Dane Makes Me His Toilet

This story contains lots of raunchy unprotected sex, which can have health consequences in real life: be informed and play safer. There are some fantasy scenes herein of forced liquid drinking, which in real life can cause "water intoxication" (google it) with dangerous side effects up to and including death. Please play in moderation.

The texts came quick and insistent, buzzing in my pocket like angry wasps. I had no way of knowing they were from him, but somehow... I did.

I pulled out my phone. There were six messages, short and to the point.

"Erik the queer."

"Are you still gay?"

(This was a little joke of his. Without waiting for an answer, he'd typed:)

"You should come over. I need to pee in your mouth."

(Normally that would be all he'd need to say, but he'd gone on:)

"And I haven't showered all week. My butthole is sticky."

"I need your faggot mouth to come clean it up."

"Get over here now."

He wrote all that extra stuff, I knew, because he was feeling extra nasty. Horned up. He wanted to get into some hardcore toilet sex and he wanted it now, with me.

My lucky day.

I quickly thumbed "on my way" with shaking hands, cock stiffening in my pants. I'd started boning up the second I saw the texts were from him, and was fully hard by the time I slipped on a jacket and wheeled my bike out the door.

He always had that effect on me.

I biked swiftly toward his house, hard, trembling. He always waited just long enough between sessions, damn him, just long enough that I was worried he'd become too disgusted with the nasty things I did for him to contact me again. Just long enough that I worried if I did anything to displease him-- like showing up late-- he'd cut me off.

I couldn't take that.

I needed him.

Three blocks from home I realized I also needed to piss. His house was a good six mile ride. I almost turned around. But I knew he wouldn't want to be kept waiting.

Besides, my full bladder was another toy he'd love abusing me with.

We'd been friends, originally, till he discovered how much I wanted to suck his dick. Then the dynamic shifted. He started inviting me over solely to pleasure his cock, and then (once he found out I liked rimming, too) his asshole. He was one hundred percent top (and probably eighty percent straight) but went absolutely wild with a tongue up his hole... some rimming meant the load of sperm he'd eventually fire off in my greedy mouth would be twice as big.

And almost from day one he'd made it clear he didn't want to "go to a lot of extra work" to get a rimjob. Which meant he wouldn't shower just for me. I wanted him badly enough to agree. In the sessions after that I couldn't help but notice his hole went from sweaty from unshowered to actively dirty. Coincidence? I didn't think so. He seemed to get off on the power trip of knowing he could make me tongue his asshole clean, no matter how filthy it was. Or he'd deliberately made it.

Not long after that he started making me drink his piss, and I fucking loved it. He got off on calling me a urinal, a toilet, and that's what I felt like, on my knees for him while he let loose a full bladder of his stinking urine into my willing mouth.

More recently he'd started flavoring our raunchy sessions with some abuse. First some face slapping (playful at first), then a spanking now and then. More recently he'd started using his belt, and now the slaps really stung. I could see how hard he got hurting me, how much pleasure it gave him to cause me pain. It made me hard, too.

Now it seemed like each session got more and more intense.

More nasty.

More brutal.

Toilet sex with Dane was rough, degrading, depraved, kinky, intense, and blindingly hot. If I was lucky, I wouldn't leave until the next morning, with a well-slapped face, a stomach full of urine, and the aftertaste of filth on my worn-down, exhausted tongue.

I pedaled as fast as my legs could handle, cock straining against my shorts.

His texts were well-timed. I was in the mood to be used hard tonight.

I craved his taste.

His abuse.

His raunch.

When I got to his place I locked up my bike, heart thudding. He lived a few blocks from the edge of campus, with some other dudes in or adjacent to college, mostly straight, all kinky or at least open-minded as fuck from what I'd gathered. For example, it was apparently the kind of place you could shout "Drink my piss, you fucking whore" from behind your closed bedroom door without needing to get embarrassed.

I knocked on his door, hopped up on anticipation. After what felt like forever, he pulled it open.

He was wearing knee-length cutoffs and nothing else. Since I'd seen him last he'd let his chest hair grow in a little, as well as some goatee stubble.

He was fucking hot. As always.

"Oh good," he said, stepping aside to let me come in. "The queer's here."

I stepped in, shrugged my backpack to the floor. "Your roommates home?"

"Gone for the weekend. Got the house to ourselves." He stepped up close to me and grabbed my nuts with a sneer, squeezing them hard. "Just you and me, bitch." It hurt. I whimpered.

"Maybe I'll hurt these balls for a while tonight, faggot," he said, face inches from mine, a look of gleeful power mingling with the contempt in his face as he kept up his grip. "Would you like that?"

I should tell you what Dane looks like. He's a couple inches shorter than me, mid-twenties, and skinny, one of those lucky fuckers that can eat as much as they want and still stay thin: but he wasn't a gym bunny, either, which was the way I liked it. He had shoulder length dirty blond hair and the most intensely blue eyes I've ever seen, perfect eraser-nub nipples brushed with hair, which continued in a light trail thickening around his belly button. His cock was only a bit bigger than average (hey, not everything can be like in porn) but he used it like a fucking maestro. And his ass... his ass was perfect. You could eat it for hours.

I had.

He tightened his grip on my nuts when he saw I was distracted. "I said," he repeated, "would you like it if I hurt these nuts tonight, faggot?"

"Whatever you want, Dane."

He laughed. "That's right. Open your mouth."

I did. He spat into it.

Then he did it again.

"Swallow."

I did, not breaking eye contact, and moaned (just a little), the pain of his grip on my nuts mingling with a wave of pleasure at my first taste of him. The first of what (please, God) would be many tastes of him tonight.

He let go of my balls and stepped back. "Now get on your knees, fag," he said, "I have to take a leak."

My knees kissed the dusty hardwood floor. He popped his top button and I fished out his half-hard prick, the prick that had spent so much time dumping fluids into my greedy mouth. The second it was pointed towards me he let loose, and I had to struggle not to spill any.

I didn't want to spill a drop.

I wanted every ounce of his urine inside me.

He grunted in pleasure, gripping my hair, digging his fingers into my scalp. "Uh, yeah bitch. Drink that piss."

The flow was strong and his piss was rank. He never drank enough water.

That's okay. Sometimes I prefer quality over quantity.

"You nasty fucking toilet," he whispered. "You've been craving it, haven't you? You're only happy when you're on your knees like this, letting a real man like me go to the bathroom in your slutty faggot mouth."

I moaned in agreement. Kept chugging.

I wondered how much of his piss I'd swallowed since we'd starting fucking around. Not enough was the immediate answer that popped into my head. He'd talked idly about moving in with me someday, feeding me every drop of his piss morning, noon, and night. It was just a fantasy for now but I knew I'd say yes in a heartbeat if he ever offered. The bitter taste of his nasty urine was aphrodisiacal. I wanted to keep drinking it forever.

Okay, fine. Quantity is pretty hot too.

The flow slowed down. "Don't swallow the rest," he said. "Keep it in your mouth." I obeyed, feeling my mouth fill up with pee. He slipped his dick out from between my lips, which clamped shut.

"How's that taste, cocksucker?" he asked, shrugging out of his shorts, his cock rising to full attention. Like I said, he wasn't huge, but he knew how to use it.

How to choke with it.

To answer him I could only moan again, nodding my head up and down. The taste of his rank urine filled my mouth, seeped into my taste buds.

He walked slowly around me, naked, looking at me critically. "You're disgusting," he said, "but as long as you follow my orders, I guess you'll do. You have to piss too?"

"Mmm hmm," I said, mouth still full of his salty bladder juice.

"Good," he said. "Hold it. Now gargle what's in your mouth."

Feeling foolish, I tilted back my head and did as instructed. His slimy piss felt good on the back of my throat.

He was directly behind me now, and he reached his hands around my neck, gripping lightly but firmly.

"I like using you," he said. "You know I like fucking girls, but there's so many things girls won't do. You can swallow it now." I did, feeling my Adam's apple bump against his hands. His hard prick pushed against my shoulders, smearing them with pre-cum.

He casually tightened his grip on my neck. "Girls," he said casually, "won't gargle my urine." I could feel the power in his hands, reveled in their grip around my neck, a collar made of him. "Girls won't let me choke them." His grip tightened again and I realized I couldn't breathe.

I could hear him breathing roughly above me. "They won't let me bruise them up." He bent down to spit on my face. "They won't lick the bottom of a toilet while I belt their ass." His fingers were a vice grip on my neck now. "They won't beg to rim my dirty asshole."

He bent down, brushed his lips against my ear. I was running out of air, or blood, or something, starting to see stars.

"They definitely won't do all those things in one night," he breathed in my ear. "Like you're about to."

He released his grip and I gasped for breath.

He stepped around in front of me again. "And they definitely won't let me do this," he added casually, and smacked me hard across the face.

Then he did it again, except harder.

Then again.

Then again. SMACK.

That last one really stung.

"What do you say, fag?" he asked.

"Thank you."

He kicked me in the balls: not hard, but enough to make me wince. "No, faggot. What do you say?"

"Hit me again please, sir," I quickly said.

He kicked my nuts again, harder this time. I struggled not to pull my legs together. "No," he said, angry now, "what do you say when I hit you, slave?"

I licked my lips. "Harder, sir. Please hit me harder."

"Like this?" he said, bitch slapping my reddening face.

"Harder," I moaned.

"Oh, like this?" he said, smacking my other cheek with even more force.

"Harder, please," I cried, even though my head was ringing.

"Oh, I get it. You want me to beat the shit out of you." He gave me three more hard slaps in quick succession: hand, backhand, hand, then laughed. "That sounds like a lot of effort, bitch. Maybe later. Right now I want you to suck my dirty shit hole. Get down on the ground."

I did, quick, glad he was laying off my face for now: it already felt like it was swelling up. But the pain was ephemeral. My mouth was already watering at the thought of being attached to his dirty rank asshole.

He straddled my head as I lay on my back, and looked down at me. "I haven't showered all week," he said, scratching a hairy pit absentmindedly. "My hole's been pretty itchy since yesterday. Been thinking a lot about your tongue getting up there, cleaning it up. Figured you wouldn't want me to wipe too well. I figure right, toilet?"

"Yes," I said, staring up at him. I had never been so hard.

He sat on my chest and scooted forward till his balls were in my face. I could smell their pungent stench, and underneath it, the sharper tang of his ripe ass. "It's too bad you aren't always here to clean my hole, asswipe," he said. "Think how much I could save on toilet paper. I could use a personal urinal and asslicker every day. But for now..."

He shifted forward, squatted his whole weight on my face, his slimy asshole lined up perfectly with my mouth. "Suck my ass, faggot."

I pushed my tongue forward just as he pushed out his hole, and sunk deep up into his slimy, dirty bung. The muddy taste was strong and bitter. Dane's crap. I was tasting Dane's crap.

He bore down on my face. "Fuck yeah, shitlicker. Get your tongue up my rectum. Lick me where I shit. Clean me up, rimmer boy."

I was lost in raunch heaven. Dane's crap-stained ass hairs wiped themselves on my upper lip, my chin. My tongue frantically burrowed up his shit chute, adding my spit slime to his ass slime, letting the mixture dribble down and coat my mouth with the taste of his rank twink butt. I could feel him bearing down, grunting as he forced his hole open, letting me bore my tongue deeper and deeper inside him, unlocking further and further layers of his slimy hole.

"Ungg," he moaned, "tongue fuck my shitty hole, you cocksucking toilet whore!" He pushed his full weight down onto me and I felt the back of my head digging painfully into the floorboards-- but only dimly. My whole world was centered on his raunchy asshole. The lip-tight seal between my mouth and his shit chute. The spit-lubed interface between my tongue and his filthy fucking rectum.

He bore down again and farted right in my mouth. I only smelled it when I breathed out through my briefly unblocked nose.

"Fuck yeah, you nasty toilet slut, eat my farts," he said. He was jacking his dick now, a sign of how turned on he was: he almost always preferred to pleasure his cock by raping my face, but he couldn't do that while it was vacuum sealed to his shitty asshole. He bore down again and an even longer, ranker fart filled my mouth. It was like a drug.

"Clean up my fucking butt slop, you asseating faggot," he groaned, grinding his hole on my face. I did my best to comply.

I was high on his ripe hole, making love to his shitter with my mouth, my lips, my tongue. I was lost inside him, wanting nothing more than to rim his ass like this forever. My tongue was doing longer, broader strokes now, trying to lick up as much of his flavor as I could, like an ice cream cone, the bitter brown residue of his last bowel movement. I knew I had a job to do: cleaning him. I wanted him to be pleased with how well I did it.

He farted again, and I used the opportunity to slip my tongue back up his ass, strain muscles to bury it deep.

This time I felt something up there. His shit. My tongue was touching the end of his shit.

Maybe he felt it too. He stood up abruptly and grabbed my wrist. "Bathroom," he said, "now."

Stumbling, I followed him down the hall and into the first floor bathroom. Well, at least we made it out of the entrance hall, I thought.

And also: Is this it? Are we going to do it? Right here, right now?

A wave of cold fear flushed through me, although it was hard to tell the difference between fear and anticipation.

He sat down on the toilet and pushed me to my knees in front of him. "Suck my cock," he said. I didn't have to be told twice.

I took him to the base in one swallow, squeezing his cockhead with my throat, loving how it felt to have my mouth filled with him, his rock-hard member impaling me, ready to be pleasured by me. I focused on giving him the best blowjob I could.

He farted again, and the smell of him wafted up into my nostrils. I didn't stop throating his cock.

We'd done this before, and my fear backed off a little. It wasn't the other thing. Not yet. So I knew what was coming, what to expect.

His thigh muscles tensed up, and he started to shit.

He pushed my head down on his hardness, mashing my face into his pubes, and grunted in pleasure. "Yeah, bitch, work that cock. Suck me while I dump, you worthless fucking slut."

I did. I could hear his shit crackling as it came out, plopping wetly into the bowl. The smell was like the taste of his dirty ass but fresher. Stronger.

He released his grip on my head. "Blow me, goddamnit," he said in a tone that meant I wasn't doing it right. I immediately starting bobbing my head up and down, giving my throat the fucking that he couldn't give it himself in the position he was in, swirling my tongue up and down his shaft, nibbling his glans, squeezing his head with my throat on the downstrokes.

Working for his cum.

I wanted it in my mouth.

Needed it.

He dropped another log into the bowl, grunting again in satisfaction, head thrown back, eyes closed. Focusing on the double pleasure he was getting from this depraved act, something only I of all his lovers was low enough to make happen.

For minutes, I focused on nothing but his cock in my mouth, on what I could do to make it happier. He stopped the trash talk for a while, seeming content to just revel in my servitude.

Finally I reached down to gently massage his perfect nutsack, wanting to give him even more pleasure. He let out a little groan of approval.

With one finger, I brushed gently lower, pressing it gently against his hot, sticky hole.

With a grunt, he came in my mouth.

He yanked my head halfway up his shaft, so I could taste his spunk as it coated my tongue, and I silently loved him for that.

When he was turned on he came hard and a lot. I swallowed down three full mouthfuls of his hot thick sperm. I wanted to get drunk off it, get high off his milky-smooth semen. I could swallow his cum forever.

Slowly, the pulses of cum dropped off. I swallowed one last time, trying to savor the taste, kept his slowly softening cock in my mouth, nursing it gently.

His hands had loosened their grip on my hair, and now they massaged it lightly.

I knew from experience he lightened up for a while after he came. Became almost nice.

I also knew when he got hard again, he'd be twice as mean as before.

After a few minutes of quiet recovery (me gently rubbing his foot and calf, cock still in my mouth; him softly tousling my hair) he reasserted his grip. "Hold still," he said.

I knew what was coming and swallowed the stream of piss without missing a beat. It was a smaller load this time, but still tasted just as delicious.

"Good boy," he said when I was finished. He scooted forward and lifted up his legs. "Now clean it up."

Eagerly I dived back into his hole, dirty once again: smeared with fresh crap, muddier than the tangy week of residue I'd just cleaned up, thicker, and more of it. We'd done this a few times before, and it was incredibly hot, incredibly degrading. He called it a "full service blumpkin": eating out his days-old dirty ass before and his freshly dirty hole after.

I'd played with kinky guys before, but none of the rest of those fuckers could think up nasty shit like this.

I focused on spit-shining his asshole until all that butt slop was inside me. The taste of him filled every part of my mouth. I still hadn't cum and was painfully hard, but I knew better than to touch myself without permission.

He liked it when I focused on him.

He seemed mostly content to let me do my thing, but every once in a while threw out a bit of trash talk: "Clean up that butt slop, you trashy queer." If he smoked he'd be taking long drags.

He finally got to his feet, grabbed a couple squares of toilet paper and rubbed them on his hole. He looked impressed when they came away clean. "Nice job, faggot," he said, flushing his dump down the toilet. "Now stay here."

Confused, I waited, my bare butt cold on the tile floor, while I heard him rummaging around in the kitchen.

Finally, ten or fifteen minutes later, he came back in with a tray. On it were two mugs of black coffee, and two big salad bowls with spoons, filled with something green and chunky.

"Asparagus salad," he said with a wicked grin when I raised an eyebrow. "Got to keep my piss tasting disgusting for you, or you might start to like it."

I noticed he also had two pills that looked like vitamins. "What are those?" I asked.

He smiled mysteriously, popping them into his mouth and chewing. "Iron supplements," he said. "I read online they give piss a real nasty, metallic taste. You're getting way too eager to drink it. I figured we needed something to remind you that you're drinking urine, not iced tea."

He lightly gripped my hair and pulled my head back, angled up at him. "I want to see you grimace when you drink piss," he said. "I want to watch you struggle to choke it down. And I want to watch you do it anyway, because you know it's what I want."

We both dug in. Before long the coffee started making my increasing need to piss even more urgent. I squirmed uncomfortably.

"You really have to go, don't you?" he asked with a sadistic smile.

"Yeah," I said, "please."

He laughed and kept eating, but when he was finished, put the empty bowl down in front of me. "Do it in there," he said.

Thankful, I straddled the big glass bowl and let loose, sighing with relief. Dane watched me critically, still sipping his coffee, like a judge at some kind of faggot exhibition contest.

When I was finished, he nodded once, as if satisfied. "Now jerk off into it," he said. "And don't take all night."

He stood there watching me. Hesitantly, I gripped my cock. "Can I... can I suck you off while I...?"

"No," he said, looking annoyed. "Maybe you didn't hear me? Jerk off and cum in that bowl of piss. Now."

He reached into the back of a cabinet. "Although if it helps," he said, "you can fuck yourself with this rubber schlong and pretend a real man is raping your asshole." He pulled out a purple dildo with thick ridges and an electric cable coming out of it, came over to me, and roughly shoved it into my mouth, pushing until it hit the back of my throat before letting go. "But that's all the lube you're going to get, fag boy. Your choice."

I needed some kind of stimulation to perform while being watched like this, so I tried my best to get the sex toy lubed up with my spit, then reached down to line it up with my dry asshole. I grimaced a little as I pushed, but managed to slowly work it up inside me.

As the pain subsided and the rubber toy got cozy with my prostate, my cock returned to its full hardness. I jacked it, alternating between staring lustily at Dane's perfect body, and closing my eyes to remember all the things he'd done to me. To imagine all the things he would do.

He watched me with a kind of bored contentment. "Hurry it up fag," he said. "Maybe you should fuck yourself on that dildo harder, give your queer asshole the stimulation it needs to get you off."

I rocked up and down on the dildo, feeling its ridges scrape my asslips, massage my insides.

"Oh, Erik," he said, disappointed, like he was talking to a disobedient puppy. "Harder than that."

I winced, but picked up the pace even more, impaling myself aggressively on the twisted sex toy only to lift up and slam down on it again. Despite the stimulation of the last hour, the discomfort from the unlubed dildo was preventing me from cumming. I needed more.

I needed Dane's abuse.

"Talk dirty to me," I whispered. "Treat me like shit. I'm almost there."

He drained the rest of the coffee, walked over to me, grabbed my hair, and bitch slapped me hard. I groaned, but knew enough not to stop fucking myself on the dildo.

"Let me get one thing straight, bitch," he said. "You don't tell me what to do. I tell you what to do, and you do it. If you were less of a fuckup, you'd know that."

He knelt down next to me, picking up a control attached to the end of the electric cord connected to the dildo I was fucking myself on. "But I'm feeling generous tonight," he said, flipping a switch, "so let me tell you all the ways you'd be serving me if you really were the kinky slut you so desperately wish you were."

He flipped another switch, and suddenly I felt a current in my hole. It was a low, angry buzz: not quite painful, but dangerous, sputtering with potential energy. I moaned.

"A real slut would have asked for the electricity right away, for one thing," he said, turning a knob. The current in my asshole kicked up a notch and I gritted my teeth.

"A real slut would have thanked me after drinking my piss, too," he went on, "and wouldn't have been satisfied. He'd have begged for more. If you were a real slut, you'd have found out already about the bottles of saved-up piss I've got in my fridge. They'd already be inside you now, guzzled down your sick faggot throat. Your queer stomach would be so bloated with urine it'd look like you were pregnant." He turned the knob again and the buzzing in my ass became pain. I clenched my teeth, and kept bouncing up and down. Kept jacking my cock.

"Then, once you were so bloated with piss you could barely move, I'd really start hurting you." He inched the dial up more. "I'd shove your head in the toilet and whip your asshole with a wire coat hanger. I'd make you my fucking punching bag. Gut punch the shit out of you and give you at least one black eye."

He nudged the dial: more electro flooded my abused hole. "I'd fist fuck you to the elbow and then work on stretching your cunt wider. Punch your balls until you beg me to stop and then really start working them over." He twisted the dial up again and I moaned: it felt like thousands of needles were stabbing my from the inside.

"I'd wrap my hands around your cocksucking throat and strangle you till you passed out," he said, slowly inching the dial up, "then bitch slap you awake and do it some more. I'd burn your asslips with cigar ash then fuck you with a dildo coated in salt. I'd shit in your mouth and make you chew it all up and swallow it. Every. Fucking. Day."

He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back painfully, twisting the dial up to its highest notch. I was fucking myself on it crazy hard, felt it banging mercilessly against my prostate, felt it bandsaw my guts like a thousand angry bees.

"So cum for me, faggot," he shouted, face inches from mine. "If you can't do any of those things for me, then cum for me now, you worthless fucking cum dumpster. You shit eating piss gargling human toilet. You pathetic queer-ass pain slut fuck puppet. Cum for me. Cum for me now."

With something between a moan and scream, I blew my load into the bowl of piss. Blast after blast of sperm exploded from my cock, my ass strangling the dildo, Dane's hand still forcing my head back, sneering into my face. He started spitting on me as I kept cumming, wads of his saliva hitting my cheek, my forehead, my eyes. I was seeing stars.

It may be the most powerful orgasm I'd ever had.

He eased the electro dildo back down to its unpowered position and I half-collapsed into his arms. He ran his hands gently through my hair. I struggled to focus, to look up at his face. He looked almost tender. We spent a few minutes like that.

Finally, he pushed me gently back, rose to his feet. Nudged the bowl with a toe.

"Now," he said with a smile, "drink up all that piss and sperm before it gets cold."

I looked down at the bowl. Thick ropes of white cum shot through the golden liquid. In a sluttier state of mind, it would have been the perfect cocktail for a toilet slut like me. But having just gotten off, it looked... less than appetizing.

Which was exactly Dane's plan all along.

When he saw me hesitate, he grinned wildly, then gently starting pushing my head towards the bowl. "Come on puppy," he said, "lick it up." I thought he would let me go so I could start drinking, but he kept pushing my head, face first into the cooling bowl of urine. I could feel slimy ropes of cum rubbing against my cheeks.

"Start drinking now," he said sweetly, "or I'll fist you with a fucking baseball glove."

Quickly I started gulping up the urine, awkward at this bent-over angle: on the second swallow I choked and blew bubbles out my nose. Dane let up on my head; I raised it above water, tilted the bowl up, and began rapidly drinking the piss-and-cum cocktail.

My own piss, half-cooled, didn't taste nearly as good as his. I wasn't in the habit of eating my own sperm, either, and the ropes of it were slimy and disgusting. I had to struggle, to choke it down.

But I did it. For him.

"Good fag," he said when I'd finished, and licked the bowl clean without needing to be told. "Way to clean up after yourself. Now why don't you get all your toys cleaned up and put away, so we can get on with the next things I want to do to you."

I must have looked confused: he kicked under my kneeling legs, toe bumping the end of the dildo still deep up my ass. "Pull that out and clean it off," he said.

I carefully pulled the dildo from my hole, wincing a little as I did. I could tell even without looking that it was a little messy. I hadn't cleaned out before I came over, because I hadn't had time and I knew he wouldn't want me to. When I brought the dildo up to look at it, my suspicions were confirmed: the purple shaft was smeared with a few streaks of brown, and clumps had caught under the ridges.

I stood up and turned towards the sink, ready to wash it off, when his hand caught my wrist. "Not in the sink, you dumb bitch," he said, smirking. "With your mouth."

I looked back down at the dildo in alarm. Again, if I hadn't just blown my load, this was the kind of thing I liked to jack off thinking about. But now...

"I, uh..." I said helplessly.

"You, uh," he said mockingly. "You what? Oh, I get it. Must not be dirty enough for you, huh?" His shook his head in mock disgust. "That's pretty messed up, man. I didn't realize you had such a hard on for mouth-cleaning shafts that have been forced up your dirty asshole. We'll have to do it more from now on. But why don't you start with this one that's only a little dirty, ok? Just as an appetizer." He grinned. "Don't worry. There's plenty more butt fudge we can get into your faggot mouth."

Resigned, I lifted the shit-smeared toy to my mouth. I could smell it, especially without any lube to disguise the odor. It smelled... well, it smelled like shit.

"Put it in your mouth," he said firmly, like he was disciplining a dog.

Helpless, I opened my mouth and slid it inside, closing my lips on it like a popsicle. The rubbery taste of the dildo mingled with the bitter, cloying taste of my own asshole. I swirled my tongue around, trying to get it over with... although I noticed I wasn't quite as repulsed by the idea as I'd been a minute ago.

Somewhere down there my dick must be waking up again.

"Good fag," he said, "lick it clean. How's that taste, slut?"

I made a noncommittal sound, focusing on licking up the slop coating the dildo's ridges. I swallowed bitter brown spittle. I could feel a moist raunchy ring kissing my lips.

Dane pulled the rubber cock out of my mouth and examined it critically, pointing out a few smudges I'd missed and making me lick them up. Finally he seemed satisfied.

"Good," he said. "Now put it back in your hole."

Sighing, I started easing the dildo back into my hole, but apparently didn't act fact enough for Dane: he grabbed my neck and shoved my head down till my cheek was pressed against the bathroom's cold tile floor, grabbed the dildo, and rammed it savagely deep into my guts. He started vigorously fucking me with it like he was plunging out a clogged toilet. I moaned as the ridges whipped past my ass lips.

"Shut up," he said, slapping my ass not unaffectionately.

After reaming my hole with the ridged sex toy for a few minutes-- changing the angle every few thrusts and frequently pushing it as deep inside me as he could-- he pulled it free and yanked me up by hair. It was even filthier than before. He smeared it on my face, smiling a little like a kid with finger paints, then pushed it gently between my lips. "Clean it up," he said, "then get in the tub and wait."

The tub? I wondered what was going to happen next.

Once I'd finished spit-shining the shitty dildo for a second time, I crawled into the cold empty bathtub. I could hear Dane rummaging around in the kitchen, but I had no idea what was coming next.

When he finally came back in, he was carrying a tray filled with bottles. There were eight of them, and they all were filled at various levels with...

"Is that all piss?" I asked, which was a pretty stupid question. He seemed to take it the way I meant it, which was more like where the fuck did you get all that piss?

"Every bladder-full from yesterday," he said with a self-satisfied smile, "and some from... other sources." My mind immediately flashed to Kent, his hunky but, to my knowledge, non-kinky roommate; my cock twitched a little. Dane seemed to read my mind, and grinned evilly. "Maybe from Kent," he said, "maybe piss that some homeless guy left in a bottle by the side of the road, or from a dog in a back alley. Doesn't matter to you, faggot. It's piss, and I'm going to put it inside you. Where it belongs."

He reached down and slapped me playfully. "Do you want it in the mouth or the ass?"

My stomach gurgled. Between drinking Dane's load not long ago and following it up just now with my own, I felt like I needed some time to make room in my stomach for more. Besides, the thought of Dane continuing to play with my hole was intensely arousing.

"In the ass," I said eagerly.

"Trick question," he grinned. "You're going to take a lot in all your slutty orifices. But sure, we'll start with the ass. Put this in."

I slipped the tip of the proffered enema nozzle into my puffy hole, still sore from that ridged dildo and the electricity that had recently been frying it, and pushed the tube a few inches deep. Dane hung the enema bag on the pole holding the shower curtain, and was upending one of the bottles of piss into it.

"How much do you think your slut hole can take?" he asked. "What did I give you last time? The time you said you didn't think you could take any more?"

"Almost two," I said, swallowing nervously. I had a feeling I was going to immediately regret this answer.

"How about three this time?" he asked cheerfully, unscrewing another bottle.

"Dane, I don't think I can--"

"Or we could jump straight to four," he said casually, "if three's not enough to satisfy you. Might have trouble getting it all in your guts, but if I superglued the nozzle to your hole and squeezed this bag really hard, I'm sure we could--"

"Three's fine," I said quickly, "Thank you sir for filling my ass with your delicious urine. Three liters is more than I deserve," I added, maybe pushing my luck a little.

He smirked down at me, upending the third bottle into the now-bulging enema bag. "Just relax and let it all inside you," he said. "Think about this. You're about to have more of my piss in you at once than you've ever had before."

Had I cum, just a few minutes before? It was hard to tell, now. My cock was harder than a baseball bat.

"Okay, faggot, here it comes," he said, and unclipped the hose.

Within moments, I felt a strong flood of piss flood my asshole. I groaned: it was fridge-cold, and coming fast.

"Pull your legs up to your chest," Dane suggested, "so it gets nice and deep." I did as he suggested.

The flow continued; gurgles came from the bag and from my guts, which were rapidly filling up with ice-cold urine. I could see my stomach start to swell. Dane noticed it too, reaching down to rub it gently, like a proud father. "Good boy," he said, and, "lots more to go."

It was true. The bag was visibly shrinking, but I was already swollen and full. I could feel my guts shifting around uncomfortably as the cold piss gushed into them, and see my stomach starting to distend.

Dane saw it too. He grinned manically.

It was like he was raping me with his piss.

He straddled my chest and slapped his hard-again cock against my lips. "Open up," he said. When I did, he thrust forward sharply into my throat, held the back of my head and pushed hard against it, mashing my lips into the hair at the base of his dick. Distracted from the sensation in my guts, I choked a little, sputtering as his cock filled my throat. He pulled back a bit, but it was only to adjust his grip. Savagely, he started throatfucking me, banging my head against the porcelain of the tub, powerfucking my face with no consideration as to whether I could breathe or was enjoying it.

My guts continued to fill with urine. I tried to moan around the dick slamming my throat. I felt full to bursting. I couldn't breathe.

The bag at last gurgled-- I had taken the whole thing!-- but my need to breathe was getting desperate. Dane, intent on skullfucking me, didn't seem to notice. "See, told you you could take it all, toilet," he grunted, not slowing his mouth rape. "Now hold it while I use this other hole."

I was seeing stars but the throatfuck continued. I looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, tunnel vision, desperately trying to convey the oxygen I needed.

Finally he pulled back and I gasped for breath, choking and coughing. He looked down, unimpressed, shifted his position to an angle he must have thought would be even less comfortable for me. "Hold your breath," he said, as if I had any choice, and forced himself back down my throat. From this new position and angle he had more leverage to pound me even deeper.

I gagged again, and spewed up a little around his cock.

He pulled back, flashing an annoyed glance at me for breaking his stride just when he was finding a good rhythm. "I told you to keep those fluids inside you," he said. He slapped me--the throat slime on my face made it sting-- then went back to fucking my throat.

My attention wavered between the dick ravaging my mouth and the incredibly full feeling in my guts. My ass was full, my stomach was full from all the piss I'd been drinking, and my bladder was starting to fill up again. The force of Dane pile-driving my throat was making all that liquid slosh around inside me. I groaned again, both from discomfort-- but also a secret thrill that he had degraded me to this level. That he was using me the way we both knew I needed to be used.

Dane's throat rape kept going, merciless. My face became slimed up with tears, throat slime, pre-cum, and Dane's spit, which he'd deposit in the brief moments he pulled out to reposition his thrusting, usually along with a rough slap. Sometimes he'd smear the slime around my face first, laughing; sometimes he'd bend down and spit straight into my mouth, as if there wasn't enough lube for his face fucking. He never gave me more than a few seconds to recover before forcing his dick back down my throat and resuming his jackhammer thrusts. If we ever got into a position where I could momentarily breathe, he'd reach down to pinch my nose shut and laugh as I suffocated on his cock. The back of my head hurt from the times he'd banged it into the tub, my neck was sore, my jaw was aching, and my guts were starting to cramp.

He was using me, and I liked it.

I could tell he was getting close when he picked up the pace of his verbal and physical abuse. "You worthless fucking toilet," he muttered, gripping my hair so tight I could feel a few strands ripping out at the root. "You should be filled up with piss like this all the time. Like a fucking sewer main. Bloated with urine. You should be drinking piss every day. Gallons of it. Beg every man you meet to go to the bathroom in your thirsty, open mouth."

He drove one final slam down my throat and held me there, pushing down hard on my head and forcing himself into me with all his weight, shouted: "Eat my fucking spunk, faggot!" I could feel his dick pulse as he shot his sperm down my throat.

The only thing I could think was how sad I was not to be tasting it.

After he was done emptying his balls down my throat, he slowly pulled out, smearing his softening cockhead across my sticky, abused face. With a little grunt he expelled some piss, coating my head. I blinked as some of the acrid liquid hit my eye, and could feel it dribbling down my neck and shoulders.

He pinched off his flow, climbed out of the tub with a self-satisfied expression. I lay there, face coated in my throat slime and Dane's piss, ass still painfully full with more of it. He grabbed one of the bottles he'd emptied into the enema bag and filled it up two-thirds of the way with the rest of the load from his tap.

I wanted to ask him to let me expel the enema, which was really hurting now that the excitement of getting throat raped was over, but I knew he wouldn't like it. Instead I said, "Hey, throw me a towel?"

He leered down at me. "Nah," he said. "I think you should let it dry on you. Keep you smelling like a toilet."

Fair enough, I thought. I tried to sit up a little at least, but shifting made my overfull guts gurgle and I winced in pain.

He grinned. "You want that urine out of you, slut?" he asked.

"Yes please sir," I said, trying not to sound too eager.

"Really?" he ran his fingers up and down my swollen stomach. "Cause I was thinking. Instead, maybe I should find the biggest dildo I can and plug your worthless hole up with it. Make you keep that piss in you for a while. It'd be fucking hilarious to watch you waddle around like a pregnant whore. I could take you downtown, tell everyone I knocked you up with my pee. Nine months pregnant with my urine baby." He slapped me lightly on the belly and my guts gurgled.

But then, to my surprise, he relented. "Do it in the toilet," he said, getting up and stretching out the awkward position he'd held himself in to rape my face. Normally I would enjoy the gorgeous sight of his lithe muscular body stretching, his pit hair and the fine line from his belly button down to his crotch: but I really needed to get rid of the liquid in my guts.

I climbed delicately out of the tub and squatted over the bowl. As desperate as I was, it took a second to relax enough to let it out: despite all that had happened between us, I was still apparently shy about voiding my bowels in front of this twink stud. Within moments the pressure did its job, though, and I sighed in embarrassed relief as the liquid flooded out of me in a series of noisy, splashing torrents.

Dane, still naked, folded his arms and watched me with a nonplussed expression, like some rich asshole keeping an eye on the new groundskeepers to make sure they weren't slacking off. I kept thinking I was done, but then another jet of liquid would squirt out of my hole. Jesus, I'd taken a lot, I thought.

"Good boy," he said, when I was finally finished. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Next time you'll take even more."

I leaned against the back of the tank, relieved to have the pressure in my guts finally gone. I looked up at him eagerly.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Now," he said, "you go home."

"Already?" I blurted out, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. I'd hoped I'd get to eat his asshole a little bit more, at least.

He was shaking his head. "Erik," he said, "I've gotten off twice. I'm done. You know how much work it takes to get me to cum a third time in one night. I don't think you're up for any more."

His eyes glinted teasingly, or maybe I just imagined it. But I knew what he meant.

I'd learned, in my time serving Dane, that each time he came, he had to go farther to get off the next time. Get rougher. Meaner. I'd have to do more demeaning, degrading things to get him off again. Let him push me further.

The last time I'd made him cum three times in one night, I had to do some things I'm still not proud of. And before he was able to get himself off, he'd given me some real bruises, and sent me home with a black eye.

I hadn't been able to stop jerking off for a whole week, thinking back on it.

I looked up at him, breath coming heavy. He kept his eyes locked on mine, smirking, dangerous. He didn't think I was man enough to do it. He thought I'd chicken out.

He didn't understand the depths I was willing to sink to to keep being his slave.

His victim.

His toilet.

"I'll stay," I breathed, looking up at him. "I want to. I'll do whatever you want."

He looked down at me skeptically. "I don't think so," he said. "I'm kinda tired, and you stink like a fucking sewer." He yawned; looked away, as if bored. "You really think you can get me hard again?"

"Yes," I said, trying to keep from outright begging.

He seemed to consider it. "Think about this carefully, fag," he said. "You talk me into this, I won't change my mind. Even if you do."

"I won't back out," I said. "I want this. I do."

I did.

I wanted him.

I wanted him to keep using me.

Keep hurting me.

Keep pushing me.

He touched a finger to my cheek just in front of my ear, dragged it slowly down my piss-wet chin.

"You'll have to break some more limits for me," he said. "If you want to keep being interesting, you'll have to be willing to go farther than you've gone before. Think of some extra disgusting ways you can service me." He cocked his head, considering. "And I think I'd have to hurt you a lot to get off again."

He pushed two fingers into my mouth, then roughly, his whole hand. I choked but kept my mouth wide, kept my gaze locked with his as my eyes teared up and I struggled not to puke. He smirked nastily down at my, forcing his hand into my mouth, his fingers scraping my throat, his knuckles stretching my mouth obscenely wide. I retched, eyes watering, looking up at him pleadingly, but unsure whether I was pleading for him to stop, or keep going.

He pulled his hand abruptly out of my mouth, inspecting the saliva on it distractedly, then reached down and bitch slapped me hard with his spit-wet hand. It caught me by surprise and I took the full force of it, seeing stars, letting out a gasp of pain; head averted, panting for breath.

"Yeah," he breathed, "I'd have to hurt you real bad before I could cum again. Is that what you want, shit breath?"

I took a deep breath, turning to look back up at him. "Yeah," I said. "I do."

"Say it," he said.

"I want you to hurt me," I replied, voice trembling.

He slapped me again, hard. It stung.

"How bad?" he shouted.

"Bad," I said. "I want you to hurt me real bad."

He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back. "Where can I hurt you, faggot?"

"Wherever you want," I moaned.

"Your nuts?" he asked. "Can I hurt your nuts?"

"Yes," I breathed.

"Not just slap them around," he clarified. "I want to really hurt them. Beat them. Torture them. You'll let me do it?"

"Yes," I whispered, shivering with vertigo, like I was falling off a cliff into darkness. Where was the bottom? What was I agreeing to?

He bent down, my raunch-drugged face only inches from his.

"What about your faggot asshole?" he asked. "Can I hurt you there too?"

"I-- if you want," I whimpered.

"'If you want'," he repeat mincingly, mocking me. "Yeah, bitch, that's what I want. To make your worthless asshole hurt. Stretch it, whip it, beat it. So later when I fuck you in it, all you'll feel is pain. Is that what you want, toilet?"

"Please," I whispered, desperate to lick the sweat off his face, to bury my tongue in his asshole again, to take his abuse, as much as he wanted, "please, please... please let me stay."

He spit roughly in my eye. It stung, dribbling down my cheek.

Through my other eye I noticed he was getting hard again.

"Good," he said, smearing the spit around my cheek with his thumb. "Because I like hurting you. And helping you realize, bit by bit, what you're really good for. Pain and toilet service. Watching you beg to get used is pretty fucking funny too.

"All right, slut," he said abruptly, straightening up. "You can stay. If..." He pointed between my legs. "If you put your face in the toilet bowl and start guzzling down all that enema water. Right. Fucking. Now."

Overcome with gratitude, I dropped to my knees and turned around, but paused when I saw the bowl. The yellow fridge piss had saturated my undouched guts, and what had come out was a rich brown liquid that more than half filled the toilet. I suddenly wasn't sure I wanted to do this.

"I said," Dane added angrily, grabbing by head and forcing it angrily into the bowl, "to get your face in that douche water, faggot." Caught off guard, my face slipped into the slurry of piss and gut slop just as I closed my eyes. Despite having spent some time inside me, it still felt shockingly cold. I had enough sense to keep my head in the mixture as Dane released his grip.

"Start drinking," he shouted. Mindlessly, I let some of the liquid dribble into my mouth and took a swallow. It tasted awful. With my head at such an awkward angle, I choked a little and sputtered, my head coming up to gasp for air.

"I said drink it, not inhale it," Dane said angrily, grabbing my wrists. I heard the sound of duct tape ripping and then felt some wrapping my wrists together as he held them behind my back. "Can't you do fucking anything right? Get your face back in the toilet and drink it all up."

I took a deep breath and obeyed, focusing on my breathing, on swallowing carefully. It was at least half toilet water, but that wasn't enough to dilute the taste much.

My ears, just above the water line, heard another rip of duct tape and then felt my ankles being bound, too.

"Keep your head where it belongs, whore," he said. "I want your tongue and lips pressed against the deepest part of the bowl. Do it now."

I forced my face deeper, flattening my tongue against the grimy porcelain, and waited, trying to ignore the taste.

I could hear some rustling. What was he doing?

Would he remember that I needed to breathe?

Crack! Something whipped across my ass. His belt.

I had a sudden vivid flashback to the first time I'd shyly offered to suck him off, after he'd stubbornly (deliberately, probably) refused to pick up on my more subtle innuendos. He made me ask. It had felt so thrilling and degrading at the time. Now I was tied up in his bathroom with my face mashed against the bottom of a toilet filled with his saved piss and an enema from my own dirty hole, while he belted my ass and thought up even more degrading things to do to me. My mind whirled at how far I'd come.

"You can breathe every third stroke," I heard him say. Crack! Was that two? "And when you come up for air I want you to tell me whether those were just right, if you want them harder, or if it's too much. Got it?"

Crack! I lifted my head out of the bowl, gasping for air. "Harder, please," I said, knowing that's what he'd want to hear, the first few times at least. I lowered my head back into the bowl as a sharper crack! flared pain across my ass.

"And don't stop drinking, toilet," he said. Crack!! Damn, they were really starting to hurt. "You're always fucking whining about how much you like drinking piss. So get it all back inside you, slut." Crack!

I'd only managed to get a few more swallows down. I came up for breath, face dripping. "Thank you please harder sir harder," I moaned, before submerging my face again and guzzling down more dirty toilet water.

"I want you to think of three new things I can do to you," he said casually as he kept belting my ass. He was putting his back into it: they were starting to really fucking sting. "They can be painful things..." (Crack!) "Degrading things...." (Crack!!) "Disgusting things..." (Crack, gasp, "sir just right sir", plunge) "But ideally, all three at once."

Crack!!! My submerged face grimaced. It really hurt!

The beating continued. I lost track of the blows, except in threes. My ass was on fire. My guts were filling up with recycled piss again, just entering through a different orifice this time. It took all my concentration to focus on drinking without choking, on breathing and sputtering out reports when I could. I knew I was supposed to be thinking of things that would please him, and my mind whirled with nasty images, crazy images. Things that went farther than what we'd done already.

Things that would get him off.

I'd swallowed more than half of the ass-flavored fridge piss in the toilet bowl when he turned around and sat on my shoulders, facing away from my head. I could feel the sweat he'd worked up from beating me, dribbling down his back, gathering in his ass crack.

He grabbed one of my buttcheeks, pulled it roughly aside.

"Hold still," he said, and, "this is going to hurt."

With a savage blow, he brought the belt down dead center on my asshole. I jerked lifting my face out of the water enough to gasp in pain.

He laughed. "Felt that one, huh?" he said. "I bet you did. And who said you could lift up your face, fag? Tongue back on the bottom of the bowl, NOW."

The beating continued, only now it was focused on the tenderest, most sensitive part of my backside: my poor, already-abused hole. The only saving grace, such as it was, was that from his awkward angle and in my knees-together position most of his blows went wide: only a few connected directly with my hole. But the area around it, my inner cheeks and taint, were still taking a hell of a beating... coincidentally, the very parts of my butt his earlier strokes had neglected.

I was crying now from the pain, but with all the liquid running down my face, who could tell?

He stopped, breathing heavily, and rubbed his thumb roughly over my smarting hole. I could tell he was frustrated that so many blows had gone wide.

"I need you tied up with these pussy lips exposed," he said, slipping his thumb into me. "Fuck you with something big to get them stretched and puffy, then fucking belt these cunt lips hard. As a warm-up to giving them a long hard caning." He laughed as I shuddered. "Bet you'd really feel it when I raped this fucking shitbox with a rubber schlong after that."

He gave me one last hard slap to my hole, then stood up, spinning around and grabbing the wet hair on the back of my head. He lifted me out of the water but immediately pressed my face against the inside of the bowl.

"Lick," he said.

I mindlessly complied, tonguing the porcelain, wishing it was his hole: but it was everything his perfect asshole wasn't. Cold, instead of warm. Hard instead of pliant, yielding. Tasteless instead of pungent, heady, ripe.

He guided my face around the inside of the bowl, then yanked me up higher.

"Lick the rim faggot. Heh, a different kind of rimjob for you." He seemed to think this was funny. "Yeah, rim that toilet, you toilet."

I slobbered over the rim of his toilet, stomach muscles starting to ache from not being able to use my hands to support myself. In fact muscles all over were starting to tremble from holding myself in this awkward position. Or maybe it was the anticipation of what might be coming next.

After a few minutes of the toilet licking game he got bored. He let go his grip on me and I slumped back against the side of the tub. My hands were still duct taped behind me so I leaned awkwardly back on them, muscles too tired to pull myself up. I was dripping with urine, face a mess. I must have looked absolutely pathetic.

Casually, still looking almost bored, he reached down and wrapped a hand around my neck, suddenly squeezing hard and leaning his weight on it. I struggled to swallow, to breathe, but couldn't do either.

He leaned his face into mine, started muttering filth at me, his words filled with vicious edges, like weapons. "You bitch," he hissed, "you fucking whore. You worthless fucking toilet. You're a piece of fucking human garbage, you faggot painslut pissmop skank." On and on the abuse went, while he kept choking me, pushing down on my neck; my hands and arms were twisted behind me, ground down painfully against the tile floor; I couldn't stop him, couldn't fight back, couldn't do anything but take his endless stream of abuse.

He finally let go my neck and I took a ragged gasp of air, but before I could let it out, he grabbed my wet hair and bitch slapped me hard across my face, contempt etched across his.

He kept his grip on my hair, and did it again. And again. And again.

"You're so fucking pathetic," he said, shifting his grip on my hair to the other hand. "And beating your pathetic ass makes me hard as a fucking rock." SLAP! He smacked me again. "You couldn't stop me even if you wanted to, could you, bitch? But I like it even more"-- another brutal smack-- "that you don't want me to. Because you don't." SMACK! "Do you, faggot?"

He pulled back and punched me in the face.

My head whirled, stars flashing. I was dizzy. I hurt.

I wanted to ask him to stop.

I couldn't.

His cock was hard as a rock. It was dripping pre-cum.

He liked hurting me.

And I liked him hurting me. Even when it hurt.

I couldn't answer. I just looked up at him desperately. I wanted him to want to stop. But I couldn't ask him to.

He'd raised his fist again, but seeing my complete and utter submission, he grinned rakishly, and dropped it. Instead he gave me an incredibly light, almost love slap, and said: "Three new things I can do to you, slut. Now."

My mind and head were whirling. I shook them a bit to sort them out. He chuckled at my state of utter disarray, backed up, helped me sit up a bit. My hands and thighs were on pins and needles from being pinned against the side of the tub. I tried to clear my head, tried to remember what he was talking about.

"You were thinking, weren't you slut?" he asked patiently. "While you were drinking that toilet water? I asked you to think of new ways I could use you. You aren't going to disappoint me, are you?"

Oh. Right. I remembered. The nasty images I'd conjured up whirled through my mind, tinged with fear, as I tried vainly to sort them out, prioritize them. Knowing there was a very real possibility anything I said would be made to happen. Knowing if I didn't say something extreme enough, he'd be unhappy.

Knowing there was one big thing he wanted me to say. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. Not yet.

"You can piss in my eyes," I said weakly.

"You'll hold them open for me?" he said, considering. "I like that. Sounds fucking nasty. What else."

"You, uh..." I swallowed, afraid to say this one. "You could rub hot sauce on my asshole."

He visibly perked up at that. "Oh," he said, "what a lovely idea. You fucking creative little slut puppy. I like that a lot." He leaned back, a grin spreading over his face as he thought about it. "Yeah! Why would I ever use lube to dildo your slutty pussy when I can use fucking habanero sauce? Not that you deserve a lot of lube to begin with." He tousled my hair. "Good one, toilet. And the last one?"

"You, um, could make me eat dog food," I said.

"Mmm," he said, bored. "That's pretty weak. I mean, you deserve to, and you should, and you will. But that's not really pushing yourself very far, is it? Besides, there's other things a toilet should be eating."

I flushed in shame.

He stood up. "Also, none of those things involved hurting your nuts," he added casually. "Which I expressly said I wanted to do. Is that because you knew it was going to happen anyway, slut?"

"Yes," I said, glad to have an easy out.

He chuckled. "You aren't half as eager to please as you should be. But we'll work on it."

He ripped the duct tape from my wrists and ankles-- it pulled off hairs; I winced-- grabbed the tray with the remaining bottles of piss, and walked out of the room, grunting "C'mere" back over his shoulder.

Weak and dizzy, I followed him. It seemed easier to stay on my hands and knees than get all the way to my feet.

He led me out into his kitchen. The floor was grimy on my knees: the place was a college pad and wasn't in the most spotless shape. The table was covered in dirty plasticware, those red plastic cups from a party and paper plates with pizza stains. He swept an arm across, sweeping it all to the floor, and moved the piss bottles carefully to the table, one by one, lining them up on the plastic tablecloth.

Most were a rich golden yellow, some lighter, some darker. Most of them were old plastic soda or juice bottles, the one liter kind.

There were five left.

He held one of the empties underneath me. "Fill it up," he said. With everything I'd been drinking that night, I definitely had to go; it was easy to obey.

He put the bottle of recycled piss on the table with the others. It was a lot of piss.

"Here's how this is going to work, queer boy," he said conversationally. "Each of these bottles represents ten minutes of me paddling your nutsuck. You pretty much agreed I could do whatever I wanted to your little faggot testicles, so I'm gonna be pretty rough with them. Don't expect me to go easy." He grinned. "Each bottle you drink before we start cuts ten minutes off your time. Got it? So let's see whether you want to be a piss drinking faggot, or if what you really want, deep down, is a hard, brutal ball beating."

I stared at the bottles in dismay. There was no way I could drink that much piss. He knew that, of course. My only hope was to get through as much as I could, but my stomach was already full from the half-a-toilet-bowl of enema I'd drunk already. My guts gurgled in anticipatory rebellion.

"You want the full hour?" he said, mock surprised. "Oh! I didn't realize you were such an eager little pain slut. Well, get on the table and spread your legs, then."

"No!" I said. "Sorry, I'm-- I'm starting."

I grabbed the closest bottle, twisted the cap off, raised it to my lips, and began to guzzle.

Piss drinking is a funny thing. Your body's natural instinct is to be repulsed by the taste of urine. It's waste, after all. It tastes funny, sometimes too sweet, sometimes too salty. With beer piss you can sometimes forget what you're doing: it can taste just like warm tap water. But stronger piss: morning piss, saved piss, asparagus piss-- can get strong and rank.

It's hard to forget you're using your mouth as a toilet when you're guzzling that shit down.

Strong piss that's sat in a fridge overnight develops an even ranker, nastier taste. Dane had made me drink fridge piss a few times before. One of the reasons he drove me so fucking crazy was that he was one of the few tops who seemed to understand how much I needed it. I was a lot of things, especially for him, but a piss whore was absolutely one of them. I could never relate to those prissy fucking sluts in piss porn who spat it out, who wrinkled their faces, who swallowed a mouthful here and there only grudgingly. I needed it. Craved it. One load was never enough, and strong piss only made me wish the taste was even stronger.

The only times I'd ever felt like I'd gotten enough piss were with him.

This certainly didn't look to be an exception.

See, he needed to see me drink piss, and lots of it, as much as I needed to drink it. I could tell in his eyes when I was chugging down a load of rank urine how much it pleased him. That I would degrade myself that way for him. That I would open my mouth for him to piss him just because he got off on it... and that I would do it willing. Cravenly. That after he was done all I wanted was more.

Naked, on my knees, hair and torso still wet and dripping with piss and toilet water, ass smarting from a beating, two loads of his semen already swallowed down my throat, I drank the cold bottle of piss in one long go. Not stopping to breathe. Eyes locked with his.

Completely his toilet.

(Well. Almost.)

I finished, licked my lips and set the bottle down. He folded his arms.

"Good job, faggot," he said. "That's one down. Better keep it up, unless you want to start your fifty minutes of ball beating right now."

I went into a piss trance. I became a meat urinal. I was vaguely aware of the golden liquid coursing down my throat, filling up my stomach. The rancid taste of his bitter piss stung my tongue and the urine smell wafted into my nostrils when I was forced to stop and breathe. But I wanted this. I wanted to be filled with his urine. Bloated with it. Pregnant with his piss babies.

But there was a limit to how much my stomach could take.

By the third bottle, I could feel my guts getting full. Halfway through the fourth, I had to stop, so dangerously full I thought I was going to throw up. I paused, belching up piss-smelling air, trying to make more room.

It was clear I wouldn't be able to finish.

Not even close.

Dane grinned. "Looks like about 25 minutes worth left, slut," he said. "That's a lot of nut pain coming up. You sure you can handle it? Or you want to swallow a little bit more, first?"

My guts gurgled. I looked down at the bottle.

I knew Dane was going to be rough. I'm not the best at taking ball pain. It wasn't something I should ever have agreed to earlier, when he was making demands.

But I had, and I couldn't back out. Not now.

I lifted the half-empty bottle to my lips and forced myself to chug down a bit more. My stomach groaned. I knew I needed to stop.

I also knew how bad what was about to happen would hurt.

I finished the bottle, licking my lips with a queasy feeling, but I knew I was done. There was no way I could drink any more. My stomach stuck out, a makeshift bladder, more full of urine than any bladder should be. The taste clung to my lips, mouth, and throat. I felt sick and bloated with it.

He grinned. "Twenty minutes even, then. Nice. Why don't you lie on the table and spread i your legs wide open, slut, while I find a good paddle to beat your balls with."

I did as instructed, grateful to lie down, although dreading what was coming up. The air felt cold on my exposed ballsack as I spread my legs wide. I could hear Dane rummaging around in a closet somewhere. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation of being full of his piss, while I could.

He came back, throwing some objects on the table with a clatter that snapped me out of my reverie. He held them up one by one, silently. Some rubber bands. A ruler. A ping pong paddle.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he said. I tried to keep the fear out of my eyes.

He picked up the ruler, considered in carefully. Then bent down and lightly-- lightly-- tapped my balls with it.

It didn't hurt at all, which somehow made it even worse, in contrast with what I knew was coming.

He tapped them again, slightly harder. And again.

Slowly, he began to ramp up the force. The hits started to register.

To ache.

Then, to hurt.

I moaned.

"You enjoying this, faggot?" he said. "Maybe I'm being too easy on you. You want something more like this?"

He punctuated the last word with a sharp thwack to my nutsack. I groaned in pain, curling up instinctively to protect my nuts. This infuriated him.

"Don't fucking pull away from me when I'm beating you, you worthless whore," he said. He grabbed the roll of duct tape and roughly taped my ankle to the table leg, then grabbed the other and taped it to the other leg, keeping my legs spread wide.

He picked up the ping pong paddle, regarded me dangerously. "Serves me right for trying to go easy on you," he said. "Well fuck that pussy shit. I'll give you something to cry about. Here's what a real ball beating feels like."

He slammed the paddle down hard, connecting squarely with my exposed balls. Pain shot through me. I screamed. Waves of nausea rolled through me.

And then, something happened that I don't think either of us expected.

I threw up.

Piss poured from my mouth, coating my chest and splashing onto the plastic tablecloth, seeping down into my groin. Everything I'd drank came back up: the piss, the toilet water, the sperm and the enema, my abs and guts cramping as if in sympathetic pain with the ache radiating from my beaten testicles. I couldn't control it, couldn't stop it. All I could think about was how much piss there was. How much of his urine I'd swallowed, I'd kept inside me.

Dane watched, taken aback, still holding the paddle. For the first time maybe ever, I saw him look completely and utterly surprised.

I finally stopped heaving, and collapsed back into the wet, sour-smelling pool. I was a mess. Piss puke coated every part of me. I lay in a pool of it, caught in the pockets of the plastic tablecloth. Every part of me ached, abused beyond limits I hadn't known existed. I felt too weak to try to move, to clean myself up or even hide my shame, even if I hadn't been duct taped to the table.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Dane bent down slowly, and ripped the tape off my legs, one at a time. I was too exhausted to even feel the pain as my leg hairs came with it.

He straightened back up, reached for me. For a second I thought he was going to help me up. Maybe even to apologize.

His hand reached my waist, and pushed. He was flipping me over. I rolled onto my stomach, groaning.

He climbed up on the table. His hand pushed my face into a puddle of piss.

His cock found my asshole and drove home hard.

He started fucking my hole like a madman, like an animal. I groaned at the rough fuck, blowing bubbles in the puddles of piss, able to do nothing but be a rag doll for him to abuse, a hole for him to rape.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped off onto me. His face was a mask of sadistic rage, or orgiastic pleasure-- I couldn't tell which. Mine was contorted in pain. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak enough to beg him to stop forcing his dick deep inside me with only piss puke for lube. I had never felt so defenseless from a fuck, so helpless to dictate the terms. So raped. And yet still, a part of me was happy. We had found a new depth of depravity for him to use me in. We were both getting what we deserved.

He called me nasty things, so many of them. A steady stream of degradations, insults, and humiliations. I deserved them all. I accepted them. I was all those things to him. For him.

And the buttfuck never stopped, never got less intense. He fucked to hurt. He did everything to hurt. He punched my kidneys, making me gasp for breath. He smacked the back of my head, pushed my face into the piss I'd thrown up. He wrapped his hands around my neck and choked me, hard, only letting go when I was close to passing out, grasping feebly at his fingers locked around my neck. I managed one ragged breath before they squeezed shut again.

He jackhammered my hole like a dog fucking a bitch, a piston pounding an engine into screaming bloody murder down a highway. He left bite marks on my neck, scratch welts down my back, searing with the sting of piss. He fishhooked me, worked his whole hand into my mouth, making me heave and gag again. He shoved two fingers into my belt-whipped hole alongside his dick, to tighten up the vise grip of my ass lips on his thrusting shaft. His sex-fury seemed inexhaustible, his fuck relentless, endless, driven to heights neither of us had ever expected to reach.

He was using me. The way I needed to be used.

Finally, because everything's got to end, his fucking got more frenzied, more savage, and I knew he was about to cum.

Somehow despite everything I was hard again, too. I reached down and jacked my own dick furiously.

With a grunt, he came in my hole, and moments later, I blew my own load over the piss-drenched tarp, gasping in pain and pleasure, submission, surrender. He pumped his sperm into my guts, already starting to fill me up again with the fluids I'd so shamefully rejected. Reminding me once again that my job was to take them inside me. Out of him, into me: that was my job. That was the role of a toilet.

I was his hole.

He filled me up.

He held himself deep inside me for a long moment where everything seemed suddenly quiet. The faint sound of traffic from outside reminded me with a shock that we were still in the real world, somehow.

He pulled out, climbed carefully off the table, steadying himself with one hand. His face and chest were flushed. He was out of breath. He looked almost dazed.

Through everything, the pain, the haziness, the post-nut dizziness, I felt a strange flavor of pride.

Was it good for you?

Yeah. Yeah it was fucking good for him.

He staggered around the table to my head. Without being asked, I took his dick in my mouth, tenderly licked it clean of butt filth. When the flow of piss started, I was ready. It was nasty-- that asparagus and shit was kicking in-- but dutifully, I swallowed it all.

He pulled his softening cock free from my mouth, tousled my wet hair.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said. "But I think you should bike home like this. Smelling like a toilet. Only fitting, don't you think?"

I could only nod.

He grinned, satisfied. "While I'm showering, I want you to shit my cum out of your hole and eat it. Then clean up this fucking mess. And don't go without saying goodbye."

He left for the bathroom as I started to muster the energy to move, to follow his commands.

To wonder what that last enigmatic statement meant.

Slowly, dazed, I stood by the front door, damp piss seeping into the clothes I'd pulled on, the clothes that had still been lying there, pulled off what seemed like a couple of centuries ago.

I felt utterly destroyed. My balls ached with a deep throbbing pain: I'd winced as I'd pulled my underwear back on, and knew my nuts would still be sore tomorrow. My knees hurt from how much they'd kissed hardwood and tile with a dick in my mouth; my joints and muscles burned from all the awkward positions they'd been forced into. My throat was ragged from having cock jabbed down it; my face stung and head rang from being viciously slapped around all night; my asshole hurt from being electrocuted, dildoed, belted, and brutally barebacked. My guts felt wrung out from all the liquid forced into and out of them. My face was a sticky mess of dried piss, sperm, ass juices, toilet water, tears, throat slime, snot, and spit, and my body was coated with acrid dried urine.

I was a total fucking mess, and not just physically.

Was this really what I had sunk to?

Was this really what I wanted?

I'd just about finished collecting my things, if not myself, when Dane sauntered back into the room. He'd slipped on a pair of boxers, but nothing else.

Despite everything, I couldn't help notice he was still hot as fuck.

"Uh, this was fun," I said, not quite sure how to make my goodbyes. "Thanks for having me over."

He wandered unhurriedly towards me. I thought maybe he was going to hug me goodbye-- not kiss me, surely-- but instead of doing either, he just put a hand casually on the door.

Inserting himself between me and the doorknob.

"Before you go," he said, "there's one other thing."

I thought maybe he had to piss again. I felt exhausted.

"What's that?" I asked anyway.

He scratched his chest, fingers rubbing gently against a hair-ringed nipple, looked casually away. "I, uh, think I need to take another dump."

His eyes caught mine. Wouldn't let them go.

"You want it," he asked, "in your mouth?"

The question hit me like a breaking wave.

I wasn't ready.

Believe it or not, in all our play, in all the kinky shit we'd gotten up to, the question had never been asked or answered before, never discussed. It's something we flirted with, obviously, stepped to the edge of, but never over. He'd called me a shiteater, over and over. I knew the taste of his crap well, could tell it from my own: from tonguing out his dirty hole, from licking clean the sex toys he'd used to churn out mine, from tasting douche water steeping in it... but we'd never gone all the way, as it were.

Home base.

The full scat monty.

Jokes and trash talk aside, I'd never been sure if it was something he really wanted.

Or something I did.

I couldn't think. My head was swimming. It was too big, too much. Appealing? I was too exhausted to even know any more. Inevitable? Maybe, but... so soon?

Or was it already way, way overdue?

"I'm... not sure I'm ready for that question," was all I could finally manage to say, staring at him helplessly.

His eyes never left mine. He looked deep. Edged a little closer to me. I could smell him, his pits, his sex, even fresh out of the shower, even over the raunch wafting from my own slutty body.

"Was it a question?" he asked quietly.

A breath.

"Or was it more of a statement?"

I blinked. Looked away. I didn't want to know what he meant.

"I..."

"You want it," he said, simply, straightforwardly. "In your mouth."

No, not a question at all.

Not even an accusation.

He made it sound exactly like a fact.

His eyes cut into mine like knives. Even after brutal hours of serving him, he still intoxicated me.

He reached suddenly into my pants, grabbed my half-hard dick (was I half-hard? After everything? I guess I was) and started gently jacking it. I let out a moan from the suddenness, the gentle intimacy of it, after everything that had happened.

"Say it," he said. "You want it."

I moaned, unable to say what he wanted, but powerless to forbid it from him.

"You've known this was coming," he said, still jacking my cock, still staring straight into my eyes. "You're not stupid. You knew this is where all this was going. All this raunchy faggot sex. Piss drinking. Hole cleaning. The taste of asshole. And you didn't stop, didn't break away, because deep down, it's what you want. What you've really wanted this whole time. You've just been too afraid to admit it."

He sped up the speed of his jerking. I gasped.

"But now pussyfooting's over," he said. "It's time to admit the truth. Go on, Erik. Tell me. It's okay. You can say it. What you really want to be. What you are." A breath. "My." His lips were inches from mine. "Fucking." His hand made love to my cock. "Toilet." It spurted precum and I gasped.

​Abruptly, he pulled his hand out of my pants, stepped back. Looked away. ​

"Or you could leave," he said, sounding bored. "If it's not your thing. I get it. It's not for everyone. But I have to tell you, man. Honestly, this is all getting a little boring for me." He wiped my precum off on his boxers, looking vaguely disgusted. "I mean, we could keep meeting up like this, playing toilet games and shit. But if you're not really willing to go all the way..." He shrugged.

The shock of his absence, his hand out of my pants, his eyes averted, was as rough a shock as their application moments before. My head spun. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't say yes.

I couldn't say no.

He stepped back, no longer in the way of the door at all. He was starting to look angry. "Come on man, get out. Go home. I've got stuff to do."

He turned to walk away, and that's what made me say it.

"I..." I started.

He paused, not turning around.

I was desperate not to. But I'd already said the first word. Inevitable.

My voice broke. I broke. It was happening.

"I want it."

He turned around, slowly. Expression unreadable.

"What was that?" Politely. As if he hadn't heard me.

"I'll do it," I said. "I want it. I want to do it."

He tilted his head. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he said, as if annoyed. "Erik, it's been a long night. You'll have to be patient with me. What is it you want to do?"

He took a step forward. Menacing. Promising. Taut.

I took a breath. Let it out.

Said it.

"I'll let you shit in my mouth."

Another step. "You'll let me?" he said. Casual. "Oh, I thought this was something you wanted. Not you doing me a favor."

"I do," I said, eyes locked with his. "I do want it. I want to be your toilet. I... I want your shit."

He stepped forward again and now he was pressed against me, pushing me back against the door. Not forcefully: it's just he had eaten up all the space between us.

His face was inches from mine.

"You want what now?" he asked, softly.

"Your shit."

"And where did you say you wanted it?"

"In my mouth," I whispered.

"Oh, right. And what," he asked, "will you do with my shit, after I've crapped it all straight into your worthless faggot toilet mouth?"

"I'll..." I swallowed. "I'll eat it."

The tension. So thick. Knife. Cut.

"All of it?" he asked.

"Yeah," I breathed.

"Because you'd better not just swallow a bite or two and leave a mess behind. I wouldn't like that."

"I know."

"You'll eat it all," he said. "Every bite. Chew it, swallow it, down into your faggot belly. Where it belongs."

"Yes."

A beautiful smile broke out across his face. "And that's it," he said, "what you've really wanted, all along. What you've been needing this whole time. See-- that wasn't so hard, was it?"

He stepped back, grinning.

He'd won.

We'd won?

I felt dizzy.

"OK, toilet. Where are we going to do this?"

I swallowed. "Bathroom?"

He frowned. "Not very comfortable," he said. "I think we should do this in my bed. To remind you how displeased I'll be if you don't finish your meal. And keep it down. Let's go."

And with that we were off, off to the room where I would eat Dane's shit.

Where I would, finally, become his toilet.

He frog-marched me through the house, hand on my shoulder. My head was whirling. This was happening so fast. Was I ready?

We slipped into his dim bedroom and he kicked the door shut with a foot. "On your back on the bed," he said, "now." I did as he said, brain shutting down, able only to obey commands, not process anything further.

He climbed on after me and squatted abruptly on my face. "Eat my fucking hole," he snapped.

I lifted my head but he mashed it back into the mattress with the weight of his butt. I sighed and slid my tongue back into its familiar holster, slipping it up into his silky rectum. It was like a million other times I'd french kissed his sweaty asshole.

Except it wasn't. This time, we both knew it was just an appetizer.

I sucked his hole mindlessly, feasting on it, trying to create a vacuum, to pull whatever was waiting for me closer. I'd done this instinctively before, many times, while rimming him. Now I finally understood why.

The tip of my tongue felt something. I froze. For a second, this all seemed too real. He felt my hesitation.

He snapped it in half.

"Eat my shit, you fucking faggot," he said, and bore down.

His crap pushed my tongue out of his hole, then back into my mouth. I had no choice but to keep it open as his dump started filling it up. The filthy log slid heavily over my tongue, a piston of filth, violating my mouth the same way his cock had just violated my hole. It was overpowering. For a minute my head swam, and I couldn't take it: how could I be here? What the fuck was I doing?

Then I heard him grunt, a little gasp of effort, and recognized the voice of the man I'd been worshipping. And then I knew exactly what I was doing.

I was being his toilet.

Dane's shit log filled my mouth, slid its way to the back of my throat. His ass lips squeezed closed, pinching off the turd just at the point where it met my lips, like an obscene kiss. I tried to get used to the thing filling my face. It didn't really taste any worse than the shit I'd already tasted. There was just... a lot more of it.

A lot fucking more.

He lifted up a bit, looked down at me with my mouth closed, my face full. He sneered. "Good," he said. "Now eat it."

I worked on the big log of crap in my mouth, cheeks hollowing as I sucked at it. I closed my eyes as it started to melt in my mouth, and swallowed thick, shitty spit, a rich, bitter flavor.

"Open your eyes and look at me," he ordered.

I did.

"Chew it, bitch," he said quietly. "Chew it up and swallow it down."

I did as I was told. I sank my teeth into the hot thick log and began to chew it slowly. It was huge and I knew it would take a lot of chewing before I could swallow. Brown juices threatened to overflow my lips and run down my chin, but I used a finger to keep them from dripping. I couldn't mess up his bed.

Bubbles of shit-slime formed at the corners of my mouth. His shit was as thick as clay, sticky as peanut butter. It tasted even more deliciously horrible as the chewing released its flavors. Its stink filled my flaring nostrils; my eyes watered. I felt completely degraded as the full reality sank into me. My mouth was filled with feces. I was chewing a log of human shit while the man who had crapped it into my mouth sat above me, watching me do it.

Somehow, I swallowed.

The first lump going down made me gag. I struggled to control myself. The mouthful of crap slid down thickly to my stomach.

I kept it down.

I'd done it. I was a shiteater. His shiteater.

He grinned evilly, and sat back down on my face again. Without warning a burst of wetter shit exploded from his hole, filling my mouth, filling my cheeks, spilling out over my face. Mindlessly, I masticated it, moved it to the back of my throat for swallowing, like a mouthful of soft serve. Made room for the rest. Swallow after swallow, I got it down, pushing the rest that had smeared across my face back into my mouth.

Until it was all gone.

I'd eaten in all. His whole load.

His dump.

Dane had made me his toilet.

He'd given me a few minutes to clean up, but had said "tap water only," so I wasn't really able to get the taste out of my mouth. I washed my face as best I could, but it would take a shower and a lot of soap to clear off all the gunk glued to it-- topped off now by smears of shit. And the rest of my body was still as filthy as ever.

I couldn't stop staring at myself in the mirror, not quite certain who was in there any more. I felt different.

I suppose I was.

Back at the front door, he handed me my bag. I didn't know what to say, how to look at him. As usual, he cut right through my awkwardness.

"I didn't think you'd do it," he said, looking at me with... not respect. But a kind of satisfaction.

He leaned forward, conspiratorially. "I've always wanted a shiteater. I've thought for a while you might be the one, but I wasn't sure. Thanks for proving me right."

I flushed, embarrassed and proud, somehow, at this weirdest of compliments.

He put a hand on my shoulder. "But look, Erik. Now that you've done it once you're going to be doing it a lot. This wasn't a one time thing. Yeah?"

My mind raced. I hadn't known whether this was a flag he wanted to plant to say he'd been there, or whether he was setting up a new base camp. Claiming a new home.

Sounded like more the latter.

Was I okay with that?

He pressed on firmly, maybe seeing the hesitation in my face. "I want to do it every time we meet up from now on. And I want to use you more often. Maybe a couple of times a week. I want to shit in your mouth a lot."

He clapped my shoulder. "You'll get better at it with practice. Get so you can eat faster. Eat more." He grinned. "Eat your own. Maybe we'll see just how kinky my friends are." He laughed. "Now that you know you can do it we'll work on quantity. I want you bloated with other men's shit, like..." He hesitated, as if afraid of saying what he was thinking (like you were bloated with piss?), afraid it would be too much, too fast.

"The point," he said firmly, "is you're my toilet now, and you always will be from now on. Okay?"

I looked down. I didn't know if it was okay. I didn't know how to deal with any of this.

He grabbed my chin, not roughly, and lifted my face back to his.

"Okay, bitch?" he asked again, but there was something else behind his aggression. A teasing edge, but also a genuine care.

I was his toilet.

That meant something.

"Okay," I said, with a smile.

He grinned too, a look of overwhelming satisfaction on his face. And then, he leaned forward and kissed me.

With all the kinky shit we'd done, all the ways he'd used and abused me... we'd never done that.

I was conscious that my mouth was only imperfectly cleaned, that I still had the taste of his dump on my lips and tongue, not to mention his cum, piss, spit, and sweat. But he didn't seem to mind.

We kissed for what felt like forever. My knees felt unglued from gravity. The world spun.

Finally he broke, pulled back, gazing into my eyes. I looked back with pure, unadulterated love.

Without breaking that gaze, he reached up and gave me one, last slap on the face.

Hard.

It stung.

"So long, toilet," he said, grinning, and opened the door.