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.
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.’
(This story takes place in the same universe as ‘The Prison Toilet’, based a decade later. All characters in the main story are over eighteen, and all characters in the flashbacks are at least sixteen.)
I lean against the wall and close my eyes. The cool tiles sear my naked back in way that, for just a moment, engulfs my mind, and I get to feel nothing but the cold. This won’t last, soon I’ll be back to being cold and miserable, then he will return, and I’ll be sore and sick and miserable.
I’m TB-296. Toilet Boy number two-nine-six. They don’t give us names—that would humanise us too much. Our owners can name us if they want to. Mine didn’t.
I’ve belonged to Evan for nearly two months now. I probably should be grateful. No—I know I should be. He’s merciful compared to the sorts of people the school prepared us for. He doesn’t use me for sex like many owners of Toilet Girls do. He only makes me sleep tied to his ass when he’s having severe digestion problems. He doesn’t use The Tubes. I could be with him right now, an extendable clear tube running from my mouth to his ass, offering the utmost convenience to him and the utmost suffering to me. But I’m not. I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom, naked, in the spot where the porcelain toilets used to be, only a hole remaining for my own filth to drop down. I’m lucky.
The door opens. Evan, an athletic college student with a decent layer of fat cushioning his toned muscles, doesn’t even look at me as he approaches. He turns around and lowers his jeans. His large, hairy ass looms over me. It’s replaced all the other asses, all the men I was ‘trained’ by, in my nightmares. Sweaty and unwashed and capable of the vilest things. I shiver and try to prepare myself. I should be numb to this by now, but I’m not, and probably never will be. No matter how many times the teachers told me I would get used to it, I didn’t. No matter how many times they told me this was natural—my place—I know it isn’t. I am human. I know I am, even if I’m told otherwise. We look like these people, some of us are even related to them. Humans aren’t supposed to eat shit, and my body knows it.
I open my mouth.
He plants his hole between my lips and out flows a series of hot, sputtering farts in fierce succession, the sound echoing off the tiled walls in high wheezes. They burn my tongue. A newbie once compared it to being scorched by hot food. I’ve never had hot food, but I’ve heard Evan complain about a burnt tongue before, and it seemed about right. The sputtering stops, then his body tenses and for a terrifying moment I think it’s meal time, but he instead releases a noxious silent fart. My throat clenches in a way that used to mean vomit. Tears fill my eyes.
We learnt to eat farts before eating shit. It was one of the first lessons I was taught in Toilet School.
They had us kneel naked—always naked—in an empty classroom, then brought in a group of gassy men. Our first lesson was just to hold our mouths to their asses while they farted and both not pull back and not throw up. Maybe it’s my memory exaggerating things, but it’s still the worst fart I’ve ever tasted. Deep, bubbly, but hot like those pre-diarrhea silent farts people do when they’ve eaten something bad. Those men probably ate all sorts of awful, rotten things in preparation for meeting us.
I failed that first class.
By this point, swallowing farts is as easy as swallowing piss—which is to say, it doesn’t take much effort. My body still reacts like it always has, getting nauseous and tense and teary, but I work through it. I repeated that class until I could, then a few more times after that just to keep me in form until owner assignment.
Evan doesn’t say much, but I think he likes mind-games. He’ll often make like he’s going to shit in my mouth, only to leave after just a fart, something in his step making it look like he’s laughing at me.
Or maybe I’m imagining things. I want so badly to be acknowledged, to be spoken to, to be living. Even at the school, we had to sneak out of our rooms—which were basically just padded closets—and whisper in the halls. We weren’t supposed to talk to each-other. We weren’t supposed to be people.
When I first met Evan, he talked to me a lot. His family is part of the elite group that get to pick their own toilets, instead of just filling out an application and having one of us sent to them. He came down to the school to try a few of us out, and ultimately picked me.
‘You look hungry,’ was the first thing he said to me, smirking down as I kneeled on the carpet of my tiny, padded room. ‘I bet you’d just love to eat my stinky, filthy shit. Swallow down my rank farts and lick my dirt ass clean afterwards.’
I kept my head lowered and didn’t answer.
He dropped his pants and turned around, ass barely an inch from my face, and gave me my first look at my future food source. Dark public hair poked out from between the huge mounds, and a bitter, stale smell clung to them. He parted his cheeks with his hands just enough for me to see the wrinkled hole, then let out a long fart—rumbly then high, like a deflating balloon. The air heated my face and blew back my lose hairs. The stench was like rotten egg and manure.
‘You like that, don’t you, toilet? You’re one of those sick weirdos who likes the smell of farts, yeah? How about you have a taste, then. Open up!’
I opened my mouth, and he leant back until he was sitting against it. The next fart was just as long, and wet, and hot. Like the air in the classroom after meal training, but more raw. My lips twitched in an only partially-suppressed grimace, and I hoped he didn’t notice.
He did.
‘Oh? You don’t like the taste of my farts? Well, too bad, because I don’t give a fuck what you like. In fact, I might just shit down your throat right here. What would you do about it, cry?’ he laughed. ‘I might just shit down your throat for the rest of your life.’
When I was informed that Evan had picked me, I was terrified. I was sure I was going to spend the rest of my life being tormented by a sadist, but that hasn’t been the case. I’ve since come to the conclusion that he was testing me and every other toilet he tried, looking for the one with the least reaction. He wanted an object, and objects don’t react to taunts.
Or maybe ignoring me has just been one long taunt—a way to remind me how little I mean to him, and to the few other people who know I exist.
Today Evan isn’t playing games. The next burning, almost-silent hiss is followed by a wet squelching, and he grunts. My stomach flips between tight, rolling nausea, and the clawing of hunger. If I had to guess the time, I’d say it’s around late afternoon, and I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday morning. Evan doesn’t share me with anyone else, not even his family when they come to visit—they have their own pale, harrowed companions that they can use. As a result, I’m always starving. My ribs stick out like the extended edge of a coffee table, and my biceps are barely wider than my wrists. I wouldn’t want to change it, though. I don’t want more. I can barely stand eating enough to survive.
One of the few things I have to be grateful for, besides the lack of tubes and Evan’s infrequent bowel movements, is the fact that he practically sits on my face when he goes. I can feel the way his hole expands inside my mouth, hear the moist drag of shit as it pushes out, until it touches my tongue. Warm and bitter and slimy. But at least I don’t have to see it. Those men at the school always made us look. When I get my first taste of the log—feel the ridges of it against my tongue, leaving a greasy residue—my entire body quakes. It presses into my tongue and slides back towards my throat. Thick and long.
‘Ouch, this is a big one,’ Evan says, most likely talking to me. These sick taunts are the only times he acknowledges me outside of orders. ‘Hope I don’t clog the toilet.’
The heavy, rotten taste has my throat clenching, my eyes watering, and my entire being screaming at me to get away. My body knows that this is wrong, and it reacts like I’m about to die. Behaving during mealtimes is difficult—I have to keep my hands from swatting at him by digging my nails into my thighs, often hard enough to draw blood. I’m having trouble today. I retch my head back, an instinct that was mostly trained-out but reappears in moments of particular unpleasantness, and try to turn away.
‘Stay,’ he mutters. A rare, but stern order. Fingers thread through my hair and hold me in place as more of the log slides out. ‘I don’t want any mess.’
I groan. The sheer foulness of the taste and knowledge of where it’s coming from have me thinking, no, you’re better off starving than eating this. But starving isn’t an option. They don’t just let disobedient toilets starve. I swallow as much as I can at once, flattening it against the roof of my mouth. My head jolts in a few more weak, pointless attempts at escape.
‘Man, that really reeks! Phew, good thing there’s no one else here, or they’d be really miserable,’ he says this louder, going back to pretending I don’t exist. More shit pieces are forced out alongside a wet fart. ‘Urg, so gross. I bet it tastes even worse. God, I can’t imagine being one of those disgusting, low species who eat shit. Good thing humans aren’t like that,’ another log is pushed out, ‘no one like that would deserve to live. It’s sick.’
I bet he can’t even smell it, it’s just a way to mock me without talking to me. The tears are falling freely, blinding me—not that there was much to look at beyond ass. I gag lightly, as usual, but I’m determined to force it down. I’m beyond even considering the other options.
Some of us were assigned later than others. Jordan, as he called himself, was raised to be a person.
The role of toilet could be assigned to people for various reasons. The children of toilets—like myself—would always be toilets, no matter what their Person parent had to say about it. Once children raised as Persons reached maturity, they could also be ripped from their parent’s arms as a way to punish the family for some selfish or heinous act against the Rightful Order. Sometimes there was no reason given, and it just seemed random. Jordan’s family snuck his father’s toilet over the border, so she could become human in a country that still saw all humans as People, so the Rightful Order took him to restore the balance. He was a little older than the rest of us, but not too old for reassignment. There’s a grey area between ‘maturity’ and ‘adulthood’, and for Persons that’s the Redzone. There’s one punishment for people in that age-bracket who break the rules, or have adult family members who break the rules, and it’s this.
Jordan used to speak to me a lot. He said we were friends—a concept I was unfamiliar with until then. He refused to be taught. He told me he knew the laws, and that if we weren’t ready for owner assignment by the time we left the Redzone, they had to let us go.
Maybe that’s true, maybe it was just wishful thinking, but it didn’t matter because they had ways of making us comply. Jordan wasn’t the first nor the last to be modified. When he came back from his day in the medical room, he could no longer throw up, no matter how much he wanted to. Some cuffs on his wrists and a ring in his mouth and he was made easy to train.
It was not long after when our group was deemed ready for meal-training. We’d been fart training for a few months by that point, spending hours each day being forced to sniff and taste hundreds of different men’s asses. It was interspersed with rimming lessons, which they claimed was to help prepare us for licking asses clean, but seemed to be more meant as a reward for the volunteers. Up until that point, we’d been fed two meagre meals a day, each consisting of rotten food—compost, Jordan had called it—and spoilt milk. It both prepared us for bad tastes, and trained our guts to keep down anything.
Jordan was used in the demonstration. He sat on his knees at the front of the class, cuffs holding his hands behind his back and then linking to his ankles so he couldn’t stand up, and a ring gag holding his mouth open as wide as it would go. His wide, terrified eyes scanned our faces, seemingly begging us to help him, as if we weren’t also trapped. Just because we weren’t tied down, it didn’t mean we couldn’t be.
An obese man, pants already removed and a bright sheen of sweet painting his thighs, stood in front of Jordan. He squatted over the boy’s face, a hand on his gut. His stomach gurgled audibly.
‘Can I do it now? My guts are killing me. I’ve been holding it in all day!’
The teacher for that class, who didn’t give his name because he didn’t feel we needed it (we were never allowed to address him), nodded. He grabbed Jordan by the scalp and pulled his head back, so his mouth was just below the hovering ass-crack.
The fat man pried his cheeks apart, revealing an asshole which was visibly pulsing. It protruded out slightly as he bared down, and out shot a thick stream of diarrhea. The bulk of it landed in Jordan’s mouth, but dozens of large droplets also rained down onto his cheeks, chin and nose. He released a gurgled sob, which mixed with a choked cough as he cried around the liquid onslaught. He was half-sobbing, half-choking, but neither the teacher nor the man seemed to care. He continued emptying his bowels as Jordan’s mouth filled then overflowed.
The smell was unbelievable. Bitter. Potent. Rotten.
‘You will swallow,’ the teacher spoke threateningly, ‘and you will lick this man clean as if he were your owner.’
It took more swallows than it should, and Jordan was left with a face as pained as it was green, but he did swallow. He stuck his tongue out after, and the teacher guided his head until the enormous ass was all cleaned up. No attention was paid to Jordan’s messy face.
Whatever surgery they’d done on him had been a wonder, I remember thinking as I failed to choke down my first taste of wet faeces, retching onto my bare lap.
When Evan is done, my stomach is aching, desperate to void itself. I force down a groan as I swirl my tongue around his swollen hole, catching all the remnants. It’s at times like this, where I’m overwhelmed with sickness and the knowledge that the thing making me sick is also the only thing keeping me alive, that I wonder why I’m still alive at all. I’m in the bathroom most of the day, with the bleach and the razor blades, yet I rarely leave my spot.
I know the reason, though. As much I don’t like to admit it. I remain in this living hell because I’m too much of a coward to attempt suicide. I’m not afraid of death—hell no. Nor am I afraid of pain. I know pain well. I’m afraid of what would be done to me if I failed.
Jordan’s modification was less a punishment and more a training tool, but I’m fully trained. I would be made to regret my actions and fear the consequences if they happened again. Back in school, we were told stories of the various, creative ways toilets were punished for acting out; somehow, they did manage to think up acts of torture that are worse than this. Geniuses, the teachers called them. Geniuses and visionaries. The chance of escape isn’t worth it if I might have to endure any of that.
Evan turns around and looks down at me impassively. His dick is in his hand, so I tilt my head back a little further, already knowing what’s coming. He empties his bladder into my mouth. The salty, lukewarm liquid washing down the lingering shit pieces. I swallow eagerly.
Later that night, Evan collects me from the bathroom. He takes me into the living room, which doesn’t happen often, and pushes me towards the couch. There’s a movies set up on the TV, and an empty pizza box on the coffee table. I understand the instruction.
Evan doesn’t eat pizza often, since it upsets his stomach, and when he does, he doesn’t like having to smell the consequences. I kneel in front of the couch and lean my head back against the seat cushion. I shiver with disgust at what is about to happen. I’m not just lying down for his comfort, but so I can’t get away. So I can’t fight.
‘Shut your mouth.’
I do as he says. He lowers his pants and underwear, much like he did earlier, but this time he plants his thick, fatty ass over my nose. His flesh moulds to my face, blanketing it in heat, and his warm hole twitches against my nose. The hair goes up my nostrils, and I find myself twitching right back at him. The first fart is like boiling hot steam over my face, and up into my nose. It’s a burning, silent fart that isn’t wet but feels hot enough to leave condensation clinging to my nasal passage. It brings back awful memories. The smell is so incomprehensibly bad that all my brain can register is heat and hurt. My head aches from having to suck such a violent odour into it, and my lungs rebel. I’m suffocating against the effort not to cough.
The next fart isn’t as bad, but it’s longer. Bubbly. This one reverberates against my skull both inside of it and out. I can feel his ass-cheeks rippling just in front of my ears. I can hear the smack of his fatty mounds on my skin. The stench is dizzying.
‘Ah,’ Evan sighs, as the third, strongest fart rips out. It pushes into my lungs with an unexpected force, and a stench like straight shit. ‘That’s better.’
He shuffles forward, dragging his sweaty ass down my face. ‘Position,’ he mutters.
I open my mouth.
I can’t judge time—was never even taught how to read a clock—so I don’t know how long I spend lying there with Evan’s hole in my mouth, eating his farts. The movie finishes and he puts on another one, never once getting up. The farts continue to flow, just as abhorrent as I thought they would be. They switch between wet and bubbly, hot and silent, long and short. Times like these put my training to the test. My throat convulses weakly, trying to vomit but not being able to. I have far too much control over my reactions to allow that. The worst part, though, isn’t the rancid, greasy farts—it’s knowing what’s coming.
As the gas gets worse—deeper, more bitter—I work to mentally brace myself for what’s surely coming. What always follows. Why the fuck did he order pizza?!
Evan groans, and his anus tenses, and then, like a dam breaking, my mouth is flooded. Burning hot stomach acid mixed with think, mushy shit fills my mouth at such a rate that I barely have time to swallow. I’m reminded of Jordan and his overflowing mouth. It burns going down—it burns so badly that my throat feels painful and raw after the first two weak swallows. I have no choice but to keep going. My arms fly up to claw at his thighs, but I stop myself in time. Injuring Evan would be bad. Instead, I scratch at the couch, my chest, my neck—anything I can reach that isn’t him. My chest bucks up, trying and failing to pull me out from under his weight. My head is weighed down, so it can’t turn, but my neck still aches from the effort. Evan leans forward, breathing heavily as if he’s the one struggling here. The audacity. The absolute gall. All he has to do is sit there. All he has to do is let this revolting, liquid abomination out of his body, while I have to force it into mine while every fibre of my existence screams at me not to.
From my tongue all the way down into the center of my body feels like it’s on fire. I’m burning from the inside out and it hurts.
When it’s finally over, I still have to run my raw, abused tongue over his swollen hole until it’s clean again. All the energy is zapped from me, and I wrap my arms around my chest in a crude imitation of a hug—a poor attempt at self-soothing—and shake.
This is my life—the worst any human can endure, and the best I can ever hope for.
I suffer through that night tied to Evan’s ass, the voices of my teachers and my fellow toilets echoing in my head. Jordan’s screams echoing in my head. All reminding me that I am one of the lucky ones.
Chris kneels by the door. His fathers—Jason and Daryl—will be home any minute now, and they like him to be ready. After a long day at work, they don’t want to have to call out and then wait for him. If they have to do that, things will be a lot worse. He already has enough aches and bruises. He doesn’t want to think about ‘worse’.
A car pulls into the driveway, its headlights briefly flashing through the narrow foyer window. Chris takes the que and lays on his stomach, muscles tensing in preparation. He tries to take deep breaths, knowing breathing is about to get difficult, and his existing bruises are about to become extremely tender. With his ear to the linoleum, he can feel the vibrations of the mens’ heavy footsteps, even though they’re still lumbering up the drive-way.
When the front door finally opens, Chris squeezes his eyes shut. Jason slams a steel-toed work boot—still muddied from working a wet site—down on the small of Chris’ back. The foot presses down on his back until he can hear his spine pop like bubble-wrap, and like always he’s amazed it doesn’t break. As the man puts his full weight onto him—a weight that goes well beyond morbid obesity, to the point where he had to have his work truck specially altered to still be able to drive—Chris tries to find something to focus on that isn’t the way his stomach tightens or how he can feel his bruises darkening all the way through to his organs. Instead, he thinks about the cold, wet footprint forming on his back, and how wet fabric can be great for reducing swelling. He’ll be covered in those footprints, and the swollen marks they leave, very soon.
Jason puts his other foot between his shoulder blades. Fire, the pain too severe to be described as anything, screams in his muscles. It feels like his bones are about to crumble and he’ll be flattened into a pancake. He can’t breathe at all, now, and he doesn’t know how he keeps surviving this. He also doesn’t know how a man that size can balance on him. Jason walks along his back a few times, no doubt enjoying the way his boots mark-up his back, and the way his flinching turns to a steady tremble as his body refuses to move from the pain. Chris can feel the tears running down his face, but he can’t take in enough breath to sob.
‘Roll over,’ Daryl orders. ‘It’s my turn.’
Chris waits until all six-hundred pounds of one father leaves his body, so he can roll over and take all six-hundred pound of the other. Daryl’s feet are a size larger than Jason’s, and they wear different brands of shoes, so he’ll be leaving a different pattern—a different footprint turning black and blue (but never getting old enough to turn yellow) against his skin. He always has the most interesting bruises, he tells himself, as Daryl’s foot comes down on his thigh. He hisses, back lifting up so his leg could sit flatter, only to be stomped back down. The boot lands far enough up his chest to smear dirt on his chin, and it reeks like rain and earth and manure.
‘Lay still, seat. You’re spoiling my fun.’
Seat. He hates that word. It’s all they ever call him. He hasn’t heard his own name for months now—not since he graduated high school. He hasn’t talked to anyone besides his fathers’ since then, either. If you could even call their very limited, aggressive interactions ‘talking’. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said something other than ‘yes, dad’, ‘no, dad’, ‘thank you’, and ‘I’m sorry’. He doesn’t beg them to stop anymore, it only spurs them on and wastes the breath they’re so insistent on taking from him.
The boot grinds into his ribs, maybe cracking them. He’ll find out later. All the pressure is on those ribs for a second as the other foot moves to his shoulder. That cracks. Now there’s a foot on his stomach, and if they hadn’t starved him all day he’d be throwing up. A punch to the gut had nothing on this. Six-hundred pounds—nearly two-hundred and eighty kilograms—stamping down on his stomach.
When it’s finally over, he’s panting. His body wet with mud and sweat. The suffering isn’t over, though.
‘Get in the kitchen!’ Jason yells. ‘Dinner isn’t going to cook itself!’
Chris pulls himself into a sitting position, then climbs onto his feet. He wobbles, and the leg that got stepped on half-buckles, but he manages to stay upright. His fathers are both glaring at him, but they aren’t angry. They want him to think they are, it’s a little mind game they play between the real entertainment, but he can see the pride underneath. Not pride in him. No, that would be ridiculous. Pride in how much pain they’d caused, how many bruises he wore, and that they could do that while still keeping their toy—their son—functional. Usable. Able to limp over to the stove and cook without collapsing. He doesn’t collapse anymore. It was counterproductive. The work would still be there when he woke up, and he’d have two very large, angry men to deal with.
Dinner that night is burgers. He cooks up five patties—two each for his dads and one for him—and two serves of fries. He assembles and plates their double cheeseburgers and fries, then hands Jason the cheeseburger he made for himself, knowing he won’t be allowed to eat it yet. It’s not ‘seasoned’ properly, as they would say.
Jason smirks. He puts Chis’ plate on his chair, then lowers his jeans, revealing thin, damp boxers. He slams his ass down on the chair, his cheeks spilling over the sides, and both the seat and the plate disappear underneath him.
Chis’ stomach roils at the sight, and he can’t stop himself from imagining how the cheeks split open, burying his meal deep in the filthy, smelly ass of his own father, probably pushed right up against his anus to absorb all the putrid vapours straight from the spout. The ass-sweat that would be left behind. The way the man could turn anything into mush, as flat as the second dimension. How he’d be expected it eat it, all of it, without complaint. He wants to be sick, but he can’t. They starved him all day just for this.
Jason stops chewing and his face tenses. Chris knows what’s coming. A deep, booming fart echoes through the kitchen, unexpectantly loud considering everything underneath to muffle it.
Daryl laughs and smacks him on the back. ‘Good one!’
Jason grins. ‘Thanks, honey. But there’s still more in the tanks.’ He proves this with a long, bubbly burst of gas.
Daryl laughs harder. ‘You never fart like that on the job. You must be bottling them up all day, you poor thing.’
‘Yeah, it’s tough.’ He meets Chris’ eyes as he pushes out a series of harsh bombs. ‘But it’s worth it, knowing they’re going to such good use.’
Jason finishes his meal first, but he won’t get up until his much slower husband does. Instead, he leans back in his chair and pats his stomach, pushing out more deep, wet farts. Chris busies himself with his dad’s dishes, trying to tune out the constant drone of gas expulsion. Jason’s farts are getting weaker, but wetter, and somehow he finds that more revolting. A stream of quiet, wet farts roll out, like the sound of a boiling kettle.
‘Seat,’ he says, pausing to belch, ‘bring us some beer.’
‘Yes, dad.’
He brings over the bottles, cringing at the thought of the rancid beer farts he’d surely have to endure later.
Daryl, now half-way through his burger, stops eating and looks at the inside of the patty appraisingly. He turns it around. ‘Seat?’
‘Yes, pa?’ Chris fights to keep his eyes up. He wants to curl into a ball and never face the world again. Daryl is a fairly distant man, usually not saying much to Chris and letting Jason take the lead, so when he addresses him directly it never ends well. Most people don’t put much thought into what they call their parents, but that particular title echoes in his nightmares. He only ever has to address his ‘pa’ when he’s done something to deserve punishment.
‘Does this look medium to you?’
Chris’ eyes widen at the well-cooked burger. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘Does it?!’
‘No, pa. I’m sorry.’
Jason stands up, making Chris flinch. For a moment he thinks he’s about to be hit, or (more likely) thrown to the ground and crushed. Instead, Jason reaches for the band of his underwear. He lowers the boxers, revealing a massive, hairy and sweat-dampened ass. He slams it back down onto Chris’ already flat and damp dinner. His mind returns to the image of his father’s anus, now directly touching his food. A long, bubbly and wet fart is released. He shivers.
Daryl gives a satisfied nod—although Chris doubts this is actually the end of things—and returns to his meal.
Once Daryl has finished his meal, and Chris has washed his plate, both men finally see fit to leave their chairs. Jason picks up the plate he’d been sitting on for the past half-hour. ‘Looks like a pancake,’ he says, and he’s right. The burger has been so thoroughly flattened that, at first glance, you would think it was some kind of savory pancake or crepe. It’s a perfect representation of what he’s sure both men want to do to him. ‘It’s still hot, though, but it also reeks like a truck stop bathroom!’ He waves his hand in front of his face, then grins at his son. ‘You sure you want this? It’s fucking nasty.’
Chris nods. It’s a trick question. He doesn’t want it and they know that, but saying so will only get him punished. Punished for wasting food. Punished for being ungrateful. It’s not like he’d get out of eating it, anyway. He’d just have to eat it off the bathroom floor; or after it’d also been stood on by both of their dirty feet; or off Daryl’s sweat ass, if he felt like some father-son bonding. He hated bonding with his parents. Then afterward, they’d take turns stomping on him, just to see if he could keep the contaminated food down.
‘Suite yourself.’ Jason puts the plate on the floor, like every night, and Chris gets onto his knees to eat it.
‘Thank you,’ he says. He can’t forget his manners, especially not after his earlier blunder.
Before he even picks it up, the thick, eggy stench coming from the flattened burger is palpable. The bun is wet and slimy, and as he picks the thing up, he thinks it might be warmer now than when he made it. The first bite makes him gag, the flavours of the meat and salad lost in the rotten taste of ass. Farts, sweat, and soggy bread are all he can discern. He forces it down.
A large body steps in front of him, and he looks up at the ass of Daryl’s 14XL jeans, a dark streak running along where his crack would be.
Chris lowers his head, shoving more of the rancid ass-bread into his mouth as Daryl squats over him, his wet crack touching the back of his head and neck. The deep, bubbly fart rolls along his scalp, adding to the thick odour hovering around his face. He swallows down bile and takes a moment to thank the universe that Daryl stayed standing this time. Sometimes, due to his colossal size, he can’t keep his balance, and Chris’ neck isn’t nearly strong enough to keep such a man upright. He ends up slamming his son face-first into his plate, then plate-first into the dirty kitchen floor, pinning him there with his ass. And once he’s down, he doesn’t have an easy time getting back up. Jason isn’t much help. He finds it hilarious.
Daryl’s gas onslaught continues until Chris has finished with his meal, and by that point sweat—his father’s sweat—is dripping down his neck.
He finishes up the dishes while his dad’s settle in on the couch. They’re each on their second beers. He puts the rest of the case beside the coffee table, where he knows they like them. So they don’t have to get up—or let him up—during the game.
The football is on, so he prepares them a snack platter that he won’t be allowed to touch. They had him make devilled-eggs while they were at work. Just the sight of them makes him gag, reminding him of the smell that wafts out of the pot while he boils them. That smell is already unpleasant, but for him it is a reminder of what’s to come. Eggs always give both his fathers the worse gas. They know that, too, which is why they want them.
He puts the tray on the coffee table. It clinks against the wood due to his trembling. The atmosphere is almost foreboding, like the screams of the TV crowd are telling him to run. He doesn’t. Where would he go? This is his home, and his family, even if he’s about to be in terrible pain.
Both men stand up. Jason’s pants have long been discarded, leaving his legs and feet bare. ‘Lie down, seat,’ Daryl says, but Chris doesn’t have to be told. He knows the drill. He lies across the seat, face up, and waits for the pain to start.
Jason sits on his legs and Daryl on his face. His Pa’s old, damp jeans scratch his skin as Daryl shifts around, grinding his ass down in an attempt to get comfortable. The ache in his skull his unimaginable, and the bridge of his nose tingles and throbs from the pressure being placed on it. Six-hundred pounds—two-hundred and eighty kilograms—all focalised at his pelvis. The heat of a body that large, along with the amount of weight pushing that heat down, has Chris feeling as though he’s on fire. His face and neck are burning. The fat wraps around his ears, burning them. He can’t tell if the wet sound when Daryl moves is sweat of the sound of his skin melting away. A fart rumbles up his nose and he breaths it in. The burn spreads to his lungs. It hurts, but it’s the only air he has, and he isn’t ready to die yet.
He isn’t sure they’d notice if he did.
He’s grateful that Daryl at least kept his pants on, unlike Jason who is drenching Chris’ clothes and bare arms in ass sweat, though he supposes it doesn’t matter. He ate enough of it. Why not bathe in it too?
His legs feel like they’re trapped under the wheels of a truck, pain searing through his thighs and shins but not his feet, which he can’t feel at all. They’ve lost all blood flow. Once circulation returns they’ll put his through a different hell.
Daryl leans forwards to pick something up and just enough of Chris’ face is free for him to suck in some air. It’s humid and toxic, but still better than breathing in straight gas. Daryl rights himself and takes a loud bite. Then another. He’s wolfing down the eggs.
‘You good down there?’ Jason smacks his numb foot, sending a needly jolt up his leg. ‘Don’t pass out before my turn on your face. It’d ruin my night, and you’re already in enough trouble.’
‘Shut up, Jace. There’s no such thing as enough trouble.’ Daryl farts again, this one loud and rumbly, reverberating across Chris’ face like a ripple. ‘I better not have to smell any of those.’
Each time their team scores a point, they bounce, their cheers drowning out his groans of pain. Each landing knocks the breath out of him and aggravates his bruises. He tries to struggle, but he’s too sore to do much more than twitch and cry.
When their team fumbles the ball, or gets a foul, it’s a different sort of pain. Their muscles tense up, turning their heavy, soft bodies into ginormous heavy rocks. For a moment it’s like being crushed by a boulder, the weight steadily increasing as they seem to bare down on him.
Either way, he’s helpless. He just hopes their team wins.
At half-time, both men get up and head to the bathroom, bladders full from who-know how many beers. The floor is littered with empty bottles that he’ll be expected to pick up. He doesn’t move—not that he could, anyway—and instead focuses on taking in as much oxygen as possible.
When they return, Daryl is now also pantless. His huge ass, crack as long as the length of his belt, hovers ominously above Chris as the man opens another bottle.
The game is back and both men sit in unison. The sudden onslaught of heat, moisture and stench sends him reeling. Daryl’s sweat seeps into the grazes made by the denim and it stings. He farts up Chris’ nose point-blank, and the eggs and the beer have both taken effect. The noxious, burning vapours are like sewage sprayed onto sauna rocks. He struggles with renewed vigour, not even caring if Daryl smells it and punishes him. He’d rather have bones broken then have to deal with this.
It’s pointless.
At some point, he must have passed out, because when he wakes up his face is free and neither man is anywhere to be seen. He sits up, slowly, and his whole body protests. He hisses, a hand coming up to support his neck.
‘Seat! You finished being a lazy fuck?’ Jason demands from just outside the lounge-room. His words are slurred.
‘Yes, dad,’ he answers.
‘Good, now come out here and take your punishment.’
Chris limps into the foyer, his head low. This room has the most floor space, so it’s where most of his suffering happens.
‘Lie down.’ Jason is swaying, Daryl’s hand on his back probably the only thing keeping him upright. Daryl himself looks dazed.
Chris lies on his stomach.
‘On your back, moron!’
He rolls over, tears in his eyes. On his back can only mean one thing.
‘This is for the shitty burger, and for falling asleep, and for the Lions losing. You need to learn some fucking respect!’ Jason emphasises his statement by stomping on Chris’ hand. His shoulders sag and he smiles. ‘It’s also just for a bit of fun, because while you had the house to yourself, we were out working. We deserve some fun and you deserve to lie there and take it like the pathetic, ungrateful seat you are.’
Chris whimpers.
‘Dar, help me down.’
Daryl helps his husband into a squat over their son’s face, but instead of lowering him down slowly, he lets go of the man and he falls flat onto his ass. Flat onto Chris’ face.
His head was already against the floorboards, but it still feels like he’s been slammed down. His nose burns on the inside and out, both from odour and trauma. He can still smell the old sweat and unwashed hole, so he’s pretty sure it isn’t broken, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was. He doesn’t know how they haven’t broken his nose, yet.
A bare foot comes down on his crotch, the pain making him cry out, but the sound goes nowhere. Not that it would have mattered if they heard him. His legs kick out, but they’re crushed next.
When Daryl tries to stand on his chest, that’s when things really go to hell. In his drunken state, he can’t hold his balance, and falls forwards on top of his husband. Or, that’s what Chris assumes happened. All he knows is there was a foot over his heart, then a heat enveloped his entire body and the weight on his head became nearly skull-crushing.
The pressure on his gut must be pushing on his bowels, because while the two men laugh, Jason releases a fresh stream of bubbly farts right up Chris’ abused nose.
Bedtime is a blessing. Chris doesn’t have his own room anymore. once he finished school, it was converted into a home office. They don’t need nor use it, but it seemed like something every home needs. More than a bedroom for their son, apparently.
Instead, he sleeps at the foot of their bed, their heavy feet resting on him, kicking him in their sleep. He’s underneath their blanket, only allowed to have his head out on warm nights, otherwise their feet get cold. He doesn’t understand how people can Dutch-oven their friends as a joke. It’s his reality and it’s agonising. Every moment he isn’t asleep, he spends dreading the next fart. He had to learn to sleep through the noise, and the smells, and the kicks. Sleep through the ache of aggravated bruises. If he didn’t, he’d go crazy.
The next day is Saturday, and it starts like any other. He makes them a huge plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, and Jason sits on Chris’ toast while he eats. Unlike at dinner time, during breakfast the men sit across from each other instead of next to. Because of this, instead of standing around waiting, he has to kneel on all fours under the table so both men can use him as a footrest. Daryl’s feet are on his lower back, while Jason’s are on his neck. His arms and legs wobble, but he forces himself to stay upright. He hurts all over.
The day takes a darker just before lunch.
Chris is cleaning the bathroom when his dad calls him downstairs.
‘We got a surprise for you, seat!’
He knew they were working on a personal project in the lounge-room, but he didn’t think it would affect him. The giddiness in the man’s voice is nauseating. He washes his hands and hopes that whatever suffering they had in store for him wouldn’t take long.
He can’t see anything different about the lounge-room. All the furniture is where he’d left it after cleaning up the night before. Then he notices the couch. At first, he isn’t sure what drew his attention to it. It looks the same as it usually does, except for the…oh. There’s something draped over one of the couch cushions. It looks to be a thin piece of fabric the same colour as the rest of the chair, but with a slight, round dint in the centre.
‘Surprise!’ Daryl says, slapping him on the back. Both men are grinning.
‘What is it?’ he asks. Nothing about the change looks particularly menacing, but they wouldn’t be that excited if it wasn’t.
The men usher him around to the back of the couch, which opens out like a cupboard. The lower part of the couch, under where the cushions sit, is hollowed out, and in its place a gurney. They roll it out, barely a foot off the ground, and made of metal.
There are thick straps along the gurney, which he realises are there to keep him in place even when they aren’t weighing him down, and a puppy-pad where his butt will sit, along with a catheter bag hanging off the side.
‘No,’ he whispers. ‘No, this can’t be happening.’ They wouldn’t do this to him. They may like to abuse him—love it, even—but he’s still their son. Someone they’ve had in their lives and in their home for almost nineteen years now. They wouldn’t reduce him solely to a chair.
Jason grabs the back of his neck. ‘Lie down, seat. We went to a lot of trouble for you, now show some fucking gratitude.’
He whimpers and allows himself to be shoved onto the gurney. They strap him in, tear off his pants, inserted the catheter (ouch), then roll him into his new home. His head fits perfectly into the hole, and as he thought, only a lose bit of fabric separates him from whoever sits down. Just thick enough to hide his face. The pillows press gently against his body, and they too only have a thin piece of fabric under them. If Chris wasn’t there, anyone who sat down would probably tear it and fall straight through, so it’s probably just to keep anything that slips between the cushions from ending up on or under Chris. It doesn’t protect him from the sitters.
Both men must be eager to try out their new toy, because almost immediately after the lock clicks, there’s an ass on his face and one on his abdomen. He groans.
‘Quiet, seat, or we’ll gag you!’
He shuts up. The last time they had to gag him, they used Daryl’s work socks. The time before that was Jason’s two-day-old underwear.
‘Hey, lets up the guys over tonight! Have some beers, watch a movie, really break this baby in.’ Jason, who must be the one on Chris’ face, punctuates his statement with a rancid meat fart.
Daryl laughs. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He bounces on Chris’ stomach, knocking the wind out of him. ‘Joey’s lactose-intolerant, so I’ll buy more milk.’
‘We can see how many asses we can fit on here at once.’
‘Careful, Jace, we want to break it in, not just break it.’
(Contains: M/M, Farting, face-farting, mouth-farting, ass-licking, oral sex, poor hygiene/body odour, feet licking, dirty feet, tongue-bath, incest (cousins), underage (unspecified ages, intending to be between 17-19). Non-consensual.
Sequel will contain scat and scat-eating.)
Jamie was dreading the night ahead. His cousin Scott, a year older than him and a couple feet taller, was staying over. For as long as Jamie could remember, Scott had always tormented him. While Scott wasn’t necessarily violent, he still gave him hell by mocking him, spreading lies about him, and forcing him to smell his armpits and farts. Anything Scott thought would humiliate him. Jamie hated that he was scared of the older teen, since while Scott may be bigger than him, he wasn’t exactly buff. He did, however, have toned, lean muscles from running around with his asshole friends, and something in his face—maybe it was his eyes or the way he smiled—was feral. A mere look from Scott provoked dread in his poor cousin. He could overpower the much smaller Jamie and he often did just for the fun of it.
The worst part was how much Jamie’s parents adored their nephew. The guy knew how to turn on the charm when he needed to, and it had the two adults eating out of his hand. They never understood Jamie’s dislike of the older boy, and Scott always took advantage of that to gain even more control over his favorite target. Tonight was no different.
The air mattress Scott was supposed to be sleeping on had mysteriously sprung a hole. Then, once that was patched, it sprung another. Scott, claiming to not want to be any trouble, had offered to share Jamie’s queen-sized bed for the night.
‘No,’ Jamie said, ‘I’m not sharing with him, he can sleep on the couch.’
His mother frowned. ‘He’s too tall for the couch. You’ve shared a bed with your friends before, and it’s only for one night, so stop being difficult.’
‘But he stinks! I bet he doesn’t even shower.’ That wasn’t a lie. Scott had greasy hair, a shiny face, and always reeked of body odour—another thing his parents never seemed to notice.
‘He’s a teenage boy—you all smell sometimes. Now, you’re sharing with him and that’s final!’
Once the woman left, Scott poked his head into the bedroom with a vicious grin.
‘What are you going to do?’ Jamie asked meekly. He hated that smile.
‘I’m not going to do anything.’
‘Sure.’
He chuckled. ‘No, really. You’ll be torturing yourself all on your own this time.’
Jamie went over the implications in his head and shivered. He had no idea what Scott was going to make him do, but he looked excited, so he must have a plan. Scott wasn’t normally the sort to plan, he did whatever he felt like in the moment, so this was new, terrifying territory.
Scott stuck his tongue out and left.
Later that night, when they were settling in under the covers, Scotts put his hands behind his head. He was shirtless, so Jamie—now eye-level with Scott’s armpits—was overwhelmed by the putrid, musky odour. He gagged.
‘The fuck, man? You reek!’
Scott laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. Horrendous, isn’t it?’
‘And you didn’t shower?’
Scott smirked. ‘There’s no reason to, not when you’re here to clean me up.’
Jamie leaned on his elbow and looked down at Scott’s face, the same face he always made when he was about to do something awful, and felt his blood turn cold. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that I know about the trip you and your friends are taking next month—congrats to Cory for getting his license, by the way—and there’s no chance your mother would let you go if she new about the $50 you took out of her wallet earlier tonight.’
‘I would never steal from her.’
Scott hummed. ‘And yet, the money is now in your wallet. Funny that. If I told her I saw you take the money, and she found it in your wallet, what do you think will happen? Which of us would she believe?’
Jamie didn’t reply. He racked his brain for a way out of whatever was happening, but there wasn’t one. His parents knew he had no cash on him, his father drove him to the bank when he put everything into his savings account so he wouldn’t spend any of it before the trip, and his mother never had more than one hundred dollars on her at a time. It was obvious how this’d look, and so far they’d believed every single lie Scott had ever told them.
‘But,’ Scott continued, ‘if I don’t say anything, you can always get up early tomorrow morning and return the money before she even notices.’
‘Okay,’ Jamie said, sitting up completely. His heart raced and the blood was pooling—pounding—in his ears. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to,’ he stretched so that his arms were above his head, fingers running slowly along the headboard, ‘lick every inch of my body until it’s completely clean.’
Jamie blanched. ‘Gross, are you queer?’
‘Does it matter?’ he snapped. ‘What matters here is you doing what I say, when I say it, so you aren’t in deep shit with your parents.’
‘Please, Scott, don’t make me do this. I’ll do anything else,’ Jamie begged. The stench of Scott’s sweaty pits were making him nauseous, and that was only a few inches worth of the hairy skin he was expected to put his mouth on.
‘Or you could eat my shit, would you prefer that?’
Jamie could feel bile rising in his throat. ‘Fine, I’ll clean you.’
‘Yeah, I would’ve picked that, too.’ Scott kicked the doona into a heap at the end of the bed and pulled off his grey sweatpants, leaving him completely exposed. He laid back and lifted his leg, wiggling his toes in Jamie’s face. ‘So, do you want to start from the toes and work your way up? Or maybe you’d rather get the filthiest spots out of the way first. It’s up to you. There’s really no wrong way to give a tongue bath,’ he rambled cheerfully.
Jamie grabbed Scott’s ankle and shuffled around so he was sitting between Scott’s legs. May as well start with the feet, he figured. They were closest and he wanted this to be over with. He knew Scott was cruel, and feral, and narcissistic, but this crossed a line. This was like some sort of sick, fevered nightmare.
The soles of Scott’s feet were a dark brown with a mixture of sock lint and dirt from the carpet. The odour was vinegary and intense enough to make his head spin. Jamie licked from the sole of first foot up to the toes. His tongue felt gritty, like he’d just licked dusty concrete, but the sourness had his face scrunching up. Without thinking, he spat onto the carpet.
Scott tsked. ‘Oh no, none of that. Once it’s in your mouth, you swallow, got it?’
Jamie nodded, not wanting to open his mouth for the moment, in case he threw up. Once his stomach had settled, he went back in for another lick.
Once the soles of Scott’s foot was back to its natural tanned pink colour, he looked warily at the toes. The nails were overgrown and yellow, and he could see the nastiness stuck between the digits. ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ he said honestly.
Scott chuckled. ‘Tapping out before you even finish the feet? Damn, I thought I’d at least get to feel your tongue on my ass first.’
Jamie gagged.
‘I guess I better go find your mum. While I’m there, I’ll let her know what a freak you are. Do you think she’d believe me if I told her I woke up to you licking my foot? I’ve got the clean foot to prove it.’
‘No,’ he said, weakly. ‘I can do this. Just, please no more lying to my mum. Please, Scott.’
‘You are pathetic,’ Scott said, running the side of his foot along Jamie’s cheek.
Jamie sighed and grabbed ahold of the foot again. He took a deep breath, then stuck the big toe into his mouth. The nail grazed the roof of his mouth, leaving behind a bitter flavour, but he ignored it to focus on licking the dirt from between the toes and forcing in down his throat. This repeated with each toe.
When he finished, Jamie was heaving and trying not to throw up.
‘Good job! Now, onto the next foot.’
*
Once the toes were done, he licked up Scott’s carves, which was comparatively easy. However, the disgust and horror returned with a vengeance when he reached his cousin’s thighs, and was assaulted with both the sight and smell of his rancid genitals.
Scott had a huge cock, which was now half-mast and nestled in thick, damp-looking black pubic hair. Below it hung two massive balls, which he immediately registered as the source of the heavy, sour stench. Like the pubes, his balls were greasy from a mixture of new and old sweat. There was also the unmistakable smell of human shit, but Jamie preferred not to think about where that was coming from. The large balls were obscuring his view of what he was sure would be an equally filthy (and far more revolting) sight.
‘And once again, you’re faced with a choice,’ Scott said loftily. ‘Will you start with my dick, or my balls? If you want my opinion,’ he paused, waiting for Jamie to react. Jamie nodded, caught between wanting to speed this along and taking a few moments to restore his depleted saliva. ‘It depends where you want my jizz. You start with my balls, I’ll cum down your throat. You start with my dick, and I’ll cum in your hair. But remember, your mum’s in the lounge room, and you’ll have to pass through their to get to the bathroom. So, are you going to swallow my cum, or let it dry in your hair until your mum goes to bed?’
Jamie stared at the unwashed dick and balls. Both had to go in his mouth, but was he willing to taste, let alone swallow, his own cousin’s rancid cum? His stomach churned, and he wondered—not for the first time—why Scott was doing this to him. Was he just a massive sadist, and Jamie was the easiest target? Or was this more personal? He chose to believe it was the former, because then there was at least some hope that Scott would find a girlfriend or boyfriend down the line and finally leave him alone. The more he thought about it, though, the more he doubted that. Scott never bothered anyone else like this. Their classmates actually thought he was nice.
He decided to clean the balls first, not wanting to risk his mother seeing him covered in ejaculation. They were too big to both fit into his mouth, so he started to lavish them with his tongue, using his hands to move them around and lick every inch of skin. They were warm against his tongue, and the taste wasn’t as bad as Scott’s feet, but it wasn’t good either. Like salt and sweat and vinegar.
The worst part was the smell.
Once it was time to get started on the now fully erect cock, Jamie was debating how long he could hold his breath for. There was a reek like musk and body odour coming from Scott’s pubes, and not even the stench of old shit could cover it. If he had to huff it properly he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay conscious.
‘Wait,’ Scott said. Jamie almost cried with relief. That relief was short-lived. ‘Do my ass, first.’
‘What?’ Jamie whispered, the shock consuming his voice.
In lieu of words, Scott spread his bent-legs further, reached down and lifted his testicles. His wrinkled anus was barely visible through the trail of hair that ran along his crack. Both the hair and his cheeks were glistening with sweat thick enough to have almost formed into a thin slime. The shit smell intensified, like a leaking sewage pipe.
‘That’s disgusting. You reek!’ Jamie put his hands over his face.
‘Obviously, that’s why I asked you to clean me up!’
‘When did you last bathe?’
Scott brought his free hand to his chin. ‘Hmm, maybe four, five days ago? Probably smells a lot worse than that, though. Been playing a lot of basketball with the guys. And it’s Summer. And we tend to get fast food after games, which gives me explosive shit.’ He chuckled. ‘I really need this tongue bath.’
Jamie leant down slowly, begging his nose to hurry up and adjust to the stench. Everything in him was screaming to give up, to just let Scott lie to his mother and take the punishment. He’d come this far. He didn’t want the night to end with him being banned from the trip with his friends, branded a pervert to his parents, and all while knowing what his cousin’s feet and balls taste like. No, all the suffering had to be worth it.
Once he was barely an inch away from Scott’s hole, the pubic hair grazing his lips, Scott let go of his balls and grabbed the back of Jamie’s head. He forced the smaller male’s nostrils up against his asshole and held him there. Jamie gasped and tried to pull back, but it was pointless. He felt the wrinkled anus twitching and a heat begun to spread from his philtrum across his face. The combined smell and taste were indescribably foul. It was rotten eggs and boiled sewage and truck-stop restrooms, but somehow all at once and so much worse. He broke into a coughing fit, his body trying to reject the tainted air, but it did nothing to lessen Scott’s iron grip. Soon, another fart came sputtering out, this one long and loud and wet. The smell wasn’t as bad as the first, silent fart, but the moisture on his nose was its own kind of awful.
As this happened, he couldn’t help but think about all the other times Scott had farted on him and see it in a new light. Had it always been sexual? That time at school when Scott had his friends hold Jamie down in the middle of the courtyard, then shoved an old pair of underwear in his mouth and farted on his face, did he get off from that? Did Scott go home that night, think about the feel of Jamie’s nose against his clothed ass and the way their peers laughed, and masturbate?
Scott yanked him upwards so that his closed lips were now against his asshole and the bridge of his nose was holding up his saggy balls. His nose itched from the wiry hair and his lips felt uncomfortably damp, but he did what he knew he had to and opened his mouth. The pubes were the first thing he tasted, and they were horrendous. Bitter and vaguely rotten—a sign of what was to come. He pressed his tongue to the hot flesh underneath and the taste was like that of raw shit. He tried to pull away—to cough or throw up, he wasn’t sure—but he wasn’t allowed to, so he swallowed down the impulse. He’d never tasted anything so terrible before in his life, and feeling the damp, hot, twitching muscle it was coming from only made it worse. Still, he kept going. Scott maneuvered his head up and down so he could lick the full length of his crack, clearing away the sweat and the greasy remnants of messy shit and wet farts. Scott ground his ass down on Jamie’s and let out a low moan. Jamie could feel the way the other male’s balls rose and tightened against his face.
Scott moved him back so that his mouth was against his anus, and when Jamie put his tongue on him, he let out a deep, hot fart. It instantly burnt Jamie’s tongue, then reverberated around his mouth, leaving everywhere sore and tingly, like he’d eaten too-spicy food. Too-spicy food made from old, rotten meat. He gagged and coughed against the skin, only for a series of short farts to burst out and be pulled down into his lungs in the process.
‘Dude, what’s that wet feeling? Are you crying?’
Jamie groaned as he realised he was, indeed, crying.
‘Well, I guess that means I can’t fart in your nose again, it’ll be all stuffed up. Such a shame,’ he said with an air of obviously fake remorse, ‘but that doesn’t really matter, you’re about done there, anyway.’ With that said, he pulled Jamie’s head up so that it was hovering over his solid, leaking cock. ‘I assume you don’t need me to hold you in place for this part?’ He let go of Jamie’s hair.
Jamie shook his head. He could just imagine how rough Scott would be, jamming his dick down his throat until he choked. He took the head into his mouth and ran his tongue over the slit, trying not to think about what he was doing, but he couldn’t block out the rancid taste of sweat, old urine, and something salty. He sucked quickly, bobbing his head like he’d seen girls do in porn, and fortunately Scott was already close to the edge, so it didn’t take long before he came in his mouth. He scrunched up his face. He’d figured out what the salty taste was.
‘Swallow,’ Scott said between pants. ‘We talked about this.’
Jamie did. It took a few swallows to keep it from coming back up, but he did it. He swallowed his filthy, abusive cousin’s semen.
‘Good boy,’ Scott said, almost reverently. ‘You did such a good job, I’m going to reward you. You can skip straight to licking my armpit. Then we’ll be done.’
Jamie had hoped that once Scott came he’d lose interest, but he supposed this was still better than their original deal. He leant down to lap and Scott’s pit, and when he did Scott wrapped his free arm around him and ran it gently up and down his back. This was odd, but it didn’t hurt, so he let it be. After a few licks against the rancid, bitter, sour, and extremely damp skin, the hand stilled. He looked over to find Scott asleep. Figuring this meant they were done for the night, he turned off the lamp, brushed his teeth (his mother was asleep on the couch, so he didn’t have to field any unwelcomed questions) and went back to bed.
At least now Scott’s BO wouldn’t keep him awake, so that was a plus. A very tiny, almost negligible plus.
Aujourd'hui je publie une histoire fictive personnelle écrite en collaboration avec l'auteur @writinggross. Celui-ci a un des meilleurs blogs sur Tumblr, car il est très original et créatif. Ses histoires traitent d'hommes gros, sales et puants qui dominent et humilient des mecs de leur âge ou plus jeune, mais généralement minces et soumis, ou qui deviennent soumis. J'adore - et je le lui ai déjà dit à de nombreuses reprises - la façon dont il arrive à rendre excitant les corps de mecs gros et suants.
Tout le monde n'est pas grand, musclé, et il y a différents types de beautés. Je trouve original d'avoir choisi de prendre des hommes dégoûtants dans le rôle du dominant car cela rend la relation avec son soumis encore plus dégradante pour le soumis : être amoureux ou obéir à un homme qui ressemble à un gros porc dégoûtant c'est vraiment être très bas dans l'échelle humaine, selon les critères de beauté actuelle. Pourtant, @writinggross nous montre avec un talent indéniable que les homes grands, musclés et puissants ne sont pas les seuls qui peuvent nous exciter pour leur côté dominateur. Nous sommes tous deux inspirés par le travail l'un de l'autre, je sais que mes histoires de toilette humaine l'ont inspirés, et je suis vraiment heureux d'avoir pu collaborer à cette histoire avec un auteur aussi talentueux. J'espère très sincèrement que cette collaboration pourra se renouveler : j'ai adoré écrire cette fiction !
Cette histoire change de mes histoires d'habitude où l'homme dominant est plutôt grand et musclé, un beau sportif, un jeune patron ou un riche homme supérieur. Dans cette histoire, un jeune homme d'une vingtaine d'années, plutôt petit et mince (mais même s'il est grand ça ne change pas grand chose à l'histoire) est séduit par le patron de son père, un homme bien plus gros et bien plus âgé que lui. J'ai choisi d'illustrer notre histoire avec des images d'hommes blancs, mais vous êtes libres d'imaginer les personnages avec la couleur de peau de votre choix. Le patron est censé être âgé entre 40 et 55 ans, mais là encore vous pouvez l'imaginer un peu plus jeune (35 ans) ou plus âgé (jusqu'à 65 ans).
N'hésitez pas à nous faire part de vos impressions car cette histoire nous a demandé du temps, mais nous y avons pris beaucoup de plaisir. Dites nous si vous voulez que nous renouvelons notre collaboration, en tout cas moi ce serait un vrai plaisir d'écrire une nouvelle histoire avec le talentueux auteur qu'est @writinggross. Bonne lecture !
❤️❤️
HISTOIRE FICTIVE PERSONNELLE écrite en collaboration avec @writinggross
- UNE HISTOIRE D'AMOUR DÉGOÛTANTE -
CHAPITRE 1 - UNE RELATION ÉTONNANTE
PARTIE PAR @writinggross
Preston tapote ses doigts sur ses genoux, puis serre sa main, puis la desserre et recommence à taper. Il ne veut pas avoir l'air trop nerveux, cela pourrait attirer l'attention sur lui. Il passe ses doigts dans ses cheveux. Ils lui arrivent au niveau de ses épaules, mais son père lui a dit de ne pas les couper, que ses cheveux faisaient partie de son attrait. Cela encadre joliment son visage, adoucissant ses traits et soulignant à quel point il est jeune. “M. Lewis aime les jeunes”, avait dit son père, “et petits et mignons”. Preston n'aimait pas penser à lui-même de cette façon, mais en tant que jeune homme de vingt ans sans tonus musculaire, il suppose qu'il comprend se que son père entend par là. Bien qu'il ne l'admettrait jamais à personne, une partie de lui avait espéré qu'un homme riche et plus âgé remarquerait à quel point il est faible et doux et voudrait prendre soin de lui. Mais pas comme ça. Il ne voulait pas que ce soit cet homme. Preston avait rencontré pour la première fois le patron de son père, M. Lewis, il y a environ un mois, lors d'un pique-nique familial organisé par l'entreprise. Il n'était pas obligé d'y aller, il n'est pas un enfant, mais la nourriture gratuite est la nourriture gratuite, et le fait qu'il vivait toujours à la maison signifiait qu'il était le bienvenu.
M. Lewis s'était présenté personnellement à Preston, ce dont son père avait été ravi, et n'avait pas quitté son côté pendant la majeure partie de l'événement. Preston pouvait sentir les yeux de l'homme obèse et chauve sur lui, sur chaque partie de son corps, mais il avait fait de son mieux pour rester poli. Il n'avait pas commenté l'odeur dégoûtante de son corps, ou les tâches sous les bras de son costume bleu marine, pas même lorsque l'homme n'arrêtait pas de mettre son bras autour de sa taille, serrant un peu trop fort et infestant Preston avec cette même puanteur. Respirer l'odeur des dents non brossées contre sa joue et son cou. Cela n'aurait pas eu d'importance s'il l'avait commenté, songea-t-il, car l'homme semblait presque fier de ses nombreuses odeurs. Il ne s'était pas retenu de péter ou d'éructer tout ce jour-là, même en souriant quand les gens autour de lui bâillonnaient et reculaient. Les employés ne semblaient pas en phase, et son père lui a dit plus tard que c'était exactement comme ça que M. Lewis était. Vous vous débrouillez avec, ou vous trouvez un autre travail. Son père savait que M. Lewis cherchait à développer davantage l'entreprise et pensait qu'il était resté très proche de Preston ce jour-là parce qu'il allait lui proposer un emploi. Ce n'était pas le cas.
Au lieu de cela, il avait appelé Preston un soir, environ trois semaines après le pique-nique, avec une offre totalement différente.
“Un rendez-vous galant ? Avec vous ?” avait dit Preston au téléphone, essayant de garder son dégoût au minimum. Il ne voulait rien dire qui puisse mettre en péril le travail de son père, mais en même temps, cet homme avait plus du double de son âge. Sans compter qu'il avait une mauvaise hygiène et un estomac si gros que Preston était surpris qu'il puisse se tenir debout, et encore moins se rendre à son bureau tous les jours.
MONSIEUR LEWIS (au téléphone) : “Vous viendrez. Si vous ne le faites pas, je devrai passer des appels téléphoniques troublants.”
C'est un coup de téléphone troublant, pensa Preston, mais il attendit que l'homme continue.
MONSIEUR LEWIS : “J'ai trouvé des anomalies dans la comptabilité de votre père. De l'argent manque. Beaucoup d'argent.”
PRESTON LIVETROY : « Mon père ne volerait pas d'argent ! Qu'est-ce qu'il en ferait même ? Je ne sais pas si vous vous en rendez compte, mais ma famille ne vit pas exactement une vie de luxe en ce moment.“
Il y eut un petit rire à l'autre bout du fil.
MONSIEUR LEWIS : « Peut-être que vous avez raison, mais ce sera quelque chose que les flics devront comprendre. Voulez-vous vraiment prendre le risque? Risquez que votre père aille en prison, et que vous et votre mère soyez dépendants à l'argent. Elle est allée en cure de désintoxication il y a quelques années. L'alcool et le jeu, n'est-ce pas ? Je me souviens que ton père quittait le travail plus tôt pour pouvoir la déposer. Avec tout ce nouveau stress et le manque d'argent, combien de temps pensez-vous qu'il faudrait avant qu'elle fasse une rechute complète ?”
Preston déglutit. Il ne savait pas quoi répondre à cela, mais il n'avait rien à dire. Son silence dit à l'homme tout ce qu'il avait besoin de savoir.
MONSIEUR LEWIS : “Dîner à sept heures vendredi prochain, je demanderai à quelqu'un de venir vous chercher.”
Preston a parlé à ses parents du rendez-vous galant et ils avaient été surpris, mais il a fait de son mieux pour les convaincre que c'était ce qu'il voulait. Sa famille avait assez enduré ces derniers temps, et il ne pouvait pas risquer d'humilier son père. Cela avait été étonnamment heureux pour lui. Confus par son choix de rendez-vous galant, certes, mais toujours heureux.
JOHN LIVETROY (père de Preston) : “Monsieur Lewis est un homme bon, il prend toujours soin de son personnel, ses employés”.
Preston se demanda si c'était vraiment vrai. Maintenant, le voici assis, seul à une table dans un restaurant dont il n'a jamais entendu parler, regardant un tableau accroché au mur qui a probablement coûté plus cher que ses frais de scolarité à l'université, attendant son rendez-vous. Enfin, près d'une demi-heure plus tard que Preston avait été contraint de se présenter, M. Lewis franchit les doubles portes. Il repère immédiatement Preston et passe devant l'hôtesse, qui ne semble pas si perturbée par son comportement grossier (peut-être qu'il est un habitué), et prend place. « Monsieur Lewis », dit Preston avec un hochement de tête. L'homme sourit, révélant ses dents jaunes. “Appelle-moi Joey. Après tout, toi et moi sommes sur le point de devenir extrêmement proches.” Preston frémit au commentaire, mais hoche la tête.
PRESTON LIVETROY : “Bonjour… Joey.”
MONSIEUR JOEY LEWIS : “C'est mieux.”
PARTIE PAR @submissivegayfrenchboy
Preston n'en revient pas. À vingt ans, le voilà en train de passer sa soirée au restaurant en étant le rendez-vous galant d'un gros homme d'une cinquantaine d'années, le patron de son propre père ! Il se sent humilié mais prend du courage quand il sait que Monsieur Joey Lewis menace de dénoncer son père à la police pour avoir volé de l'argent à l'entreprise. Preston comprend que sa jeunesse et sa beauté sont ses armes sur ce vieil homme gros qui se croit supérieur en raison de sa position de patron ainsi que de sa fortune. Il compte bien profiter du rendez-vous galant imposé par Monsieur Lewis pour mieux comprendre la situation de son père. Mais jusqu'où devra-t-il aller pour protéger sa famille ? En attendant, le voilà à table avec face à lui un homme au ventre si gros qu'il doit se reculer de la table pour avoir de la place. Preston pose sa main sur la table, et Monsieur Lewis se met à la prendre dans sa main, à la caresser tendrement.
JOEY LEWIS : “Ta main est si douce mon petit Preston. J'aime la caresser.”
MONSIEUR JOEY LEWIS : “Je t'ai dit de m'appeler Joey ! Ne recommence pas où je serais obligé de te punir… Hum.. Je m'imagine en train de donner la fessée à ton joli petit cul.. Ça nous ferai du bien à tous les deux je crois. … Ahahah!”
Preston cache sa gêne : le patron de son père vient-il à l'instant de lui faire part de son envie de lui donner une fessée ? Preston espère qu'aucun clients n'a entendue, et heureusement, ils sont dans un restaurant chic où les tables sont assez espacées les unes des autres. Le serveur finit par arriver, constate la différence d'âge et de physique entre les deux clients, et essaye de ne pas se concentrer sur ce point. Il demande à Preston son choix, qui lui répond qu'il prendra une salade en entrée et un petit poisson en plat. Le serveur demande ensuite à monsieur Joey Lewis ce qu'il veut prendre.
JOEY LEWIS : “Je vais prendre un poulet.”
LE SERVEUR : “Ce sera tout, Monsieur ?”
MONSIEUR LEWIS : “Bien sûr que non, imbécile ! Je prendrai le poulet en entrée, pendant que mon amant mangera sa salade. Vous rajouterez des œufs avec mon poulet. Je veut un poulet entier, évidement. Puis en plat je vais prendre une grosse côte de bœuf avec des choux sauce à l'ail ainsi que des pommes de terre grillées au fromage. Et en dessert, je prendrai une tarte aux pommes. Mon chéri, tu prendra un dessert ? Non ? Tu es sûr ? Bon alors je prendrai aussi une tarte au chocolat. Peut-être que mon amoureux voudra goûter mon gâteau. Et je ne parle pas que du gâteau au chocolat, ahhah !”
Pour flatter son riche client, le serveur fait exprès de rire à la blague embarassante de son client, et Monsieur Lewis se sent en confiance étant donné que tout le monde le traite en homme supérieur vu qu'il est un riche patron d'entreprise. Preston agit comme si la blague ne le dérangeait pas et qu'il était habitué à ça de la part de Monsieur Lewis, mais en vérité il est honteux d'être pris pour l'amant d'un vieil homme gros. Soudain, il se met à renifler une odeur. Cela sent la sueur et la merde, et Preston s'étonne de sentir une odeur nauséabonde dans ce lieu. Il demande à Monsieur Lewis s'il sent.
MONSIEUR LEWIS : “Cette odeur ? Peut-être que ce sont mes aisselles. Il faut dire que je ne me suis pas lavé avant de venir. Mis c'est vrai que ça sent un peu la merde. Ça doit venir du fait que je n'ai pas essuyé mon cul. Il faut dire que mon cul est si gros que parfois je ne le nettoie pas complément. Mais toi par contre si ça t'embête de sentir mon odeur de cul, sache que ça ne me dérangerai que tu deviennes mon essuyeur de cul. Je suis sûr que tu serais doué dans ce domaine. Ahah !”
Quel homme dégoûtant ! Le voilà qu'il assume sans honte ne pas s'être douché avant de venir ni avoir complétement essuyé son cul après avoir chié ! Chaque seconde passée auprès de cet homme est une torture, mais Preston doit faire semblant.
PRESTON LIVETROY :“Mais ce serait pour moi un grand honneur, "Joey”. Un homme aussi puissant et attirant que vous mérite d'être vénéré. Hélas, je suis sûr qu'un nombre important d'hommes et de femmes se battraient pour devenir votre essuyeur de cul, ou simplement pour pouvoir admirer votre beauté.“
MONSIEUR LEWIS : "Ma beauté ? Tu viens vraiment de dire que tu me trouves attirant ? Je veut dire, je sais que je suis magnifique mais euh.. qu'un jeune homme aussi mignon que toi le dises, ça me fait plaisir. Bien parlons un peu de toi, tu m'intéresse, Preston. Tu sais, cela fait longtemps que je te convoite. Enfin, j'avais envie d'être avec toi.”
Pendant un cours instant, Preston le trouverai presque attachant, quoique un peu bizarre d'avouer qu'il le regarde depuis longtemps. Mais Preston, qui s'en veut d'avoir été peut-être trop flatteur sur la beauté de Joey, remarque les traces de sueur autour des aisselles de Joey, remarque la graisse de son ventre, et se rappelle qu'il a encore de la merde au cul. Les plats finissent par arriver, et pendant que Preston mange délicatement sa salade, Joey Lewis mange son poulet avec les mains et fait du bruit en mastiquant son poulet. Il gobe les œufs, parle la bouche pleine, et se met à roter. Il approche ses doigts de la bouche de Preston, qui ne comprend pas ce qu'il veut.
MONSIEUR LEWIS : “Tu veut bien essuyer mes doigts plein de poulet, mon petit. Avec ta langue.”
Preston évite de regarder les clients qui commencent à murmurer autour d'eux, et se met à lécher les doigts de Joey. Joey demande à Preston de mieux sucer ses doigts, avec plus d'amour. Preston, malgré la honte, se met à sucer les doigts pleins de poulet en mimant une fellation. Cela excite Joey. Une fois ses doigts propres, il prend la main de Preston et y dépose un baiser. Mais Joey ne s'est pas essuyé la bouche et dépose du gras et de la sauce sur la main de Preston. Quand il le voit, Joey ordonne à Preston d'essuyer la graisse sur sa main en la léchant. Le dîner est une succession d'humiliations pour Preston. D'autant que, une fois le plat arrivé, Joey est très malpoli. Il se fiche des convenances, et se met à roter et péter bruyamment sans s'excuser. Il faut dire qu'il a pris un plat avec de l'oignon, du choix à l'ail, des pommes de terres grillées à l'œuf et au fromage… Bref, tout ce qui rend gazeux !
PARTIE PAR @writinggross
Une fois le dîner terminé, et Joey a effectivement fini ses deux desserts lui-même, Preston est soulagé. Il a fait de son mieux pour être le rendez-vous docile et accommodant, mais il atteint sa limite. Il a besoin de souffler. Il a besoin d'un moment pour respirer un air qui ne lui donne pas envie de vomir. Malheureusement, ce n'est pas dans les cartes pour lui ce soir. Après le retour du serveur avec la carte de crédit de Joey, Preston force un sourire.
PRESTON : “J'ai passé un moment merveilleux ce soir”, les mots ont un goût de cendre dans sa bouche, “nous devrions le refaire un jour.”
Joey sourit, et c'est une chose cruelle et laide.
JOEY LEWIS : « Oh, nous le ferons. Mais qui a dit que notre nuit était finie ? Comme nous nous amusons déjà beaucoup tous les deux, je dis que nous continuons les choses à l'étage. J'ai déjà réservé une suite pour la nuit.“
La peau de Preston commence le processus inconfortable de la première brûlure, puis de la glace. Il est allé dans beaucoup de bons restaurants et bars qui se trouvent à l'intérieur des hôtels, alors il s'est dit que Joey aimait juste la nourriture ici. Il n'y avait pas pensé.
PRESTON : "Bien que ça sonne bien, j'ai un cours tôt demain.”
JOEY LEWIS : “Je vais être honnête. J'ai dépensé beaucoup d'argent pour vous ce soir, même après tout ce que votre père voleur m'a coûté, alors que diriez-vous de montrer un peu de gratitude ?”
Preston hoche la tête. Il ne peut pas discuter avec ça. Ils prennent l'ascenseur à l'étage. Bien qu'il soit conçu pour accueillir six personnes, la graisse de Joey lui laissant à peine de l'espace pour bouger, Preston se sent claustrophobe. La suite, bien qu'elle ne soit pas la plus chic de l'hôtel, est bien plus agréable que partout où Preston avait séjourné auparavant. Contre le mur latéral se trouve un lit king-size avec des draps dorés brodés et beaucoup trop d'oreillers, un canapé vintage mais pas particulièrement confortable se trouve au pied du lit, et en face se trouve un bar bien approvisionné sous une gigantesque télévision. L'ensemble du mur du fond est composé d'une baie vitrée qui donne sur la plage. Oui, c'est de loin le plus bel endroit où il ait jamais séjourné. Joey, qui a dû le voir le regarder, dit : « Si vous aimez ça, attendez de voir où j'emmène mes trophées pour nos anniversaires.“
Preston déglutit. Il ne veut pas penser à ce que cela signifierait d'être dans une relation à long terme avec ce cochon, mais il ne peut pas empêcher la façon dont son estomac saute légèrement d'excitation. Il veut voir où Joey considère qu'il est assez bon pour organiser des célébrations. Il a toujours aimé les belles choses et entend en profiter.
Une main attrape son épaule et le fait tourner, et avant qu'il n'ait le temps de protester, il y a des lèvres humides sur les siennes et une langue qui serpente dans sa bouche. La langue de Joey touche la sienne et elle a un goût amer. Le goût ne fait que se renforcer lorsque l'homme suce la langue de Preston dans sa propre bouche, le forçant à lécher ses dents et à goûter chaque élément de son récent repas mélangé aux restes pourris de tout ce qu'il avait mangé au cours des derniers jours. Révolté, Preston essaie de s'éloigner, mais une grande main à l'arrière de sa tête le maintient en place. Le baiser continue jusqu'à ce que quelque chose bouge dans l'estomac de Joey et qu'il lâche un long rot acide dans la bouche de Preston. Il lâche prise et Preston commence à tousser dans sa manche, essayant simultanément d'essuyer la salive de sa bouche. Joey rit et se tapote le ventre.
JOEY LEWIS : "On dirait que ce repas fait son travail. On ferait mieux de commencer avant que j'aie besoin de faire une décharge.”
Preston grince des dents à la mention des déchets corporels dans ce qu'il suppose être un moment sensuel. Joey déboucle son pantalon et le laisse tomber par terre, avec son boxer, donnant à Preston la vue de ses cuisses épaisses et poilues. Ses parties génitales sont heureusement recouvertes d'un intestin gigantesque et affaissé.
JOEY LEWIS : “Tu ferais mieux de te déshabiller, gamin, ou je pourrais me sentir gêné.” Il fait un clin d'œil. Une fois qu'ils sont tous les deux nus, Joey donne à Preston un coup d'œil appréciatif, passant même sa main sur sa fine poitrine glabre.
Preston souhaite qu'il puisse être aussi excité, mais alors qu'il regarde le corps devant lui, tout ce qu'il remarque vraiment, ce sont les choses qui le dégoûtent. La sueur dégouline de sous chaque pli de graisse. Les cheveux noirs et épais qui dépassent de sous ses aisselles, dégageant une odeur aigre-pourrie. L'odeur des couilles salées et non lavées parvient à atteindre son nez depuis des endroits qu'il ne peut même pas encore voir. Avant même que Preston puisse commencer à considérer cet homme attirant, le gars a besoin d'une longue douche savonneuse.
« Je suis sale, n'est-ce pas ? » demande Joey, comme s'il lisait dans les pensées de son rendez-vous. “J'ai été très occupé la semaine dernière, à essayer de dissimuler les dégâts de votre père, et je n'étais pas sur le point d'annuler une réunion ou de manquer de sommeil juste pour votre confort. C'est un niveau de considération que vous devez gagner. Mais maintenant, je pense que j'en ai exagéré”, rit-il, “même moi, je ne veux pas me sentir en ce moment.”
Preston rit, le soulagement le rend étourdi. « Il est temps de prendre une douche. Nous pourrions même y aller ensemble », dit-il, espérant que les implications de son offre suffiraient à convaincre l'homme.
L'expression de Joey passe de contemplative à quelque chose de sombre et de sadique. « Tentant, mais j'ai une meilleure idée. » Il s'assoit sur le lit et s'allonge, révélant enfin sa grosse bite moisie.
JOEY LEWIS : « Tu vas me donner un bain de langue. » Le cœur de Preston tombe.
PRESTON : “Je suis censé faire quoi?”
JOEY LEWIS : “En commençant par mes pieds, puis mes aisselles, puis ma bite et mon cul. Tu vas me lécher avant que je te baise. Tu veut que je sois propre, nettoie moi”
Preston veut refuser. Pour crier sur l'homme. Pour récupérer ses vêtements, puis sortir de l'hôtel et retourner jusqu'à la maison de ses parents où il peut pleurer, jurer et vomir tout en sécurité dans sa chambre. Mais il ne fait rien de tout cela, car cela rendrait tout ce qu'il avait fait jusqu'à présent inutile. Son père irait en prison. Sa mère ferait une rechute. Il les aurait déçus. Preston tombe à genoux devant Joey et touche un de ses pieds. C'est humide de sueur et les semelles sont brunes et calleuses. Il le porte à ses lèvres et commence à sucer le gros orteil. Le goût est aigre et salé, et globalement rance, mais Preston déglutit et goûte le pied, et continue. Il suce chaque orteil individuellement, les ongles envahissants lui grattant la langue. De vieilles peluches de chaussettes humides se délogent d'entre les orteils et il les avale. Il vomit presque.
« Bon garçon », ronronne Joey au-dessus de lui, alors Preston passe au reste du pied. Il lèche le bas du pied, sentant chaque dur et dur sur cette langue. Il s'arrête pour les masser. Quand il a terminé, la saleté est partie - avalée, laissant la peau presque rose. Il répète ce processus sur l'autre pied. Quand il a fini, il a le souffle coupé, la bouche comme du papier de verre et les larmes aux yeux.
JOEY LEWIS : “Qu'est ce qui prend si longtemps? Lève-toi et viens ici !”
Preston se précipite sur le lit et voit Joey avoir les bras levés, les forêts noires en dessous en plein écran. L'intensité de l'odeur fait passer les yeux de Preston de simples larmes à des larmes jaillissantes, mais il se penche toujours et prend un léchage expérimental. Cela ne ressemble à rien de ce qu'il a connu auparavant. Le goût du vinaigre lui brûle la langue, et il n'est même plus sûr que l'air contienne plus d'oxygène, pas avec la façon dont sa tête tourne, mais il continue. Bientôt, la respiration de Joey s'accélère et l'homme commence à gémir.
« Oh, putain, ouais, bon garçon. C'est si bon »
Quelque chose remue dans le ventre de Preston. Il ne savait pas qu'il pouvait faire travailler un homme à ce point sans même toucher sa bite. Quelque chose à ce sujet excite Preston, et il n'hésite pas du tout sur la deuxième aisselle, allant même jusqu'à faire tournoyer sa langue, à la recherche de quelles taches de peau et quels types de coups de langue obtiennent la réponse la plus intense de la part du corps de Joey.
PARTIE PAR @submissivegayfrenchboy
La langue de Preston lèche les aisselles poilues, puantes de sueur et grasses et essayent de le faire avec dévotion pour ne pas que Joey se rende compte qu'en réalité, il est dégouté par ce qu'il a à faire. La sueur s'accumule dans sa bouche mais il avale tout. Mais Joey dit qu'il a besoin de pisser. Preston s'arrête de lécher l'aisselle et lui dit qu'il n'a qu'à aller aux toilettes pour pisser.
JOEY LEWIS : “Je suis trop lourd après tout ce que j'ai mangé, je n'aurais pas le temps de me lever, c'est une envie pressante. Il faut que pisse ici. Le plus simple est que je te pisse dans la bouche.”
Joey voit que Preston est si choqué qu'il ne réagit pas, alors il lui donne une claque pour le contraindre à obéir. Preston met sa bouche autour de la bite de Joey et un jet de pisse se retrouve dans sa gorge. Joey pousse un soupir de satisfaction tandis que Preston se retrouve avec la graisse du ventre puant de Joey sur son visage. Sa tête est enfoncé dans les plus du gros ventre et les grosses mains de Joey poussent la tête de Preston sur la bite de Joey pour qu'il soit contraint de boire toute la pisse. Preston ne pensait pas que Joey pouvait lui faire faire des actes aussi dégradants : chaque fois qu'il croit avoir touchait le fond de ce qu'il y a de plus humiliant, Joey Lewis trouve encore une chose encore plus dégradante à faire à Preston. Preston a bu toute la pisse, il va boire un verre d'eau pour enlever l'odeur et le goût de la pisse dans sa bouche, et retourne au lit où Joey l'attend pour l'enculer.
Joey pénétre Preston, qui se retrouve écrasé sous le poids du gros corps puant et poilu de son “amant”. Il se forçe à dire qu'il aime cela, pour ne pas donner l'impression à Joey qu'en réalité, il n'apprécie pas qu'un gros homme plus vieux que lui profite de son corps jeune. Finalement, après avoir fait rebondir la graisse de son ventre contre Preston, Joey finit par éjaculer et par se rallonger. Il est si gros et lourd qu'il fait sursauter Preston du lit au moment où il se rallonge ! Finalement, épuisé, Joey prend Preston dans ses bras.
Durant la nuit, Joey sert Preston fort contre lui, l'embrasse ou lui rote au visage sans s'en rendre compte, et lâche des pets bruyants et nauséabonds, ce qui n'est pas étonnant étant donné qu'il a mangé de l'ail, de l'oignon, du choux, du fromage,… Bref des aliments puants qui le font péter ! Preston est trop faible pour se détacher de l'étreinte de Joey et passe la nuit à devoir respirer l'odeur corporel de son “amant”.
Le lendemain matin, le room service leur envoie un petit déjeuner, qu'ils dégustent comme s'ils formaient un jeune couple, et Preston insiste pour retourner chez ses parents maintenant que le rendez-vous galant est terminé. Il arrive à se comporter en jeune fille amoureuse, ce qui attendrit Joey qui laisse partir Preston avec la promesse que ce genre de soirée se refera. Joey croit-il sérieusement en ses chances avec Preston ou cache-t-il ses doutes derrière une fausse confiance en lui ? Preston l'ignore, mais en attendant, il doit sauver ses parents en empêchant Joey Lewis de dénoncer son père pour fraude, en attendant d'en savoir plus.
Preston prévient ses parents que le rendez-vous galant avec Monsieur Lewis s'est très bien passé, leur vante ses qualités, et leur fait comprendre qu'il commence à tomber amoureux de lui. Il ne leur révèle évidement pas toutes les choses humiliantes qu'il a dû faire, mais les parents de Preston, conscient de la fortune et de l'influence de Joey, laisse leur fils fréquenter le patron.
CHAPITRE 2 : UNE OFFRE INATTENDUE
Avec l'intention de trouver des informations sur le patron de son père, Preston se rend à l'entreprise de Monsieur Lewis. Officiellement, il accompagne son père, mais il demande à voir Monsieur Lewis. À la secrétaire qui semble surprise du jeune âge de Preston, il lui demande d'informer son patron que son “rendez-vous” est arrivé. Lorsqu'elle ouvre la porte du bureau de son patron, il a les jambes allongées sur un repose pieds et est en train de lire un journal. Il se croit trop supérieur pour travailler comme ses employés. C'est pourquoi il se repose et se détend. En voyant Preston derrière sa secrétaire, il lui fait signe de venir le rejoindre et de s'agenouiller à ses pieds. La secrétaire les laisse tranquille.
Seul dans le bureau, Preston espère trouver un moyen de faire diversion pour pouvoir vérifier si Monsieur Lewis dit la vérité à propos du vol de l'entreprise par son père, Monsieur Livetroy. Il constate alors que Monsieur Lewis est pieds nus et lui offre de lui masser les pieds.
“Je vois que tu as appris ta place”, lui répond Joey Lewis avec un air supérieur.
Preston commence à masser les pieds puants de Joey Lewis pendant que celui-ci reprend la lecture de son journal, ignorant la présence de Preston comme s'il était normal que le jeune fils d'un de ses employés lui massent les pieds ! Une demi heure passe pendant laquelle Preston masse du mieux qu'il peut les pieds de Joey Lewis, et n'hésite pas à donner des petits bisous aux orteils, ce qui pousse Joey à ordonner à Preston de lécher aussi les semelles de ses pieds. Au bout d'un moment, Joey veut aller manger, et va manger parmi ses employés en faisant exprès de les déranger avec ses bruits de bouche, ses rots et ses pets pendant qu'ils travaillent aussi ou qu'ils mangent.
Preston profite du fait que Joey est parti manger avec ses employés pour fouiller dans son ordinateur. Soudain, il se rend compte que Joey a presque finit de manger et décide de lui ramener un donuts en dessert, comme s'il voulait que Joey soit encore plus gros. Joey est content de voir l'empressement de Preston à vouloir lui faire plaisir.
Mais alors que Preston espérait que Joey fasse une sieste pour pouvoir fouiller encore dans son ordinateur, Joey lui demande de faire une promenade avec lui. Les autres employés commentent le rapprochement entre leur patron et le fils de Monsieur Livetroy, qui fait comme s'il ne se rendait pas compte que son fils sort avec le patron.
Plusieurs jours passent ainsi pendant lesquels Joey et Preston mangent et se promènent ensemble, et font l'amour le soir venu. Peu à peu, Preston commence à tomber amoureux, mais il doit absolument découvrir si le patron a dit la vérité à propos de son père. Il est en train de regarder l'ordinateur de Monsieur Lewis quand celui-ci arrive. Il le colle contre le mur et se met à le gifler violemment.
JOEY LEWIS : “Tu m'espionnes? Je ne te laisse plus le choix maintenant : si tu ne veut pas que je dénonce ton père, tu vas te marier avec moi !”
Voilà quelque chose auquel Preston ne se serait jamais attendu !
PARTIE PAR @writinggross
« Vous épouser ? » Preston est sous le choc. Il est vrai qu'il s'est retrouvé amoureux de cet homme, trouvant ses différentes odeurs excitantes ou réconfortantes, mais le mariage est un engagement énorme. Il aime leur relation actuelle, mais cela a toujours été un moyen pour parvenir à une fin. Un moyen de protéger sa famille. Bien que, pense-t-il, il ait également toujours prévu d'épouser un homme riche, et Joey promettait de ne jamais porter plainte contre son père. Il pensait qu'il épouserait un vieux gars riche vaguement tolérable pour son argent, pas par amour, et Joey pourrait être un moyen d'obtenir les deux. Il a fait de son mieux pour nier son attirance croissante. Il sait ce que penseront ses amis, ce que pensera la société en général. Joey est un homme vraiment repoussant. C'est ce qu'il pensait quand il l'a rencontré pour la première fois, et ce que tout le monde pense évidemment. Est-il vraiment prêt à faire quelque chose d'aussi humiliant que d'épouser un homme comme ça ? En gros, annoncer au monde que, qu'ils croient qu'il aime Joey ou non, il est prêt à avoir des relations sexuelles avec cet homme ?
PRESTON LIVETROY : « Oui, Joey. Bien sûr que je vais t'épouser.
JOEY LEWIS : « Tu veux être mon mari ? Prouve-le ». Il relâche son emprise sur Preston et prend du recul.
PRESTON LIVETROY : “Comment ?”
Joey sourit. Il laisse tomber son pantalon, puis ses sous-vêtements, et se penche sur son large bureau en acajou, mettant en valeur son gros cul poilu.
JOEY LEWIS : « Tu es un bon acteur, mais je vois le dégoût sur ton visage à chaque fois que je pète ou que je te dis que je vais chier. Si tu veux que je te croie, tu ferais mieux de te mettre à genoux et de manger mon gros cul sale.“
Preston déglutit. Il peut voir le trou poilu émerger d'entre ces fesses gigantesques. Il peut le sentir - rance et non lavé. Il ne veut pas faire ça, mais il n'a pas le choix. Pas seulement parce qu'il a besoin de protéger son père, mais aussi parce qu'il ne mentait pas vraiment. Il veut épouser Joey Lewis. Quoi qu'il en coûte. Il se met à genoux derrière l'homme, le visage brûlant et le nez rempli de la plus infecte odeur - comme de vieux pets mélangés à des pets frais mélangés à la puanteur de merde des toilettes d'une station-service - et plonge. Il enfonce son visage entre ces épaisses fesses jusqu'à ce qu'il puisse sentir l'anus poilu de l'homme battre contre ses lèvres. Il le lèche.
Le goût est pire que l'odeur. Preston n'est pas sûr qu'il y ait encore de la merde qui colle encore au pubis et il essaie de ne pas y penser. Le goût de la merde crue, mêlée de sueur et de musc agresse sa bouche. Il prend un autre coup de langue. Quelque chose remue dans ses tripes, puis dans son pantalon. Il a une érection. Preston est étourdi et dégouté, mais il est également excité. Ses genoux lui font mal à force d'être à genoux derrière le gros Joey, mais il pousse son visage jusqu'à ce que sa langue soit à l'intérieur de Joey, entrant et sortant. Lui enfonce sa langue le plus loin possible dans son cul puant. Joey gémit et ses fesses se tendent. Un pet rance éclate dans la bouche de Preston et il recule en toussant.
JOEY LEWIS : « Retournes-y. Tu es ici pour me faire plaisir. » Preston fait ce qu'on lui dit.
Il avale le pet suivant, son estomac se soulevant en signe de protestation, mais sa bite adore ça. Il défait son pantalon et commence à se toucher. Il gémit dans le cul de Joey. Il aime n'être qu'un lécheur de cul.
JOEY : "Assez. Enlève mes chaussures.”
Preston enlève les mocassins marron de Joey, puis enlève les chaussettes moites et blanches devenues grises. L'homme plus âgé appuie son pied nu et en sueur sur l'érection du plus jeune et le broie jusqu'à ce que Preston gémisse. Joey soulève son estomac, exhibant sa propre bite en érection.
JOEY LEWIS : “Suce moi !”
Preston prend volontiers le pénis épais dans sa bouche. Depuis leur premier rendez-vous, c'est devenu l'une de ses activités préférées. Eh bien, ça et lécher ses aisselles grasses. Il adore vénérer Joey. Son visage est entouré d'un gros ventre plein de graisse, Preston a son visage enfoui dans le pubis trempé de sueur de Joey, il peut à peine respirer, mais il s'en fiche. Il ne faut pas longtemps avant qu'ils jouissent tous les deux.
JOEY LEWIS : « Eh bien. Je suppose que nous ferions mieux de commencer les préparatifs du mariage. Va le dire à ton père.“
Preston s'extirpe de sous le gros ventre énorme de l'homme qui aime. Son visage et ses cheveux sont trempés et il sent comme l'odeur d'un vestiaire. Sa chemise bleue et son pantalon gris ont tous deux des tâches blanches fraîches : le sperme de Joey et le sien.
PRESTON LIVETROY : "Je vais juste me nettoyer d’abord.”
JOEY LEWIS : “Non. Tu iras comme ça.”
Preston ouvre la bouche pour discuter, mais le sourire narquois sinistre de Joey le pousse à se taire. “Je veux que tout le monde voie ce que je t'ai fait.”, lui dit Joey le gros pervers.
PARTIE PAR @submissivegayfrenchboy
Preston Livetroy n'a aucune envie d'être vu ainsi par ceux qui sont les collègues de son père, ou autrement dit les employés de celui qui sera peut-être son époux. Preston a les cheveux gras après avoir été sous l'énorme ventre bien gras de sueur de Joey, il a encore un peu du sperme de Joey au coin de la bouche, son haleine sent les pets car il a du respirer et avaler dans sa bouche les longs pets puants de Joey, et son nez est devenu marron car il a du renifler le cul de Joey qui était encore couvert de merde car il ne s'était pas assez essuyé la dernière fois qu'il a chié ! Autant dire qu'il n'a jamais été aussi dégradé. Preston ne voyait qu'une seule solution pour ne pas être vu : cacher son visage par ses mains et marcher le plus rapidement possible. Mais c'était sans compter sur Joey qui ouvrit la porte de son bureau et cria :
JOEY LEWIS : “Merci pour cette belle fellation mon amour, j'en avais bien besoin, mon petit lécheur de cul que j'aime de tout mon cœur ! J'ai hâte de te revoir pour qu'on passe l'amour toute la nuit comme tu aimes !”
Et juste après ça, il referma la porte de son bureau. Tous les regards s'étaient tournés vers Preston : quel drôle de façon, pensaient les employés, d'annoncer qu'il existait une relation amoureuse entre Joey et Preston. Ils étaient ravis de savoir qu'ils ne seraient plus les cibles de Joey, du moins espéraient ils que leur gros patron allait arrêter de leur roter ou péter au visage, ou bien de venir dans leurs bureaux juste pour laisser son odeur de sueur ! Cependant, lorsqu'ils virent le visage, ils ignoraient s'ils devaient être choqués ou dégoutés, s'ils devaient se moquer ou s'apitoyer sur le sort de Preston.
Il y eut donc des réactions assez différentes : certaines rirent bruyamment quand ils comprirent que la tâche marron était de la merde et que Preston était un vrai leche-cul, mais d'autres voulurent lui montrer un visage compatissant pour ne pas qu'il les dénoncent auprès de leur patron. D'autres encore se fichaient du visage de Preston, et considérer qu'il avait bien dû être consentant. Quoi qu'il en soit, Preston se dépêcha de rentrer chez lui. Il fallait maintenant qu'il annonce la demande en mariage de Joey Lewis à ses parents. Finalement, Joey l'appela le soir-même pour lui ordonner de l'inviter à venir chez lui pour annoncer lui-même à ses parents qu'il comptait épouser Preston.
Preston prévint ses parents que Monsieur Lewis allait passer à leur appartement. Monsieur Livetroy, le père de Preston, avait toujours adopté un comportement soumis envers son patron. Il ne désirait qu'être bien vu par monsieur Lewis et lui obéissait toujours. Il avait trop besoin de cet emploi pour oser se plaindre des odeurs corporelles de son patron. Quand Monsieur Lewis arriva à leur appartement, le père de Preston lui demanda s'il pouvait lui permettre de lui enlever son manteau pour l'aider. Monsieur Lewis trouvait cela normal étant donné qu'il était plus âgé et plus riche que Monsieur Livetroy soit obséquieux envers lui. Monsieur Livetroy n'arrêtait pas de dire “Qu'est ce que vous êtes bien habillé aujourd'hui, Monsieur Lewis” ou encore “C'est un si grand honneur de vous recevoir chez nous, cher patron”. Sa femme lui demanda ce qu'il voulait boire, et il lui demanda de ramener un verre de cognac pendant qu'il s'installa sur le large fauteuil qui était celui du père de Preston. Preston arriva.
JOEY LEWIS : “Ah, mon chéri, viens voir ton papa, fait lui un gros câlin. Tu m'as manqué.”
Le père de Preston fut surpris de voir que le “papa” dont parlait Monsieur Lewis était…. lui-même ! Joey Lewis tapa sa grosse cuisse et Preston, qui était léger en raison de sa minceur, comprit que le patron de son père voulait qu'il s'assoit sur ses cuisses. Cela était un peu embarassant de s'asseoir sur les cuisses de ce gros homme puant plus âgé que lui, en particulier devant ses parents. Mais il obéit.
JOEY LEWIS : “Je suis venu chez vous pour vous annoncer mon mariage. Oui, je vais me marier avec votre fils. Je ne vous demande pas la permission. Je sais qu'il en a très envie. Je l'aime et je vais le protéger et le faire vivre dans le luxe, et je sais que votre fils m'aime aussi.”
Pendant qu'il disait cela, Monsieur Lewis mit son doigt dans ses narines comme un gros dégoûtant et en sortit une crotte de nez qu'il mit directement dans la bouche de Preston pour le forcer à la manger. Ses parents firent comme s'ils n'avaient rien vu mais cela fut difficile de ne pas être surpris de savoir que leur fils d'une vingtaine d'années allait épouser par amour un homme plus âgé que lui, et surtout un gros pervers dégoûtant qui prenait plaisir à péter partout. Or, il est riche.
CHAPITRE 3 : UN MARIAGE HEUREUX
Preston ne fut pas surpris que ses parents accueillent aussi bien la nouvelle de son mariage avec Joey Lewis : son père pouvait espérer avoir une promption, et sa mère considérer que Joey Lewis est le meilleur époux que son fils puisse trouver. Joey Lewis est certes un gros homme dégoûtant, mais si son fils en est amoureux, pourquoi se priverait-il d'être avec un homme riche et influent ? Malgré le sincère amour qu'il avait commencé à ressentir pour Joey, Preston ne pouvait pas révéler à ses parents que Joey Lewis menaçait d'exposer le vol de l'entreprise qu'avait commis le père de Preston. Les amis de Preston furent sûrement personnes les plus surprises par l'annonce de son mariage avec Joey. Ils étaient contents que leur ami n'est pas à se battre contre sa famille pour qu'ils acceptent sa relation amoureuse avec un homme comme Joey, mais ils étaient quand même très étonnés du choix de Preston. Comment un jeune étudiant comme lui pouvait accepter aussi facilement de se marier avec un homme qui était si gros, qui pue autant ?
Il les convainquit que ce mariage était dicté par l'amour, et pas son envie d'être riche. Il leur fit comprendre qu'il aimait Joey plus que tout au monde. Cela paraissait difficile à croire pour les amis de Joey quand ils voyaient que Joey n'est pas gêné pour roter et péter partout où il va. De toute façon, ce qui les attristait le plus était de ne plus pouvoir revoir leur ami à l'université. En effet, en épousant un homme riche et connu comme Joey Lewis, Preston Livetroy ne pouvait plus poursuivre ses études sans être reconnu. Il renonça à ses études par amour, mais était toujours curieux d'apprendre des choses nouvelles, et rassura ses amis en leur disant qu'il les inviterait au luxueux appartement de Joey, et qu'ils pourraient venir dans la villa de Joey pendant les vacances. Cela convainquit les amis de Preston sur le fait que ce mariage devait absolument avoir lieu !
Preston prit beaucoup de plaisir à organiser le mariage. Il organisa cela assez rapidement, et tint à respecter la tradition : il avait celui quelque chose de bleu, quelque chose de neuf, quelque chose d'ancien, et quelque chose d'emprunté. Il portait donc un bracelet bleu, une veste blanche empruntée à un ami, un collier argenté qui lui venait d'un aïeul, et sa mère lui avait offert une nouvelle fleur à accrocher à sa veste. Il agissait clairement comme la femme dans le couple qu'il forme avec Joey, mais n'avait rien à faire des critiques. Preston était plein de grâce et de délicatesse, il marchait avec beaucoup de légèreté. Tout le contraire de la démarche de Joey qui avançait à pas lourds en laissant des pets derrière lui.
Au moment du baiser, après s'être juré fidélité (seul Preston avait juré obéissance à Joey, et Joey avait juré protection à Joey, ce qui montrait bien les rapports de soumission et de domination dans leur couple), Joey embrassa Preston dans un long baiser et lui rota doucement dans la bouche ! Heureusement, tout le monde applaudissait les mariés donc personne n'entendit que Preston venait d'avaler le rot de son nouveau mari. Il était ensuite temps d'aller manger et danser. Les personnes qui vinrent au mariage étaient les personnes qui approuvent le mariage entre Joey et Preston : tous ceux qui n'acceptaient pas leur mariage étaient restés chez eux.
Il ne pouvait y avoir de contraste plus saisissant qu'entre les proches des deux mariés, ce contraste étant le reflet des différences entre Joey et Preston. D'un côté, les proches de Preston, en dehors des membres de sa famille, étaient des gens jeunes, des amis d'enfance ou de lycée, et ceux qu'il avait rencontré à l'université. Joey, lui, n'avait pas pû inviter beaucoup de membres de famille, car certains étaient déjà morts. En revanche, il avait invité - en dehors de quelques uns de ses employés préférés et de ceux qui espéraient se faire bien voir de lui - des amis, âgés de 30 à 60 ans. Certains étaient gros, d'autres poilus, d'autres étaient musclés, d'autres encore avaient une forte odeur corporelle comme Joey Lewis : dans l'ensemble, les amis de Joey étaient surtout des ours ! Pourtant, plusieurs amis de Preston comprirent pourquoi leur ami avait pu tomber amoureux, ou en tout cas être attiré par les hommes gros et imposants. Aucun d'eux ne donnaient l'impression que leur apparence physique était importante, ils étaient juste drôles ou dominants. Certains venaient à la table des amis de Preston pour leur lâcher des rots ou des pets à la tête, en disant que c'était juste pour rire. Au début, les amis de Preston semblaient vraiment dégoutés. Mais au fur et à mesure, ils s'habituèrent à l'humour douteux des ours et désiraient qu'on leur rote à la tête !
Certains amis de Preston aimaient juste danser ou rigoler avec les amis de Joey, mais d'autres espéraient sincèrement qu'il se passe quelque chose. C'était le cas de Jessica, une amie de Preston, qui avait rattrapé le bouquet de fleurs de mariage qu'avait lancé Preston par dessus son épaule après la cérémonie, comme le veut la tradition. Elle n'avait désormais deux que pour Robert, un ami de Joey, d'une trentaine d'années et avec un gros ventre. Il rigolait beaucoup mais avec une attitude de macho. Elle le trouvait très attirant, et passa sa soirée à lui apporter des parts de gâteaux pour le nourrir et le rendre encore plus gros.
Michael, un ami hétérosexuel de Preston, passa la soirée du mariage à sucer et à se faire enculer par les gros ours, lui qui pensait ne jamais rien faire avec des hommes !
Ainsi, des couples se formèrent entre les amis de Joey et ceux de Preston : pour certains ce fut juste des relations sexuelles sans lendemain, et pour d'autres c'était le début d'une histoire d'amour, hétérosexuelle ou pas, ou même des relations amicales.
De son côté, Preston demanda en cadeau de mariage à son mari qu'il supprime les preuves du détournement de fond qu'avait fait son père. Entre deux rots, car il mangeait énormément, Joey répondit à Preston qu'il acceptait de le faire par amour pour lui. En vérité, ce serait assez simple de supprimer les preuves, tout simplement car il n'y avait jamais eu de détournement de fond !
Depuis le début, Joey avait manipulé Preston en faisant croire que son père avait volé de l'argent à l'entreprise. Mais il avait fait cela pour s'assurer d'avoir un partenaire sexuel régulier. Il ne se doutait pas qu'ils finiraient tous les deux par tombés amoureux. Mais Joey ne se voyait pas risquer son mariage avec un homme qui l'appréciait véritablement, sans être dégouté par son corps et ses odeurs corporelles, ni intéressé par sa fortune. Il savait aussi qu'il était l'homme parfait pour Preston. Il était temps désormais de penser à la nuit de noce.
JOEY LEWIS : “Oui c'est ça bébé, suce ma grosse bite je sais que tu aime ça, viens boire le lait que vas te donner ton papa chéri ! Oui, tu vas faire ça plusieurs heures sans t'arrêter, je veut pas jouir trop rapidement, je veut que tu me suce longtemps et convenablement ! Oohhh!!ohh oui fait bien tourner ta douce petite langue sur la bite de vrai mâle, c'est ça sur ma bite comme une sucette mon bébé ! Oh oui, maintenant suce mes couilles, suce les, oh oui hummmm, régale toi de la sueur de mes grosses couilles puantes, mon bébé ! Ta bouche est merveilleuse, je t'aime !”
Après que sa fellation ait bien excité son mari, Preston obéit à Joey qui lui ordonna de se mettre à quatre pattes sur le lit. Joey pénétra Preston, et son gros ventre rebondissait sur le dos de Preston pendant qu'il l'enculait. La baise dura longtemps car ils s'étaient retenus de faire l'amour pendant plus d'une semaine. C'était aussi la durée depuis laquelle Joey n'avait pas pris de douche. Autant dire que la sueur s'était accumulée et que Preston allait devoir lécher toute la sueur du corps de Joey. Celui ci finit par éjaculer en Preston et s'écroula de tout son poids sur le fragile jeune homme qu'il avait épousé. Ils s'embrassèrent pour s'endormir avant de profiter du corps l'un de l'autre. Preston et Joey n'avait jamais été aussi heureux quand s'endormant ce soir là dans les bras l'un de l'autre, enfin marié à l'homme fait pour eux.
Depuis leur mariage, Joey Lewis emmène Preston partout avec lui pour le montrer tel un trophée. Il est heureux d'avoir à ses côtés un très beau jeune homme. Le contraste entre les deux est saisissant : Joey Lewis est bien plus gros, bien plus âgé que son mari. Pourtant, personne n'ose critiquer leur couple en raison de la fortune et de l'influence de Joey Lewis qui a le pouvoir d'empêcher les critiques.
Le reste du temps, quand Preston Livetroy, qui doit maintenant porter le nom de son époux (car il en est légalement la propriété), n'est pas invité à des cérémonies en compagnie de son époux, il reste dans leur luxueux appartement où il nettoie et range les vêtements sales de son mari. Joey Lewis n'a pas changé ses habitudes : malgré sa richesse, il n'est pas dérangé par le fait de porter plusieurs jours de suite les mêmes chaussettes et les mêmes caleçons, les caleçons se retrouvent pleins de tâches jaunes et marrons car Joey ne s'essuie pas après avoir pissé et chié.
Preston est tellement amoureux de son époux, il ne supporte pas d'en être éloigné durant la journée : tous ce qui le dégoûtait au début chez Joey Lewis (son corps, son odeur, ses manières, ses flatulences, son langage, son attitude d'homme supérieur…) est maintenant ce qui l'attire, ce qui l'excite, ce qui le rend accro à son mari. Il en est fou amoureux, et aime tellement sa puanteur et sa sueur, l'odeur de ses pieds puants et ses pets. Comme il est seul la journée, il arrive que Preston, au lieu de les laver, mette une paire de chaussettes sales dans sa bouche pour en avaler les gouttes de sueur, et un caleçon sale sur sa tête pour respirer par le nez l'odeur du cul, des pets, des couilles et de la bite de son époux.
Quand Joey rentre à la maison, il embrasse de longues minutes Preston avant de jeter ses affaires partout dans la maison car il sait que son petit mari obéissant va tout ranger après. S'il a très faim - ce qui est souvent le cas - il passe directement à table pendant que son mari Preston le suce et lèche ses couilles, ou il lui lèche les pieds. Sinon, Joey peut vouloir passer un moment romantique en dînant en compagnie de son époux, qui bien sûr aura fait la cuisine et débarrasse la table, puis fait la vaisselle pendant que Joey se pose sur le canapé pour choisir ce qu'il veut voir à la télévision, imposant son choix à son époux.
Lorsqu'ils vont se coucher, Joey baise Preston et écrase son gros corps sur le mince et fragile petit Preston, qui aime être écrasé par son époux plus imposant que lui. Ensuite, Preston nettoie la bite de son mari pleine de sperme jusqu'à ce qu'il s'endorme. Sinon, si son mari dort sur le ventre, il lui lèche le cul. Mais il arrive très souvent à Preston de passer la nuit dans le cul de Joey : le cul de Joey est tellement gros et la tête de Preston est si petite que Preston reste coincé dans le cul de Joey ! La seule odeur qu'il peut respirer est celle du cul de Joey. Sous la couverture, l'odeur des pets, qui atteignent son nez directement, est conservée, ce qui fait qu'il renifle les pets de son mari dans tous les cas. Joey sue du cul, ce qui fait que Preston a le visage couvert de pets et de sueur de cul, mais il aime quand même cela car il sait que son mari apprécie de se faire lécher le cul dans son sommeil.
Sinon, les deux époux se font des câlins après le “bain de langue” que Preston donne à Joey en léchant son corps. Preston pose sa légère petite tête sur l'épaule de son mari, mais il arrive que sa tête tombe dans l'aisselle de son mari et que celui-ci referme son bras, ce qui fait que Preston passe la nuit la tête dans l'aisselle puante de Joey, qu'il embrasse et lèche. Preston, évidemment, adore aussi caresser et embrasser le gros ventre de Joey.
Malgré sa fortune, Joey Lewis a gardé des goûts simples. Il ne cherche pas à intégrer les milieux mondains et à être dans le luxe en permanence. Il aime bien gâter son mari, mais comme Preston doit être intégralement nu en sa présence, cela ne lui change rien. Joey exige de Preston qu'il soit toujours entièrement imberbe et propre : lui seul peut se permettre de suer et de sentir mauvais ! Parmi les goûts simples que Joey Lewis a conservé, il y a la pêche et le camping. Il continue de partir en forêt avec ses amis de longue date, qui, comme lui, sont tous devenus des hommes très gros et puants. Joey se sent bien entouré de ces hommes comme lui, qui rotent et pètent bruyamment sans s'excuser. Preston, lui, se sent toujours intimidé en présence de ces hommes masculins et puissants, qui sont plus grands ou plus gros que lui, ou les deux.
Quand Joey a présenté Preston à ses amis, il lui a ordonné de se dévêtir intégralement, pour qu'ils puissent tous admirer jalousement le joli corps que Joey peut embrasser, lécher, caresser ou même torturer selon son plaisir.
Il leur avait dit : “Vous voyez, Preston est à moi. Il ne me quittera jamais. Il m'est dévoué et son seul but est ma satisfaction. Comme je suis heureux de l'avoir dans ma vie. En plus, j'ai plus à me préoccuper du ménage, il fait tout dans l'appartement.”
Ses amis admirent Joey pour avoir réussi à être aimé d'un beau garçon qui n'est pas dérangé pas son corps immense et par ses odeurs corporelles. Eux aussi aimeraient bien être aimé d'un jeune garçon qui les verraient comme les plus beaux hommes du monde et seraient prêt à tout pour eux, même devenir leur papier toilette humain comme Preston l'est pour Joey, ou de renifler leurs pets et dire qu'ils sentent merveilleusement bon.
Un jour, Joey avait organisé un séjour en forêt avec ses amis. Preston portait les affaires, faisait à manger, masser les pieds, servait de repose pieds et devait rester nu. S'il voulait avoir chaud, il devait se blottir dans les bras de son mari. Il s'asseyait sur les genoux de son mari et passait ses bras autour du cou de Joey, ou alors Joey le prenait dans ses bras et le réchauffait. Les amis de Joey - tous gros et puants, certains poilus et d'autres moins voire pas du tout - aimaient péter ou roter sur le visage de Preston, avec l'accord de Joey qui rigolait beaucoup. À la fin du séjour, ils avaient décidés de ne lui donner à manger que s'il arrivait les yeux clos à deviner qui venait de lui péter au visage. Il avait droit de mettre son nez à l'intérieur du cul de celui qui lui avait péter au visage pour trouver plus rapidement. Et s'il n'y arrivais toujours pas, il pouvait lécher le cul de celui qui lui avait péter au visage. Tout cela n'était qu'un prétexte pour la bande de gros hommes pour se faire lécher le cul par un fragile jeune homme. Ils jouèrent au même jeu en lui faisant deviner à qui appartenaient les pieds et les aisselles qu'ils lui faisaient lécher et/ou renifler, pour leur plus grand plaisir.
La nuit, les hommes aimaient dormir avec Preston entre eux. Chaque nuit, deux hommes différents eurent l'autorisation de Joey de dormir dans la tente de Preston. Il était écrasé par les deux énormes ventres des hommes qui dormaient autour de lui. Parfois, ils voulaient placer leurs pieds sur le visage de Preston pendant son sommeil, ou alors l'un d'eux enculait Preston pendant que l'autre embrassait Preston sur la bouche. D'autres aimaient avoir leur cul leché pendant leur sommeil, et Preston passait sa nuit dans l'odeur des pets des amis de Joey.
L'âge de Joey et son alimentation grasse lui apportait des problèmes de santé cachés par son attitude dominante et son charisme. Preston était constamment excité par le corps de son mari, plein de gras et de sueur, et en était fou amoureux. Pourtant, il savait que la phrase “jusqu'à ce que le mort nous sépare” prononcée à son mariage n'était she trop vrai : comment survivrait-il à la perte de son époux ? Sans chercher à répondre à l'avance à cette question, il ne souhaitait que profiter du confort matériel apporté par la richesse de son mari, et surtout de ce sentiment de protection que lui apporte Joey. Quand à Joey, même si devant tout le monde il se montrait comme un homme sûr de lui, il était reconnaissant d'avoir pu épouser un jeune garçon qui l'accepte tel qu'il est, avec son gros corps puant et ses manières dégoûtantes. Qui aurait-pu croire qu'une relation amoureuse serait née entre ces deux êtres ? Eh bien, tout ceux qui croient en l'amour qui dépasse les apparences savent que l'on peut aimer qui l'on veut, et que tout arrive pour qui sait attendre. Tout le monde mérite d'être aimé.
FIN DE L'HISTOIRE
❤️❤️
ENGLISH / ANGLAIS
Today I’m posting a personal fictional story written in collaboration with the author @writinggross. This one has one of the best blogs on Tumblr because it is very quirky and creative. His stories are about fat, dirty, smelly men who dominate and humiliate guys their age or younger, but usually thin and submissive, or who become submissive. I love - and I’ve told him this many times before - the way he manages to make fat, sweaty guys’ bodies horny. Not everyone is tall, muscular, and there are different types of beauties. I find it original to have chosen to take disgusting men in the role of the dominant man because it makes the relationship with his submissive even more degrading for the submissive: to be in love or to obey a man who looks like a big disgusting pig is really to be very low in the human scale, according to the criteria of current beauty. Yet @writinggross shows us with undeniable talent that tall, muscular and powerful men aren’t the only ones who can turn us on for their domineering side.
We’re both inspired by each other’s work, I know my stories of human grooming have inspired him, and I’m really happy that I got to collaborate on this story with such a talented author. I sincerely hope that this collaboration can be renewed.
This story changes from my usual stories where the dominant man is rather tall and muscular, a handsome sportsman, a young boss or a rich superior man. In this story, a young man in his twenties, rather short and thin (but even if he is tall it does not change much to the story) is seduced by his father’s boss, a good man bigger and much older than him. I have chosen to illustrate our story with images of white men, but you are free to imagine the characters with any skin color you choose. The boss is supposed to be between 40 and 55 years old, but then again you can imagine him a little younger (35 years old) or older (up to 65 years old).
Do not hesitate to let us know your impressions because this story took a long time, but we had a lot of fun. Tell us if you want us to renew our collaboration, in any case I would be a real pleasure to write a new story with the talented author who is @writinggross. Good reading !
PERSONAL FICTIONAL STORY written in collaboration with @writinggross
- A DISGUSTING LOVE AFFAIR -
CHAPTER 1 - A STRANGE RELATIONSHIP
PART BY @writinggross
Preston taps his fingers on his knees, then clenches his hand, then unclenches it and starts tapping again. He doesn’t want to look too nervous, that might draw attention to him. He runs his fingers through his hair. It’s near his shoulders, but his dad told him not to cut it, that his hair was part of his appeal. It frames his face nicely, softening his features and emphasizing how young he is. “Mr Lewis likes young boys”, his father had said, “and small, and cute”. Preston didn’t like thinking of himself that way, but as a twenty-year-old with no muscle-tone, he supposed he could see it. Though he would never admit it to anyone, a part of him had hoped that a wealthy, older man would notice how weak and soft he is and want to take care of him. But not like this. He did not want it to be this man.
Preston had first met his father’s boss, Mr Lewis, about a month ago, at a family picnic the company was hosting. He didn’t have to go, he wasn’t a child, but free food is free food, and the fact that he still lived at home meant he was welcome. Mr Lewis had introduced himself to Preston personally, something his father had been thrilled about, and hadn’t left his side for most of the event. He could feel the obese, balding man’s eyes on him, on every part of his body, but he’d done his best to remain polite. He hadn’t commented on the disgusting B.O smell, or the pit-stains under the arms of his navy blue suit, not even when the man kept putting his arm around his waist, squeezing a little too tightly and infesting Preston with that same stench. Breathing the smell of unbrushed teeth against his cheek and neck. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had commented on it, he mused, as the man seeme
Life was difficult in [place], a poor country where water was as scarce as the government was corrupt. Dan, son of the cruel and selfish leader, thought he was doing the nation a service when he turned a blind-eye to the men sneaking into their home that night. He was right, the country would be better off without his father, but this didn’t mean he would be rewarded for his decision. Far from it. His father may be dead, but his influence wasn’t. Those in charge of his sentencing would make sure he was punished to the sickest extent of the law.
[Place] didn’t considered the death penalty to be nearly cruel enough for its criminals. Instead, they found a way to use their worse inmates as a sort of water-conservation system. In order to ensure that no lesser inmates would ever dehydrate, they did away with all toilets and showers, redirecting all available water to the drinking fountains.
But what, you may be asking, did they replace those bathrooms with? You’d be better off not knowing. Dan certainly thought so. As he was dragged, naked, through the prison alongside seven other new convicts, he wished he didn’t already know the potential fates awaiting him—that he could share in the other mens’ fearful ignorance. They looked to be running through all the worse possibilities in their heads, but Dan could bet (well, not really, he had nothing left to bet with after all) that nothing they came up with would be nearly as sadistic as the system his father had bragged, in detail, about creating. The twisted bastard had thought it was genius. An easy way to meet the demand for drinking water in the prison system without having to actually do anything about the water shortage. The system itself was sick. It was inhumane. It was the lowest form of torture a person could be subjected to.
It was what Dan would have to suffer through until his body inevitably gave out from disease.
The eight naked men were lined up in a long, empty room, with brick walls and a floor made of sticky, stained concrete. The warden, a large man who stunk like rotten onions, eyed them each critically.
‘You four,’ he yelled, pointing to two sets of men on either side of Dan. ‘Go kneel against that wall.’ He gestured behind himself. Before the men had time to react, guards were dragging them to the wall and forcing them to their knees, facing away from the bricks. Their hands were tied behind their backs and collars fastened around their necks. These collars had a chain attached, which was about a meter long and allowed for restricted movement.
Dan felt like he was going to collapse. He knew what that limited movement meant. They had just been assigned the job he was hoping—praying—for, because anything would be better than the alternative.
‘You scum,’ the warden grinned at the restrained men, ‘will be working as this block’s showers. Your jobs are to lick the other inmates clean wherever they tell you to. The slack in your leashes is so you can get up far enough to lick the stink out of their sweaty armpits. You’ll be rationed small amounts of water and one meal each day to keep you alive, and your mouths will be disinfected at the end of each day.’
The men all looked horrified. One seemed like he was going to argue, but a nearby guard put his hand on his gun, and that scared away any words. The other three looked ready to cry.
The warden chuckled. ‘Don’t look so down. Your position should be considered a mercy—at least compared to what these subhumans have to do.’
That line must have been a que, because the guards started moving in sync to force Dan and the other three men to their knees a few feet in front of the other wall. Dan didn’t fight as his arms were tied and his ankles shackled to the floor. He allowed them to pry his mouth open and fit it with a ring gag. He didn’t try to shake off the toilet seat that was hung around his neck, so the inmates wouldn’t accidentally confuse him for a shower. He didn’t resist at all, because despite the guards carrying guns, he knew they were never fired. The punishment for misbehavior was much worse than that. Much worse than this, even. His father had bragged about creating that rule, too.
‘You four are the toilets. That job is exactly what it sounds like. You won’t be fed or given water, as you won’t need it. You’ll get more than enough piss and shit to keep alive, at least until you develop some disease or die of malnutrition. Your mouths will remain open at all times, so you won’t be able to chew your meals, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Our inmates are on extremely high fiber diets. Don’t look at me like that,’ he snapped at the man next to Dan, who had begun sobbing, ‘you deserve this. You are four of the worst criminals in this country, and this is where that got you. Consider this death row—most toilets don’t live very long.’
The warden started towards the door, but stopped in front of Dan. He undid his belt, lowered his pants and underwear, then pressed his hairy asshole to Dan’s nostrils. Dan tried to breath through his already wide-open mouth, but just ended up sucking in the warden’s saggy, obviously unwashed balls. The taste in his mouth was bitter and salty. The hole twitched, and a hot fart bubbled up Dan’s nose. He groaned at the rancid, eggy smell, but had no choice but to breath is in. It was followed up by a burning, silent fart that made his head light and the skin around his nose feel like it’d been dabbed with scolding water. Or, more like scolding, boiled diarrhea, if the smell was anything to go by.
After the warden left with the guards, the prison doctor came by. He knelt in front of the toilets and unzipped a case full of syringes. Upon seeing their wide eyes, he smiled kindly. ‘This shot is a little something to ease your transition. It will temporarily remove your ability to throw up.’
Dan figured that made sense. He didn’t imagine many people could swallow human shit without throwing up, and if everyone was covered in shit-vomit in a prison without showers there’d be riots. This whole system was put in place to end the previous riots for water.
The doctor injected each of them in the neck. Once he was done, there was a sound outside. Many sounds. The cacophonous banging of hundreds of feet, all heading in there direction.
‘Lunch is over,’ the doctor said. ‘Good thing I came by when I did, your all about to be very busy. It was curry day, and I heard the meat wasn’t exactly… fresh.’
One of the toilets groaned, and another released a loud sob. Dan watched in the beginnings of a cold sweat as the doctor skipped out of there, leaving them to their fates.
Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes of tense waiting, the door reopened. Dozens of men bustled in, with more lined ep outside, hunched forwards and with their hands on their stomachs. The first four each rushed to a toilet, while the others stood behind them, pacing and telling them to be quick.
The man in front of Dan looked to be about fifty and had a large stomach, which bubbled loudly as he turned his ass to Dan and ripped down his pants. Dan barely had time to notice the thick cheeks as they were pulled apart to reveal an already pulsing asshole, surrounded by thick grey hairs. His lips were forced against those hairs as the man leaned into him. Immediately, it started.
A thick sludge poured into Dan’s mouth, the acidity burning his tongue but not completely hiding the rotten, bitter taste. As he swallowed it down, surprised and disgusted by his body’s lack of resistance, he found hard pieces of shit, like tiny pebbles, getting caught under his tongue. He didn’t have time to dislodge them as the ass tensed against him, the anus protruding out far enough to touch his tongue, and sprayed a mix of air and hot diarrhea through his mouth. The taste was too horrid to describe, and his vision began to waver. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him conscious. He swallowed all of it down, and as the man got up, he breathed deeply. When the air hit his tongue it tasted like a mixture of bile, vinegar, and something so horrid he didn’t want to name it.
Dan didn’t have much time to catch his breath. Once that man was finished, another one took his place. This guy was younger, maybe Dan’s age, and had a smaller frame. Unlike the last guy, he didn’t just push his ass against Dan’s face, he sat down completely, balancing his feet on Dan’s bent legs.
The pain was horrific, both in his legs and in his neck as he was forced to hold someone’s entire weight. Even with the anus inside his mouth, he still heard the wet squelch as the thick, slimy log pushed out. It touched his tongue, and Dan felt every ridge and dint as it slid against it. It hit the back of his throat and he swallowed, vaguely relieved that the warden was right, and the stool was soft enough to flatten with his throat as he swallowed it down, but also disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to choke himself out of this hell. He wasn’t sure how long his survival instinct could win here. After multiple swallows, the log was still going, one big revolting shit with a flavour somehow more overpowering than the previous liquid. Maybe it was the lack of stomach acid numbing his tastebuds, but the indescribable bitterness had brought him to tears. Once the log finally reached its end, leaving a greasy film through his mouth, the man let out a booming fart, which speckled Dan’s mouth with more flecks of diarrhea.
‘Oops, I think that curry’s finally hitting me.’ The man laughed.
Dan was wrong. Very wrong. It wasn’t that solid shit tastes worse than liquid, this man’s bowels were just built differently. He had bowels from hell, Dan thought, as he sobbed into his ass-crack. Even without the ability to vomit, he still struggled to swallow the brown waterfall due to the sheer intensity of the taste.
That wasn’t the end of it.
By the end of the day, Dan had been used by a total of twenty-two different men, all with various degrees of stomach troubles. Dan felt his own stomach ache, stretched near the point of bursting. The only reprieve he got was in the form of piss, which temporarily washed away the rotten taste and replaced it with something salty, and slightly sour.
Once lockup came around, Dan and the others slumped forwards, curling over themselves with their foreheads to the ground in the only possible position for rest.
‘Wake up, shit-eaters, your work isn’t over!’
Dan flinched and forced himself back up. The warden was in the doorway, four guards behind him.
‘Inmates still need to piss and shit during the night. We got four cells in this block, about thirty to a room, and they each need a toilet. Enjoy the night shift.’
I open my eyes, slowly, and am met with an unfamiliar room. Grey cement walls and floor, a window across from me—high and narrow. A basement, maybe? It looks how basements do on TV, but we don’t have them around here. If it is a basement, it’s smaller than I would’ve expected—about the size of a bathroom. Below the window is a young man, looking to be in his twenties or maybe younger, but it’s hard to tell. He’s naked, and his wrists are chained to the walls, level with his shoulders. His skin is taut against his bones, bruised, and sickeningly pale. Looking at him fills me with cold dread. I try to move, to run away, only to realise I’m chained in the same position.
I shut my eyes and try to figure out how I got here. I went out clubbing with some friends to celebrate our high school graduation, and I got a little drunk. A lot drunk. I figured I’d be fine to walk home, but I don’t remember if that was true or not since I don’t remember the walk. I guess it mustn’t’ve been, because I’m here. Naked. Chained to a wall. Oh, fuck.
There’s the rattle of keys in a lock and the man across from me lifts his head. Now that I can see his face, I see the metal hoop gaging him, holding his mouth open. The rim is coated with something brown. It’s then that I register the rancid smell in the room. The man’s thighs are coated in his own urine and shit, so that’s probably it. The door opens and a chubby man, in his mid-late forties, wearing tracksuit pants and a sweat-stained t-shirt walks in. Before he shuts the door, I see trees and dirt behind him. We’re in the forest, then. He doesn’t say anything as he stands in front of me. He looks over my exposed body as he runs a hand through my hair. I shiver.
‘What’re you going to do to me?’ I ask, barely a whisper. His eyes are cold, like he isn’t even looking at a person.
‘I’m gonna train you,’ he says, gruffly.
‘For what?’
He points to the man across from me, who pushes himself as far back as he can into the wall, eyes wide and shaking with fear. ‘I him Shit Eater, because he eats my shit. But he’s been real sick lately, so I decided to replace him. That’s gonna be your new job.’
I shake my head, bile rising in my throat. This can’t be real. This isn’t even like something out of a horror movie, because not even horror movies get this fucked up. ‘No. No. Fuck no! You can’t make me do that, I won’t do it! You can’t force me to!’
He smirks and pulls a ring gag out of his pocket. He dangles it in front of my face, like an offer. ‘You’re right, I can shit in your mouth but I can’t make you swallow. You’ll come around to that on your own.’
‘No, I won’t.’
He chuckles. ‘You will, for two reasons: it’s all I’ll be feeding you, and if you refuse you’ll be punished.’
‘I’d rather die.’
‘You say that now, but starving hurts, and so does punishment. No matter how you feel about it, when it’s between this and dying, your body won’t give you a choice.’ He grins. ‘You’ll be surprised by what a man will do to stay alive.’
‘Fuck you.’ I spit at him. It lands on his shirt.
Instead of being angry or indignant, like I’d expected, he laughs, deep and guttural. ‘Right, gag time.’
He grabs my hair with one hand and forces my head back in one sharp pull, making me gasp. He shoves the gag into my open mouth and positions it between my teeth.
‘We’ll start with something easy.’ He turns away from me and lowers his sweatpants, revealing his bulbous, hairy ass. It smells like sweat and old farts, and I can see moisture glistening between the cheeks. My breathing speeds up and my feet scramble on the concrete, trying to push me away from him, but there is no away, only the wall behind me. The chains rattle and cut into my wrists. I try to turn my head away, but he’s too fast. He grabs my hair and shoves me into his enormous ass. I scream against the flesh, but it’s useless. He keeps pushing, the sweaty flesh sliding against my face, until my wide-open mouth is around his asshole.
‘There we go,’ he mutters. ‘Now be a good boy and hold still, and I might leave you alone for the rest of the day.’
I scream against the flesh, but it’s useless. A burst of hot air hits my tongue, burning it. The taste is horrendous, like the steam if you boiled rotten eggs. I gag as I suffer through a second, sputtering fart. Then a wet one. The next is the worst by far, and I’m sure would have been the silent kind that empties a room. My throat gurgles and he lets go of my head. I slump forwards, coughing bile onto my bare legs. There’s nothing else in my stomach to bring up.
‘A few farts is all you can take? Well, that’s a shame. This is going to take longer than I’d hoped.’
‘Fuck you,’ I try to say, but it’s incomprehensible around the gag.
He turns towards his other victim. ‘Position,’ he says.
Shit Eater (I may as well call him that, since I can’t ask his name) releases a pained groan, then shuffles forwards until there’s enough room behind him to lean his head back. His arms are bent at an unnaturally and definitely uncomfortable angle.
The man looks me in the eyes as he squats over him and grunts. My heart nearly stops as a thick log descends into my fellow captives mouth and he starts swallowing, using his tongue to flatten it piece-by-piece against the roof of his mouth, until the entire thing has been eaten. I want to cover my nose from the smell alone, so the thought of being forced to taste it makes me want to throw up again.
I’ll never do something like that. This disgusting pig won’t break me.
*
Later that day—or maybe the next morning—I wake up to the sound of that man’s keys. I passed out not long after he left last time, exhausted by my own distress. Shit Eater is watching me. His eyes look dead, but there’s a spark of something underneath. Pity, maybe? Regret? Does he blame himself that I was brought here? I wish I could tell him not to worry about it, that he’s suffered so much already, so I can’t blame him for this. I also want to ask how long he’s been here for, so I can get an idea of how long I should expect to live.
The door opens. The man’s in jeans now, so I guess it is the next day. He stands in front of me and unzips his fly. ‘Head back,’ he says, then pulls out his flaccid dick.
I lower my head further. Fuck that.
He grabs my hair and pulls it back until I’m looking at him. I glare the best I can, but there’re tears in my eyes. He grins, and I figure I must look fucking pathetic. He holds up what looks like an old jam jar, but it’s full of a yellowy-white fluid. ‘This is a jar of cum. My friends and I have been filling it for weeks. I’ve been keeping it on the dashboard of my car, right in the hot sun. You drink my piss, or I’ll tip this down your throat—I’ll use a funnel if I have to. Which do you think tastes worse? Which will make you more sick?’
He lets go of me and straightens up, waiting for my answer. I lean my head back.
‘Smart boy.’ A stream of yellow piss hits my tongue, hot and salty and ammoniac. The sight and smell of his urine would be enough to roll my stomach, but the added taste has me using all my self-control to keep swallowing it down. If I weren’t already dehydrated from who-knows-how-long without water, I wouldn’t be able to do it. When he’s finished, he leans forwards and rubs the tip of his penis on my tongue. I turn my head away and glare at him. ‘Well, it’s a good start, anyway.’
He pulls a clear plastic bottle out of a satchel over his shoulder—an item I hadn’t noticed until now and assume must be where the cum-jar disappeared to.
‘Your turn now,’ he says to Shit Eater, who leans his head back again, tongue poking out past his lips. ‘This piss was donate by some friends of mine, so I hope the taste is as good as you’re used to.’ He tips the entire bottle of yellow liquid down Shit Eaters throat.
As he swallows, he gurgles something that sounds like a ‘thank you’.
My face heats up and tears fill my eyes. I try to steady my breathing, not wanting this monster to see me break-down. How much did he have to shatter that guy’s psyche for him to be openly grateful for a bottle of piss from some strangers? Shit Eater laughs and sticks his tongue out further to lick his stained lips.
‘Next lesson now, boy. Same as yesterday.’ I’m pulled from my thoughts when the man lowers his pants to his knees. He grabs my head and shoves it into his crack, but this time my nose is to his hole and his sweaty balls are in my mouth. They taste like stale grease and salt. He farts, hot and rumbly, and I try to breath through my mouth but that just sucks his balls in further. I have no choice but to sniff up his gas. His next fart is wet and burns my nostrils—I can feel the heat travel down my throat and into my chest. The odour’s so strong I’m on the brink of passing out, but each new fart pulls me back with its revolting intensity.
He lets go and the spots begin to fade from my vision. I lean back against the wall and gasp with relief. The air probably stinks, but it tastes sterile compared to what I just experienced. There’s a pubic hair on my tongue so I turn my head sideways and lick it onto my shoulder. Gross, but not the worst this guy could put me through.
No, he’s about to demonstrate the worst he could put me through. He squats over Shit Eaters face, but unlike yesterday he doesn’t push out a log, instead out comes a mushy stream of liquid shit straight into the poor man’s mouth. It sprays across his cheeks, some droplets even landing on his neck and chest, and it reeks. I thought my nose would be useless after the ordeal it just went through, but I was wrong. I can smell the vile, sickening stench of diarrhoea. The sort that can only come from eating something rotten.
Even Shit Eater, with all of his apparent experience, is struggling. It’s coming out faster than he can swallow, causing his mouth to overflow, and his abdomen is twitching in a way that tells me he’s fighting to keep the shit down.
When it’s over, Shit Eater’s whole face is brown and his chest and neck are speckled with wet dots. The man pulls out an old pair of underwear from his satchel, turns them inside out and wipes the other man’s face with the crotch.
He comes back over to me, grinning in a way that sets my sore muscles on edge. ‘Here’s a little something to get you used to the taste.’ He shoves the underwear into my mouth, the hot, damp and shit-covered crotch pressed down against my tongue. I gag, and wretch, until finally I get a break from this nightmare as my consciousness wanes once again.
*
I’m woken by pain. Not a new pain, but the accumulation of old ones. My arms ache (what I wouldn’t give to stretch them) and my shoulders burn from the constant strain. My wrists and hands are numb, barely even tingling when I try to move my fingers, and the movement itself is never more than a twitch. My arms have been pinned beside my shoulders for who-knows-how-long now. My jaw has been locked wide-open for so long it probably isn’t capable of closing anymore. By far the worst pain, though, is in my stomach. I’m starving to the point of a tight, gnawing ach, like my insides are collapsing in on themselves. The smell of shit in the air is still nauseating, but only when I consciously think about it. Otherwise, I don’t even notice.
The door opens again.
The man leers down at me as he unbuckles his belt. Once again, he pisses down my throat, and it’s warm and disgusting, but I let him. My mouth is so dry.
‘Right. Today’s the day, boy. Are you ready for breakfast?’
My starved brain takes a moment to realise what he means, but when it does I violent shake my head. I said I’d rather die than eat his shit and I meant it. After everything he’s put me through, he won’t get that satisfaction.
‘I thought you might feel like that, so you get the same options as yesterday.’ He pulls out the cum jar. There’s more in there today, and a yellow crust has dried around the edges.
My instincts tell me to run away, to find a nice river to drown myself in so I can die without any more suffering, but at this point, even if I were no longer tied down, I doubt my legs would work. I nod weakly towards the jar. This is going to be hell, but so would the alternative, and at least this way this crazy bastard isn’t getting what he wants.
He takes the lid off the jar and the smell is a mix between chlorine and rotten fruit. There’s something so foul yet so… chemically about it. He forces my head back as far as it will go and I imagine that I’m about to be poisoned. I suppose technically it’s true, but imagining that it’s straight bleach is much more appealing than wondering how many different guys with how many different diseases came in this jar who-knows-how-long ago.
He tips half the jar in my mouth, and I swallow. It goes down like slime, leaving behind a slick, oily coating. It tastes like ammonia and sourness and rot. I gag, and my throat gurgles with bile, but I force it down, and when it’s over my stomach actually feels a little better. Having anything to eat is better than nothing.
At least, for a little while.
The man relaxes against the wall, smirking. Shit Eater looks at me with frightened eyes. Soon, I understand why. My abdomen is overtaken by a kind of agony I’ve never experienced before, like all my organs are constricting. My face turns red as my anus start to burn. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. My bowels, already empty, explode hot, liquid acid all over the floor and my feet. Tears fill my eyes from a mix of shame and pain—both the pain inside of me and on my scorching skin—but the stream doesn’t stop. I’m probably going to die of dehydration. If so, I hope it happens soon.
When the sickness passes, I sob. My skin, and my ass, and my insides are on fire, and the smell clinging to me is unbearable. I can feel the shit drying on me.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow, with the second half of the jar. Hopefully you’ll make a better choice then.’
He leaves, and I look down at my body—thin and weak and soiled.
He was right, in the end I really don’t have a choice. He’s broken me. I’ve lost.
[Contains: M/M, semi-consensual facefarting and mouth farting]
Andrew’s my step-brother. He’s my favourite person in the world, and with good reason. The bullying at school was at its worst when I met him. I’d been wondering if it was worth staying in school, or even alive, and mum was too wrapped-up in her latest boyfriend to notice what I was going through. That all changed when I met him. Transferring to his high school was the best decision I ever made. He took care of me, introduced me as his little brother to all his friends, and helped me with my homework.
Andrew’s laying on the couch, face to the couch-back and knees pulled to his chest. Today’s Saturday, and he spent last night drinking at a friend’s house. I was invited, but I don’t like alcohol, or the aftereffects. He pokes himself in the side and groans.
‘You alright?’ I ask, putting a glass of water on the coffee table. ‘Do you need some Panadol?’
‘Nah, I’ll be fine, but can you rub my stomach for me? I’ve got really bad gas pains.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ I kneel behind him and lean over. My chest presses to his back as I start gently massaging his abdomen, trying to work the air-bubbles down. He relaxes a little.
‘That’s good.’ He unbuttons his jeans.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Things are starting to move down, so I need you to help me figure out when I’ve got it all out.’ He pulls down his jeans and his boxers. With his legs curled up, I can see his bare, hairy asshole.
I swallow and remind myself that Andrew needs me, so I have no right to be disgusted. When you care about someone, sometimes you have to put your own comfort aside to improve theirs, and that’s all this is. ‘What do you want me to do?’
He grabs my hand and maneuvers it so I’m cupping his asshole. ‘Just hold it like that and tell me how hot my farts are.’
I nod. ‘Okay, I can do that.’
I keep rubbing his bowels with my other hand and soon enough I feel the muscles tense, and a deep, loud fart reverberates against my palm. I force myself not to pull away, as revolting as that damp, hot air feels. It starts out strong but petters out into a quiet bubbling. ‘Well?’ He asks.
‘It burned.’ I manage to keep the revulsion out of my voice.
‘Sniff your hand.’
‘Why?’
‘To tell me how bad it stunk. I’m in so much pain right now, I need to know that things are getting better. The gas that’s causing this is going to stink.’
I pull my hand back and there’s a sweaty gleam to it that turns cold in the absence of his skin. He’s watching me over his shoulder, so I put my palm against my nose and sniff loudly. The pungent, rotten stench reduces me to a fit of dry-heaving. ‘Fuck, that’s bad.’
‘Good. Thanks for this,’ he says, smiling.
I smile back. ‘No problem. What are brothers for?’
He grimaces and points to a spot on his lower left side.
I dig in my fingers, rubbing circles.
He grabs my head and pushes it down, towards his ass-crack. ‘Just put your face in, it’ll be quicker,’ he says, then shoves me so that my nose is in between his cheeks, the tip pressed to his twitching hole. It reeks and the hair tickles my skin, but I stay put and brace myself for what’s coming.
The fart is long and makes a quiet hiss, like a deflating tire. The heat envelopes my nose, smelling thick and eggy, and it burns my lungs. I cough against his ass-cheek, but the act of opening my mouth means I end up tasting it, too. I swallow down bile. ‘That’s intense,’ I say. ‘Something’s definitely moving.’
‘Yeah, I thought so.’
The next fart is silent and covers my face with a hot, wet burning. The stench is so indescribably rancid that I reel back, taking a couple slow breaths and a sip of the water I brought over earlier. I have to battle myself to keep my breakfast down. ‘Fuck, that one was bad.’
‘I know,’ he says, groaning. ‘Now my ass hurts, too.’
I frown. ‘It there anything I can do for that?’ I’m dreading the answer.
‘Yeah, actually, um…’ he trails off.
‘What?’
‘It’s embarrassing…’
‘I’ll do anything,’ I say, and I mean. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Andrew and he knows that.
‘Can you use your tongue?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘My ex-girlfriend used to massage my hole with her tongue when it hurt like this. The softness and the wet saliva was really soothing.’
My visceral reaction is a mix of disgust and anger. The idea of licking his ass is revolting, but I’m also appalled that he would’ve ever asked that girl to do something like this instead of me. There’s nothing a girl can give him that I can’t, and I bet he had to pressure her into it too. I saw the way she used to react when he got sick like this, she was always more grossed-out than concerned. I use my hands to part his cheeks and lean down, desperate to show him just how much better I am at helping him than any girlfriend could be.
I put my tongue against his hole and keep it there, taking in the sensation of his hot, damp flesh twitching against me. At first, I can’t taste anything but the heat, however the smell coming off him is still repugnant, and now I’m tasting it in the back of my throat as I breath in. I slide my tongue upwards, licking a path along his crack, and the taste of shit hits me properly. I consider pulling back and getting another drink, but if I close my mouth the saliva will just spread the taste around further, so it’s probably easier for both of us if I continue. I move down and go in for another lick, this one starting just behind his balls and covering the entire length of his ass-crack.
After a few more licks, he grabs my head and places it, open mouthed against his asshole. ‘Just there,’ he tells me, ‘just where it hurts.’
I obey and swirl my tongue around his sore anus. It’s right as the flat of my tongue is covering the hole that I feel his muscles tense again, and his anus protrudes out. He blasts a deep, rumbling fart directly into my mouth. I try to pull back, to get away from the horrendous, overwhelming taste of bitter, rotten shit, but he holds my head in place, keeping my mouth suctioned to him.
When the fart ends, he doesn’t let go. ‘Keep licking.’
I do, the inside of my mouth tingling in the way it does after overly spicy food, and hope he’s starting to feel better. It’s only a few seconds before another fart leaks out, bubbly but much longer. Tears prickle my eyes from the taste, but I keep my tongue moving, tolerating the vile burning whenever it laps too close to the emissions. I imagine this is what it would feel like to put my mouth around a broken steam-pipe, if that steam where coming from boiled sewer water.
‘I think I’m good,’ he says, and finally lets me go.
I gasp and begin swallowing repeatedly to keep from throwing up, although that just reminds me of how the taste—and the gas—go all the way down my throat. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ He rolls onto his back and pats me on the head. ‘Do you think you could help me out next time, too? You’re way better at that than my ex was.’
The very idea is torture, but I spot the erection in Andrew’s loose pants and can’t say no. ‘Yeah, anytime.’ I’ll do anything for him, so he doesn’t need any girls.
