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

***