really understand Kit’s faltering explanation, but anyway, he’s the connoisseur. I don’t know what good shit feels like, versus bad shit, because I’ve never eaten it. Honestly, I reckon it’s a disgusting habit for a boy to adopt – worse than cigarettes or cocaine, and clearly addictive.  

Think of me as the cup-winning football team manager who’s never played the game professionally. I’m just a damn good coach who helps boys achieve their stated goals, with single-minded tenacity. It gives me a great deal of pleasure to watch them succeed.

I don’t tolerate fussy eaters. If a toilet boy covets my plate of roast dinner in preference to his filth meal, he’ll find himself off the roster and ghosted from the scat scene. (This has happened, by the way.)

I know what Kit’s angling for, with his performance. He believes he’s done enough and would love a concession. He’s hoping I’ll say something like this:

‘Fine, Kit. How about you finish the sausage, mopping some gravy along the way, and we’ll call it quits on the other section you really can’t process, okay?’

But I didn’t win my reputation as a coach through shabby compromises.

I’ve let Kit wallow in his exaggerated misery for long enough, and the self-indulgence must stop.

‘Okay… thirty seconds to compose yourself and sit back, straight,’ I tell him.

Of course, there’s more to Kit’s crisis: there always is, in these extended scenes. He’s feeling totally fucked and scared about his health. And because there’s nothing more important than a toilet boy’s welfare, I’m forced to consider whether we continue.

There’s a white handkerchief in Kit’s trouser pocket and it makes an appearance – whipped out like a conjuror about to magic a rabbit from a top hat – to dab his eyes and blow his nose. It looks quite pathetic and I’d rather he’d left his tears and snot to fester sexily.

‘How is dinner, then?’ I ask him, looking for a more considered response, now.

‘Fucking nasty, boss,’ Kit says, projecting confidence in his tone of voice again.

‘A-ha,’ I acknowledge. ‘Room for more, though?’ I lead him.

‘Fucking full, Sir. Totally bloated, y’know.’

‘Yep. And how are you feeling about me, just at this moment?’ I ask.

It was a delicate question, I thought, but Kit doesn’t mull his response for more than three seconds.

‘I’m fucking furious, to be honest. Like, I knew I’d be training tonight, and going lower… and I kind of had an inkling what might happen over dinner. But this is just… grotesque.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, referring to both the final compliment and Kit’s honesty. ‘Then tell me, without exaggeration, how you’re feeling?’

Again, Kit doesn’t hold back.

‘Utterly shredded, Sir.’

‘Okay. But I think you said ‘broken’, before?’ I push.

And now, suspicious, he becomes more guarded.  

‘Umm… pretty much, Sir.’

‘But not completely?’ I ask.

‘Well, maybe n…’

‘Beaten?’ I blurt.

Kit looks shocked.

‘I’ve never said I was beaten. That’s a pretty dramatic claim to make, and I wouldn’t say it lightly.’

‘Sure,’ I nod, accepting his counter as true. ‘Only, I sensed you were walking-out on your ambition there, Kit. I’m well attuned to quitter boys who’ve lost motivation.’

The kid goes silent, and I leave him to reflect. He clears his throat, looking to land his next lines with impact.

‘Only, this last section…. Sir… honestly, I have tried it…. And there’s something wild about the look, and the taste… plus the quantity on top of everything else, obviously. Like… I hope I’ve never said this to you before, because no way am I a lazy cunt… but I’m finding this so utterly impossible, and it’s just too much. Too fucking much!’     

Quite the outpouring, but I’m staying placid. I’ll be the unruffled one, rising to the occasion.

‘What should I do about it, then?’ I ask him.

A flustered look engulfs the boy, and he fidgets at the meal table. I’m not sure he’d planned his wish list, and that’s unfortunate for him.

‘Sir, I won’t be able to finish my plate. But what I thought is: I could agree with you about eating some of it, so you’re happy I’ve tried each section properly and finished what I can, which is still a lot! I know it’s not ideal, though…’ he fades away.

I engage Kit with an open look that he twists his neck to reciprocate.

‘What’s a fair compromise, on that sandy-coloured shit you’re sceptical about?’ I ask, and obviously he’s delighted I’m interested in his proposal, and starts slashing his own target even as we back-and-forth about it.

‘Boss, I think I’d be alright to pig two fork-loads of that stuff,’ Kit offers, perfecting a squeamish look for me as though I should be grateful to him merely for turning-up and making a token effort.   

I draw-out my disappointed face, making sure he wallows in the silent reprimand. There’s a tremor manifesting in Kit’s hands.

‘I have an alternative compromise,’ I say, slowly. ‘Basically, you eat every single thing on that fucking plate, and in return, I’ll try to remain professional with you.’  

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.  

***