#bullying fetish

(Contains: M/M, Farting, face/mouth-farting, kidnapping, bullying, age-gap, non-consent, foot licking, poor hygiene, mild scat, references to underage.)

[DARREN]

Darren couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d travelled down to his alma mater to help him son get settled in for his first semester, and who should his boy be rooming with, but his good ol’ fart sniffer Luke? Only, it wasn’t Lukie Boy, it was some guy named Jordan, who’s his absolute spitting image. He had to brace himself on the cheap dorm desk. He felt like he’d fallen through some sort of time rift. The boy’s hair was a bit longer, and his face a bit sharper due to the added couple of years, but other than that, the young man in front of him could have been Luke’s doppleganger. Same straight brown hair, pale skin, full lips, blue eyes. Same skinny but tall build. The sort of Nancy boy who deserved to be put in his place—used by realmen.

He was briefly overcome by memories. Luke’s head in a piss-filled toilet bowl. Luke’s nose scrunching up as he was forced to rate Darren’s farts. Luke whining about how his jaw hurts after being forced to lick Darren and his friends’ asses for the entire five-hour bus ride to their senior-year camp. Luke crying into the back of Darren’s boxers every night of that camp as he was forced to sleep in an eight-hour Dutch oven. High school were truly his best years.

Jordan was telling Darren’s son a story, gesticulating madly and tripping over his words—mixing up his ‘and’s with his ‘the’s—in the same way Luke used to when he tried to convince them to give him a day off. They even talked the same. He bet they cried the same, too.

His son—Ian—was talking to him, but he wasn’t fully listening. All he could think about was how he needed to call his friends. This was an opportunity too good to pass up, so he wasn’t going to.

Before he left, he made sure to lay the charm on thick for Jordan, making out like he was the sort of father who treated his son’s friends like they were also family. Ian gave him an odd look but didn’t question it. He probably didn’t care enough. That suited Darren just fine.

*

Jordie, as his non-existent friends called him, turned out to be a real sucker. It only took one conversation—a carefully orchestrated run-in at a nearby coffee shop Ian had mentioned—for him to start spilling his guts to Darren about his sad little live. How his father left him, how badly he was bullied in school (to be fair, Darren was also frustration by what he heard—kids these days had no creativity), and how gratefulhe was to have met Darren’s son. They were getting along great. Jordie was happy to grab a table with Darren and talk for the better part of an hour. Darren listened, cataloguing anything he could use against him later.

He couldn’t believe how easy this was. After speaking to his buddies—who were just as eager as he was for some fun with the new-found imposter—he’d anticipated at least a month of prodding before the boy would trust him enough to go anywhere in private with him, but now he was bearing his heart to him like they were a couple of teenage girls. He had so much he could work with, here, he didn’t know where to start. He could break this boy down a million ways to Sunday in a matter of words. He wouldn’t, though. It wasn’t psychological torture he was after. His teen self—his best self—was more a man of the flesh.

‘And the saddest part, for me, was that my dad never took me fishing. I know that sounds cliché, and most dads don’t take their boys fishing because, I mean, who actually fishes anymore?’ He tapped his fingers together in front of his chest, stopping to clench them whenever his voice rose, like he was trying to reel in his emotions. Luke had a similar habit, he recalled, but he would tap his fist on his thigh, like he was calling an invisible dog. He’d stop and dig his nails into his pants just before he started crying. Always so anxious. So weak. ‘But my grandfather talks about how they used to go out on the water every Sunday, that it was that one happy bonding thing they had, and I know my dad owned a fishing rod, so why wouldn’t he take me? Was I seriously not worth it?’

Darren supressed a smirk. He’d found his opening. ‘Well, I could always take you. I love to fish, even own a cabin by the lake with a few of my friends. My boy doesn’t like it much, finds it boring, but I’m a firm believer that every man should at least learn how.’

That wasn’t completely a lie. He did know how to fish and he did teach Ian, because it’s one of those things all self-respecting men should know how to do. It wasn’t a hobby, though. None of his friends fished as a hobby, they went in on the cabin together so they’d have somewhere to hang out, get drunk, and relive their glory days without any nagging wives interrupting. Fishing, as any man will tell you, makes for a great cover story. Pack your rod and a tackle box and you can disappear from sunup to sundown without a single question.

Jordie’s face lit up, just like he knew it would. ‘Are you sure? It wouldn’t be too much trouble?’

He scoffed. ‘Heck no, every man has a right to know these things, and frankly it offends me that your dad never taught you. It’s my duty, as a man and a father, to rectify his mistakes, you hear?’

Jordie nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said enthusiastically.

‘You got any plans this Sunday? No? In that case, be ready to go by seven A.M.’

‘So soon?’

‘You’re already grown, boy! We can’t waste any more time! Now, seven A.M., Sunday, I don’t want to hear nothing more about it.’

*

When he arrived Sunday, he’d expected at least some mild curiosity from his own son, but the young man just gave him a tired look from behind the kitchen counter and shook is head. He wondered how much the boy knew. In the end, it didn’t matter. Ian had his genes, and as such was no saint himself. Darren had been up at the high school at least once a fortnight to feign anger about the ridiculous things his kid had done. Nothing close to his own little misadventures, of course, but nothing no bat an eye at, either. He wondered, briefly, if he should have invited his boy along. Nah. Don’t shit where you eat, and all that. The kid could find his own fun. Maybe have a turn with Jordie Boy when he brought him back. The little princess would be well trained by then.

Jordan spent the car ride yapping away about anything and everything, practically vibrating with nerves. The sight made Darren’s insides warm with a bunch of different feelings. Excitement. Nostalgia. Horniness. All the good stuff.

When they arrived at the cabin, Darren’s good friend Mike was already waiting on the porch. Mike was a big guy with a prominent beer gut that hung lower than his plaid shirt, showing everyone his black and grey happy trail. He dipped the cap, which covered his bald head, in greeting.

‘Hey, Mike!’ Darren called as he climbed out of his pick-up. ‘Look who I got!’

A bewildered Jordie looked back and forth between the two men before offering Mike an awkward wave.

Mike grinned. ‘He’s perfect. Bring him inside.’

Inside the cabin were two more of Darren’s buddies—Alfred and Craig. Like Darren, Al had your typical ‘dad bod’ with decent muscles and a few extra pounds around the mid-section. He was balding with a greying goatee and thick, coarse leg hair, which was visible in his khaki shorts. He sneered at their guest, kicking his bare, dirty feet up on the coffee table. Al never pretended to be a nice man, and they never asked him to be. He was the only one of the four of them who’d never been married and probably never would. They were all secretly sure he was gay, but as long as he only got his jollies torturing and humiliating whiny little twinks, they saw no reason to care.

Craig, on the other hand, was a lean man, having lost a lot of previous muscle over the years. He worked in accounting and had been the one who originally suggested they buy a cabin, offering to pay for as much as half of it himself (they didn’t let him—they aren’t mooches). He had a real stuck-up air about him—though it may have just been the designer suit—but his friends looked past it, since he always seemed to know exactly how to get the most out of their fun. It was his idea to dip Luke’s retainer in the toilet on Sloppy Joe day, when the taste would be most rancid.

Craig smiled at Jordan around his coffee mug, his tailored suit jacket hanging over the back of the couch between him and Al. ‘Hello, pretty boy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Jordan smiled back, but it was strained. ‘Hello—hi—um. What—what are you all doing here?’ He tapped his fingers together in a way that wasn’t quite Luke, but came close enough that even Al was staring hungrily.

Craig gave a hearty laugh. ‘A better question would be: what are you doing here? Because my friend,’ he points at Darren, ‘doesn’t seem to be carrying his rod.’

Jordan took a step back and tried to turn, but Darren had him by the shoulders faster than he could say ‘kidnap’ and was forcing him to his knees. Jordan was about to learn the meaning of ‘stranger danger’.

Darren held him by a fistful of hair and stepped round until they were beside each other—Jordan at eye level with his crotch. The boy’s wide, scared eyes were a delicious sight, but he was misunderstanding the situation. They weren’t going to rape him. That would be boring, and far too quick. Darren turned away and pulled the side of the Jodie’s head against his crack, so his face would still be visible to the other men. He pushed out a harsh, loud fart, and though he couldn’t see the boy, he heard him whimper. The other men were cackling.

Before the poor sucker even had a chance to process what’d just happened, Darren was dragging him across the carpet to the coffee table. He kicked him in the back so he’d topple forwards, leaving him leaning over the table with his face barely an inch from Al’s massive, black soles. Al wiggled his toes.

‘’Why are you doing this?’ Jordie asked, looking up at Darren with wet, pleading eyes. The sight brought back so many memories. He couldn’t tell you how many times Luke asked that same question—how often he begged, on his knees just like Jordan, for them to stop.

Darren smirked. ‘Same reason all those little boys picked on you at school. Because it’s fun.’

‘But—but you’re grown men, I’m the same age as your son!’

‘And I’m sure my boy will be real jealous when he finds out I broke you in first.’

Jordan sniffed, obviously holding back tears. ‘He was right about you. He said you were acting off and—the—and he was right.’

Craig leant forwards. ‘What was that? That little stutter?’

Jordan’s face turned a blotchy red.

‘You really do sound just like him. This is going to be so much fun.’

Darren yanked the boy’s head back hard, making him gasp and a few of those building tears leak from his eyes like the scared little wimp he was. ‘Now, here’s what’s going to happen, boy. You’re going to lick my buddy Craig’s feet clean, and you’re going to do it thoroughly and do it fast. If you don’t, I’m going to kick you in the nuts until you cough blood, got it?’

‘Y—yes.’

‘Good.’ He shoved his head forward.

Jordan gave a hesitant lap at the centre of the heel, then recoiled with a cringe.

‘Thoroughandfast,’ Darren reminded.

He whimpered again—truly a pathetic, and beautiful sound—and licked properly, running his tongue from the heel all the way up to the toes. He released an open-mouthed sob as he went. After repeating that action on the second foot, he moved to the sides of the soles, tears now running freely. Little Jordie Boy’s breaths were coming in short pants, not from exertion, but from how difficult it was to breath in that stench. Darren had been near his friend’s feet before, he knew.

When he deemed himself finished, the little Nance sat back, his hands coming up to wipe at his eyes and his mouth.

‘What’re ya doing?’ Al demanded. ‘Ya haven’t done my toes yet!’

‘No—please!’ Darren stepped on the boy’s crotch in warning. ‘Ah! Okay!’

He audibly gagged on the toe as it went into his mouth, his Adam’s apple trembling as he struggled to swallow.

Darren’s pants felt tight. He’d really missed this.

*

[JORDAN]

His mouth tasted like vinegar and sand. His tongue burned, raw and scratched, and impossibly dry. It was hard to breath the smells around him without gagging. Sour and damp, like dirty socks. The rancid fart from earlier still lingered underneath, adding its own bitter note. He didn’t understand why they were doing this to him. His mouth hurt, his lungs hurt, his crotch hurt; and he was scared. He just wanted to go home.

The men around him weren’t even looking at him like he was person. Darren, who he’d grown to look up to over the past couple of weeks, was staring down at him like he was a street whore. It caused him to feel even dirtier than he already did. The thought of these men touching him made him want to claw at his skin.

‘Right,’ Darren announced, clapping his hands together. ‘Who’s next.’

A hand grabbed Jordan by the shoulder, making him flinch. He looked behind him to see Mike’s plump, leering face. He shivered. The man’s grip was tight, his fingers like leeches biting through his skin. ‘I’ve had two beers and a protein shake, I’m ready to blow.’

Darren laughed. ‘Save some for the contest later.’

‘Oh, I will. Got more than enough. I’ve been dying to have a little faggot’s face up against me. Ain’t no fun in farting if I can’t watch a pathetic fucker squirm.’

Jordan wiped his eyes. Despite the tainted air, he forced down a couple deep breaths to try and slow his heartrate. He couldn’t have a panic-attack here.

Mike dragged him, like a suitcase or a piece of furniture, over to the armchair. The man released his bruising grip in order to sit down, and Jordan took the chance to stand up. Maybe to run, or to hide, or even fight—he didn’t know. It didn’t matter, before he could get to his full height, a foot hit the back of his knees and sent his tumbling again. He caught himself on Mike’s knees, and immediately a hand was on the back of his head, pushing it down against the man’s crotch. He was shoved further down until his chin was on the chair’s cushion, his face buried between fat, sweaty thighs. His back arched and his neck bent uncomfortably far back. The air was hot and damp, like a sauna, and the zip of the man’s jeans scraped the tip of his nose.

A deep, bubbling sound preceded the burst of heat, which came rushing out from under the man’s clothed balls and hit him square in the face. The odour was bitter and eggy, and brought the already hot air up a few degrees. He couldn’t tell if the sweat on his cheeks was his or Mike’s. He tried to pull back, but the hand held firm. If he rolled his eyes up as far as they could go, he could see Mike’s lecherous grin. The man was watching him suffer.

The next fart was long and wet, still rippling out when the smell hit him. He coughed, but that only pulled the stench into his mouth, forcing him to taste the putrid, meaty rot. His stomach roiled, but he doubted he’d even be able to puke at that angle.

‘You liking that? No? You don’t like sniffing up my shitty ass fumes? Too bad, no one cares what you want. We’re in charge here, so a scrawny little dork like you can either sniff farts or stop breathing.’

‘Please…’ he started, but he didn’t know what to say. It was obvious that they’d planned this, and he still didn’t really understand why. He couldn’t understand how anyone could do this to another person, let alone one who was friends with their son. Was he really friends with Ian, though? Or did Darren just tell his son to be nice to him for the sake of his plan? No, that couldn’t be right. Ian had tried to warn him. But that didn’t mean they were friends, just that he felt guilty. Guilt. That was the most he ever got out of anyone.

‘Begging? Well isn’t that cute. No point, though. You’re going to stay here until we have our fill, then maybe a little while after that as well. We’ve all got the weekend off, and we can take some time after that too, if we want.’

‘I have school,’ he whispered, barely audible as he tried to avoid inhaling any more than he had to.

‘Who’s going to come looking for you? Ian?’ He could hear the other men laughing. ‘He knows exactly where you are. Who else you got? Your parents? Your mum doesn’t give a shit about you and you know it, and you don’t even have a dad.’

A sense of hopelessness began to set in. They were right. Ian knew what his dad was like and still let him leave that morning, and his mother had always been distant. He spent most of his time with his grandfather—as he’d told Darren—and the man wasn’t on his school records as a point of contact. The men knew all this, of course. Jordan, with his big mouth, had inadvertently helped plan his own kidnapping.

He felt the silent fart like a hot cloth to his face, and the smell was as bitter and rotten as the others, but stronger, and smoky—like man’s insides were so hot his shit itself was burnt. Or maybe that was the smell of the inside of his nose singeing.

As the minutes passed, the men talking amongst themselves as if he wasn’t there, he began to feel light-headed. Every fart was beginning to smell the same—all bitter and smoky and burnt. His lungs hurts. He wasn’t sure he was actually getting any oxygen anymore, and if he was, it definitely wasn’t enough.

Finally, Mike pushed him away, and he collapsed on his back on the floor, too dizzy to even stay upright. The men cackled.

‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen a fag react like that without even being underneath you!’ Darren said.

‘Yeah, this boy’s gonna be fun.’ Mike patted himself on the stomach. ‘Could’ve gassed him into oblivion, but we wouldn’t want our fun to end too soon.’

From his angle on the floor, he had a clear view of Darren pulling his t-shirt over his head, revealing a round gut and bushy body hair. ‘Well, boy, since we’re letting you take a break from the gas, you’re going to fill that time in by giving me a tongue-bath. I haven’t showered in six days, and deodorant is for pansies.’

Darren dropped his inside-out shirt onto Jordan’s face, and he was instantly nauseous. The thick, oniony musk was heavy on his tongue and made his stomach feel like a led balloon—impossibly heavy, yet desperate to rise up out of him. He couldn’t lick that!

Darren stomped down on the crotch of his jeans, grinding until the boy’s eyes watered and his vision went white. This psycho was going to pop his balls! His hands grabbed at the foot, but it didn’t relent. He knew he wouldn’t bleed from this, but he felt like he should. This level of pain warranted a big, clotted blood pool. When Darren relented, Jordan curled into a ball, hands between his legs and breathing hard.

‘Well, get up! My pits won’t tongue themselves.’

Jordan forced himself onto his knees and crawled over to the chair Darren was settling into. His friends were mocking him, but he blocked them out. It hurt to move.

‘There’s a good dog,’ Darren said, ruffling his hair. ‘Enjoy it. After all, this is your lunch.’

He was okay with that. His stomach ached in a way that told him he wouldn’t want food again for a long time. Before he had the chance to properly brace himself, Darren had him by the back of the head and was dragging him up until his face was buried in the man’s wet, hairy armpit. The skin was hot, but slippery with cooling sweat, and the minute he breathed in his senses were assaulted with an impossibly salty, sour smell, like rotten onions dipped in vinegar then stuffed into a marathon-runner’s sports sock. His vision shook, and the light-headedness continued, but he stuck out his tongue. He had to. For his balls.

The first lick was guided by Darren, and the taste was even worse than the smell. It hurt his tongue, making it even more raw and sensitive than licking feet had. Then, Darren let go, and Jordan was forced to lick the pits himself. The already wet hair flattened, making him feel every strand.

‘Look at him go,’ Craig laughed, ‘he must really like his meal.’

‘He licks like a cheap whore,’ Al said gruffly.

‘Too pathetic be a whore. He’s lucky to used as a sweat rag. A pathetic weakling like him shouldn’t even be allowed near real men like us.’

‘And a fart rag, Mike,’ Darren reminded. ‘He also makes a real entertaining fart rag.’

Mike snorted. ‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t say he’s lucky for that. Luke sure as shit never called himself lucky.’

Jordan didn’t know who this Luke guy was that they kept referencing, but he hoped he was okay. He couldn’t imagine going through this long enough for the men to become attached. But he might have to, he realised, as his mind returned to what they’d said earlier. They might keep him here all week, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was basically property. A boy being bullied by a group of men so severely it turned into a kidnapping.

He moved to the next arm, nearly numb to the smell, and tongue too sore to fully register the taste. What he could feel were the curly hairs snapping off and migrating around his mouth, and they taunted him.

When he was done, Darren ordered him to swallow them.

The men finally left him alone as they headed out onto the front porch to make their lunches. Before going, of course, Darren had to get one last shot in.

‘Give us a kiss,’ he said, standing with his bare ass to Jordan, jeans resting under the cheeks.

Jordan, too scared and sore to resist, kissed Darren’s hairy ass cheek. A fart blew out, touching his cheek and booming into his ear. The men laughed.

‘Good one!’ Mike said, smacking Darren on the shoulder and knocking him back a step, causing Jordan to briefly collide with the man’s crack. This made them laugh harder.

‘The other one, too,’ ordered Darren. ‘Kiss that one like you mean in, or I’ll make you kiss between the cheeks next.’

He gave the fat mound a long, wet kiss, the whole time trying to hold his breath against the bubbling fart that was blowing back his hair. He failed, and the eggy reek invaded his nostrils.

Once they were gone, he stayed kneeling on the carpet, in a daze. He was too weak and sick to run, with even body parts that hadn’t been touched throbbing, and more than a little terrified of what they would do to him if he tried. He could smell sausages and burgers cooking on the barbeque, and it made his stomach churn. He curled into a ball and cried.

His mercilessly short break came to an end when the front door opened and a foot connected with his back.

‘In front of the couch, head back,’ Al ordered. He was holding a paper plate with both hands, and it still bowed in the middle under the weight of hot, greasy food.

Jordan did as he was told, though he had no idea what this was supposed to achieve.

‘No, moron! Lean your head back onto the couch. Even a fucking monkey could figure this out.’

He shuffled backwards. It was the spot Craig had been sitting in earlier, and it was still warm. From that angle, he could see when Al bent to put his plate down, and heard him unbuckle his pants. Jordan shivered at the sound, still not sure what was about to happen, but expecting the worst. A massive, bare ass came into frame, the waistband of his boxers resting just below the cheeks, much like Darren’s had been.

Yep. This was the worst.  

‘No,’ he said, but he already knew it would be pointless.

The ass descended until the cheeks were moulding over his face; slimy, damp heat covering his skin and cutting off his breathing. The weight was agonising, like he was being crushed by a hot, fleshy boulder. The anus was right up against his mouth, pulsing mockingly, and the hair tickled his nostrils. The one thing about the entire day he had to be grateful for was the fact that he couldn’t smell the ass on top of him. It felt sticky with old sweat, and there were gritty clumps mixed into the overgrown ass hair, so he had no doubt it would reek. The knowledge that a middle-aged man’s filthy, unwashed ass was pressed to his face was almost too much to handle, and he wished he could dissociate. He hoped the man wouldn’t let him breath, and he could just slip into unconsciousness.

Jordan’s unlucky streak continued, and just as his lungs began to burn, Al leant to the side, lifted up his cheek, and right as Jordan began to take a breath he boomed a harsh, wet fart into his face. Jordan, his survival instincts overriding his desires, had no choice but to take a few gulping breaths of the meaty fumes. Soon enough, the ass was back on him and the residual heat on the anus was warming his lips.

A few minutes later, the process repeated itself, this time with a drawn-out, bubbly farts that stunk with such a deep bitterness Jordan could’ve sworn he was smelling actual shit.

Apparently, there was a reason for that. ‘Man,’ Al grunted, lowering his cheek back down. ‘Something’s moving in there. I’m gonna have to take a shit.’ He followed this statement up with a burning silent fart right to Jordan’s lips.

Some of the putrid air seeped into his mouth, and the rest slid up the philtrum and into his nose. His whole body jolted, overpowered by the undiluted foulness that was invading his senses.

Al chuckled, the movement causing his ass to grind down against his victim. ‘Open your mouth, boy. It’s time for leftovers.’

Jordan refused. He knew what would happen, but he decided he’d rather have his nuts smashed open than have to taste any more of that vile gas. One swift stomp from Al’s hand-soled work boots changed his mind. The moment his mouth opened, a weak stream of air started trickling in. He groaned in both pain and disgust as the bitter, rotten tasted hit his tongue, and no matter where he moved it, the taste wouldn’t leave, because the gas was still flowing. Al, he realised, was intentionally dragging out the fart for as long as possible, so Jordan would have to taste it for as long as possible.

He was in hell. A living hell.

When the other men returned, he naively thought that his suffering would lessen. That they would have a less severe form of torture for him—because surely nothing could be worse than this?

‘Hey boys, I gotta take a dump, anyone want to take my place here?’ Al asked.

‘You’re going to have to wait, I already called the shitter. This bomb is about to blow.’ Darren patted himself on the stomach.

‘Fuck off,’ said Mike, ‘you saw how much I ate, I’m first.’

‘Fellas, fellas, I think I have an idea.’ Craig’s voice sent a shiver down Jordie’s spine. He sounded much to happy. ‘Do you remember how we commemorated the end of senior camp?’

Darren laughed. ‘I took a dump in a public toilet and we gave Luke a swirly in it. He had to sit with shit in his hair for the whole ride home. The other kids were pissed.’

‘Exactly. But we aren’t kids anymore, so why don’t we build on that idea? We’re bigger, so let’s make things bigger.’

Jordie could do nothing but shake with fear underneath Al as, one by one, each man disappeared to the bathroom, and not once did he hear the toilet flush. The other men complained about the smell that followed each of them back, and he too got a whiff of it whenever Al decided to let him breathe—breaths accompanied by increasingly hot farts.

When Al got up, Jordan turned towards Darren, who was reclining in the armchair. ‘Please, sir, don’t do this. Please. Anything else, I’ll do anything else. I’ll lick your feet, stiff you, I’ll even suck you off, just please don’t do this to me!’ he begged.

‘Suck me off?!’ Darren roared. ‘Do I look like a faggot to you?!’

Jordan reeled back, hands in front of his face protectively. ‘No, sir—I just—you’ve been—I thought—’

‘You thought wrong, boy. You’re here to suffer for our amusement, so that’s what you’re going to do. You think Lukie Boy never begged? By the end of school he would’ve offered me his ass on a silver platter if he thought it would make all the pain and humiliation stop. Hell, maybe I would’ve taken him up on that offer—fucked him in front of our entire class just to see him cry about it—but it wouldn’t have changed anything. This isn’t about sex, this is about fun. Our fun, at your expense.’

The door behind them opened, and out sauntered a smirking Al. ‘It’s go time.’

The second those words hit the air, Darren had one of his forearms and Mike had the other. Their combined strength was enough to lift him up and carry him, toes dragging on the carpet, into the bathroom.

The odour in the air was almost thick enough to see, but it was the actual sight that really had him wanting to vomit. The waterline on the toilet was a good two inches higher than it should’ve been, but not from water. There was no water to be seen in the bowl, only a lump brown sludge, a few logs poking through. The sides of the bowl were painted brown and green, with chunks speckling it. The inside of the toilet was at least ten different shades of earthy colours, and no white left to be seen.

‘No!’ Jordie screamed, feet kicking out frantically as they moved him closer to the bowl of shit. ‘Please, don’t!’

He fought as best he could, but with Darren and Mike holding his arms, Al lifting his legs to turn him upside-down, and Craig grabbing a handful of his hair, he ended up in the toilet. It felt like dipping his head into a stew. The concoction was warm, but not hot—just a bit below body temperature—but it burned like liquid fire. Like acid—which, really, it was. Four different men’s digested stomach acid was attacking his skin as they sloshed him around, scrapping his face along the inside of the toilet. Finally, they flushed the toilet, but that wasn’t the end of things.

With that much shit, it was bound to clog.

The diluted shit shot out, drenching Jordan up to his shoulders, and the men finally put him down. They were cackling. The floor was covered in faecal matter, and so was Jordan, and amidst the pain, the taste, the smell, and the sight, he brain stopped processing. He collapsed to his knees in the mess, and cried.

He was distantly aware of the laughter dying out and the men leaving. Just before the door closed, Darren spoke. ‘We need that toilet, so I’m locking you in until you get that thing unclogged. We don’t have a plunger, but you got hands, and I’m sure your familiar enough with the pipes now to use them.’