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.’