#scat eating

Tell me what you would do to me!!

I’m such a shit-addicted toilet whore.. Only thinking about taking a dump makes me horny!..

(Contains: M/M, face-sitting, face-farting, mouth-farting, bad hygiene, non-consent, ambiguous kingdom-type setting.) 

The King glares down from his throne, rightfully—righteously—pissed. The young man at the bottom of the stairs—hands cuffed behind his back and a guard gripping him by his shoulders, keeping him on his knees—glares back. He’s obviously trying to project an air of defiance, but it doesn’t work. The King can see the way he trembles. Fear. Good. The young man should be afraid, as should anyone who dares harm his son.

The man—Flint—struggles against his bonds, looking like he’s about to lunge. He isn’t, of course. The King is quite familiar with the look of terror in his eyes, and this man is more likely to run for the door than attack anyone. Pathetic. Deciding that he’s drawn this out long enough, he clears his throat. The sound has the man freezing in place, his face losing what little colour was left after his night spent starving in the cold stone dungeons.

‘I’d always assumed,’ he begins, booming voice echoing around the large throne room, ‘that even if I were a more benevolent King, my subjects would still have the decency and intelligence to revere my esteemed heir—their future King. You, however, have demonstrated neither of these. You have the audacity to treat your own nation’s prince like some back-alley whore.’ He growls the last three words, spit flying from between his teeth. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?!’

He expects tears, or grovelling, or even silence. What he doesn’t expect is for the pervert to meet his eyes and say: ‘It wasn’t audacious at all! Forgive me, your Majesty,’ the words are accompanied by a sneer which negates any ounce of sincerity, ‘but your precious boy may as well be a back-alley whore! His makes eyes at any man who’ll look him in the face. And his hands! He’s always got his hands on someone, in some way, and when combined with those looks he gives, there isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t come to the same conclusion as I did! He led me on for his own amusement, and I was only taking what I was owed!’

‘You’re owed nothing!’ The venom in the King’s voice is enough to even make the guards flinch. ‘You, a mere commoner, were lucky to even be allowed to lay eyes on my son, and you didn’t even deserve that. I should pluck your eyes from your skull as compensation.’ The criminal reels back, his face turning a little green. The King smirks. ‘I could do that. I could mutilate you. I could take your eyes and arms, making a living example of what happens to those with wandering hands. But I won’t. Instead, I think I’ll focus on the area to which those filthy hands of yours wandered.’

*

Flint is dragged, knees scraping on the thick carpet, up the steps and onto the platform that houses the throne.

When the arrive, King stands, revealing an odd sight. A hole has been carved in the wood of the seat, and the pillow on top of it is shaped like a crescent moon, presumably leaving most of the King’s huge rump untouched when he sits down. His majesty lumbers forward a few steps so a servant has space to kneel in front of the chair, opening the front of it like a cupboard and removing the seat entirely. Before Flint has a chance to ponder the apparent dismantling of the most important chair in the Kingdom, he’s shoved forwards, then down, until he is kneeling inside the throne.

‘What the hell is going on?!’ he demands, only to snap his mouth shut at the look he receives from the King. For the second time that morning, he’s reminded that he is completely at the mercy of this huge, powerful man.

The King looks to the servant, still kneeling with the oddly-shaped pillow in his hand. ‘Get him into position.’

Flint’s mouth is forced open and something round and metal is placed between his teeth, keeping him from closing it. Then, his head is pulled back and a strap is affixed under his chin. He assumes the strap must connect to the wood behind him, because he is no longer able to move his head, and any attempts to feel like he’s being choked. He peers around as best he can with his face stuck upwards, looking for signs of what will happen next. He can’t move. He can’t speak. He’s trapped.

The throne is reassembled around him, and he finds that his face fits perfectly inside the hole. He’s beginning to realise what is going on, but refuses to believe it. There’s no way the King would do something so repulsive. There’s no way he could be doing it often enough to have had the throne altered without word getting around. The people would know, and they’d mutiny! There’s more dignity in getting your hand cut off than being forced under the King, especially for such as small crime. This has to be some sort of scare tactic, nothing more. As he thinks this, the huge, fat ass of his cruel King is inching closer, and the skin-tight black fabric he wears under his raised tunic hides nothing. All too quickly, the dark globes eclipse all other sights, and he screams in a mix of horror and shame as they mould around his face.

The King’s ass is hot, and within seconds Flint can feel sweat prickling his skin. The heat quickly becomes a secondary concern when he registers the stench. One would assume that the royals would have better hygiene than the rest of the Kingdom, considering their unfettered access to clean water, fancy soaps, and servants who’re willing to bath and dress them; evidently, this isn’t the case. Even with a layer of material dampening the extent of the horror, it still reeks like an outhouse. What’s worse, the weight of the body on top of him means he has to struggle for every breath, sucking in hard to get enough air, and in turn  sucking the tainted fabric closer to his mouth. It brushes his tongue on accident, and he cringes at the salty tang of old sweat.

The King shifts, grinding against his captive and causing him to sink even deeper. Soon enough, Flint’s mouth is covered completely, wrapped around a covered anus, and the struggle moves to his nose. No longer able to share the breaths between both mouth and nose, minimising the odour, he can now only smell. And the smell of the King’s crack is nauseating. It doesn’t even feel like he’s taking in real air, but instead the raw fumes from any number of awful locations. A public toilet during summer, a pile of burning trash, boiling a rotten egg.  

He isn’t sure if the moisture dripping into his nostrils is his own sweat, or if it came from the growing dark patch on the King’s ass. Even that sweat is scorching. Every breath is full of suffocatingly wet, hot stink, and he isn’t sure how he’s still conscious. It’s only been minutes so far, and he thinks he should be dead. There must be a point where a smell or taste gets so bad it becomes fatal, and surely he’s close to crossing it.

It was only a touch. He doesn’t deserve this. He keeps telling himself that, but the indignation won’t help. It doesn’t push the swollen hole from his helpless, waiting mouth.

The swollen hole that twitches until a slow stream of air leaks out, slowly invading his mouth and his senses.

He writhes against his restraints, the taste getting progressively viler—like fermented, rotten meat only somehow more bitter—until he thinks he might pass out. There are voices above him and he’s distantly aware of footsteps—at least a dozen sets of footsteps—entering the room. It’s Sunday, his brain supplies, which is the day when the King sits on his enormous ass for hours on end listening to the people complain. Hours of sitting in a room full of guards and commoners.

There are two possibilities for how this is will go—either the King is going to keep him trapped there for the rest of the day, or he’s going to release him in front of a whole army worth of men who will know what’s been done to him. Neither option is preferable, and regardless, he won’t get a choice.

The sweat is running towards his ears now, and as the minutes tick on the taste isn’t dissipating. It has nowhere to go, not with the tight suction he has to the offending orifice, so every sense is being assaulted non-stop. He can feel the ass sweat. Smell it. Taste it. Hear the sweat as it runs along the shell of his ear.

The King dismisses someone, and a woman—old, by the sounds of it—titters with gratitude. The King leans forwards slightly and grunts. This is all the warming Flint gets before a much hotter, harsher fart booms into his mouth. It vibrates around the inside of his skull, and he hears it the way one hears their own burp when their mouth is closed. He feels defiled—invaded. Then, he feels nothing but pain as the hellish, burning flavours overwhelm him. His tastebuds hurt. They might even be singed, he thinks, wondering if the heat of a fart can be enough to melt the flesh off his tongue. He thinks it might be. He thinks it must have already begun decomposing, because there’s no other feasible explanation for a taste so foul.

He’s barely recovered, if such a thing is even possible, when another burst of gas hits. This one is long and bubbly, with each wet burst hitting his tongue separately and imparting its own revolting flavour. He cries out. The sound is lost in the conversation above him, as if he weren’t even there.

The King shuffles back in his chair, and Flint’s gripped with panic. What little air he could get is being stolen from him as the ass presses down on his nose. The King’s taint presses to his mouth, keeping it blocked, and now his nostrils are barely usable. It takes a near painful amount of pressure to suck air into his lungs, but he’s far too afraid to pass-out here. Who knows where he’d wake up?

The King, with his cruel and sadistic views on mercy, eventually gives Flint’s chest a break—through a long, silent fart. The young man’s nose aches and bile jumps in his throat, but it’s air he doesn’t have to fight for. It’s air being pumped straight into his lungs. The stench makes his vision shake—although that could also be the beginnings of suffocation—and he tries to comprehend how a man so wealthy can smell like he lives off a diet of three-day-old summer road-kill. Yes, if a smell could kill someone, this would be it.

Another new voice. Another fart. Another muffled scream.

The farts are getting thick with heat and that putrid stench—now almost tangible. He feels as though he’s being weighed down by the heavy, vile smell. It’s sitting in his lungs like led. It’s clinging to his nostrils like millions of tiny leeches that have been dipped in peppers.

Just when he thinks it can’t get any worse, that maybe he should’ve just let them take his hands or his eyes, the King is shuffling again. He discretely pulls down his leggings, sliding them against Flint’s face and under the fatty cheeks.

Now with his mouth free, and being exposed to the massive globes properly—all coarse brown hairs and glistening sweat—Flint contemplates screaming. It would alert everyone to his presence down there, but maybe the humiliation combined with the horror of the common people would be enough to convince the King to let him go.

But it only takes a few seconds for the pants to be rolled down, and the damp skin against his face makes it hard to think, so by the time he’s decided to call out, the opportunity has passed. The ass sits back down, anus in his mouth, allowing him to breathe again while making him wish he couldn’t. The ass flesh is even damper when felt directly—slimy, even—but not as hot. It’s probably only because the brief shift had allowed the sweat to cool, so he’s sure it’ll be hot again soon. Hot and extra wet, with nothing left to absorb their mingling sweat. The coarse hairs brush against every part of his face and tickle it, making his nose itch, but he’d take having every bit of skin on his body alive with itching if it meant he didn’t have to taste the ass hairs brushing his tongue, or feel them flattening against his lips.

Between the bitter taste and unfiltered, rotten stench of sweaty ass-crack, Flint isn’t sure how he’ll survive. He knows, realistically, that being sat on like this isn’t fatal, but he can also feel his mind breaking.

The conversations around him continue.

A raw, wet fart sputters against his tongue, and he scrunches his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. Without the barrier, he can feel the way the hole opens, then slaps shut. He can taste the gas not only clinging to the inside of his mouth, but also the pubic hair. The king leans back and squeezes his cheeks together, forcing Flint’s tongue up. It rubs against the hot muscles, forcing him to feel every detail of hair and flesh. He gags. The damp condensation around the asshole—a mix of breath, heat and saliva—has a distinct flavour. It tastes foul. Soundless vapours spread directly across his tongue, nearly sucking in the tip, and they burn.

Is he even human anymore? No one is acknowledging him, and he’s been treated worse than any human deserves. He’s like an object. A chair. A toilet. He’s being subjected to something sick and cruel and horrific, yet there doesn’t seem to be any reactions from the people around him. A part of him is aware that the King’s thick, gaudy tunic is probably still covering his lap, and therefore covering his bunched pants, but that part is a little hazy right now. His panic is ruling his thoughts. Panic and despair.

He groans around another fart. So many awful tastes congregate in his mouth with nowhere else to go. Bitter and spicy. Rotten and fermenting. He doesn’t know how it can get worse, so the universe decides to show him.

The next fart is barely anything. Barely a pop of air. Yet it tastes like vapourised shit, and that serves as foreshadowing.

The ass cheeks clench, pressing into his cheekbones, and the hole protrudes out until it once again touched Flint’s tongue. It stretches open against his abused tastebuds, and he realises far too late what is happening. Something hard and slimy pushes out and he convulses at the incomprehensible, rank flavour. Bile rises but goes nowhere. It can’t, not at this angle and with no food in his belly. The intrusion glides along his tongue like a paintbrush, and probably leaves behind a similar residue. More keeps coming, like the King is intentionally holding back, only pushes the smallest bit out at a time. That sounds right. The bastard is sicker than anyone could’ve imagined.

The log keeps coming, more and more sliding out until he has no choice but to swallow, lest he choke. He gags as it goes down, feeling every ridge in his throat, but he has no choice.

He breaks.

Flint sobs into the King’s ass, swallowing down his thick, vile shit.

*

The King suppresses a grin. The others can’t hear it, but there’s the faintest, most pathetic sound coming from inside his throne. He’d tried to go easy on the pervert in the beginning, only subjecting him to clothed farts, but it wasn’t having the impact he wanted.

He’s a merciful King. All he wants is to see remorse. All he wants is for the man to acknowledge that his disgusting behaviour was wrong. He supposes that was too much to ask.

Even the bare-assed farts barely elicited a couple of groans, and that’s hardly enough to teach someone a lesson. So, when the tightening started in his bowels, he knew what he had to do. He can barely hear the geriatric in front of him, asking for a tax break following a poor harvest, with the amount of writhing going on underneath him.

The sad excuse for a man is smearing tears and snot across his bare backside, and he hopes briefly that he isn’t blocking his nose enough to suffocate. It wouldn’t be a big deal if he did, but at the same time he isn’t looking forward to explaining that to his son. He’d promised not to execute the man, after all. Although, maybe if he’d explained what he planned to do instead, the prince would’ve re-considered his request.

The mouth underneath his feels unfortunately empty, so the King dismisses the ridiculous old codger and hunches forward, baring down. Something hot and wet slips out of him, and the body underneath his shivers.

Maybe he’ll let him go after this, if the man offers a suitable apology.

*

Flint is in hell. The log he’d swallowed was already trying to come back up when liquid fire started dropping into his aching mouth, nearly burning holes in his tongue and cheeks. The droplets turn into a stream, and soon his face is filled with chunky diarrhoea. He swallows it, because he has no choice, and the burning continues down his oesophagus, filling his chest and stomach with a hot throbbing.

How could this happen? It was only a touch. All he did was grab the prince’s ass, and the little bitch deserved it. Flint didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this, and he’s going to give the royal psychopath a piece of his mind when this is over. They can’t keep him down here forever.

The flow of liquid seems unending, as do the tears, until he can’t take it anymore and his consciousness starts to wane.

He’s only asleep for a matter of seconds—not even long enough for his muscles to untense—when a fart booms inside his mouth loud enough to shake the walls of his skull. It’s accompanied by more toxic spray.

The king shifts slightly, forcing even more weight than Flint had thought possible onto his face. The bindings on his neck pull taut and painful. He gasps, sucking in more of the horrid smell.

(Contains: M/M, scat, farting, mouth-farting, scat-eating, kidnapping, objectification. Con-consensual.) 

My knees hurt, most likely grazed or even splintered from the cheap wooden floors, and they throb. The pain radiates up, like a flame through my nerves, but it’s the least of my problems. The least bad of the bad things happening right now. I look around at the laughing faces. Smiles I thought were friendly mere minutes ago now seem crazed and sinister. Someone tied something around my neck while my shirt was being pulled over my head. My pants are around my ankles, but I doubt they’ll stay there for long. Logan grabs a handful of hair and pulls my head back as far as it can go.

‘Open your mouth, pretty boy,’ he demands in a voice I don’t recognise. It’s him in the pitch and the accent and the intonations, but my cousin would never speak to me—to anyone—with such malice. He’s shoving something against my lips, slamming them into my teeth in a way that almost cuts. One of his friends is holding me by the shoulders, but it’s unnecessary, since my arms are already tied behind my back. I don’t understand what’s going on.

I just graduated high school, and when I told my cousin Logan that I was planning to take a gap-year, maybe do some travelling, before starting college, he invited me to stay with him and his friends for a few weeks. Tour the campus, attend some parties, get the full college experience without the hassle of classes. He’s my best friend, my favourite cousin, so of course I said yes. I thought he was going to spend the weeks trying to persuade me to enrol at his school so we could be frat brothers. I was going to pretend to be reluctant, but really it was all I’d ever wanted. ‘Brothers’ with my favourite person, even if it was just some stupid college tradition, sounded like a dream come true. And his fraternity had seemed so cool. All the guys were macho, and confident, and fun. Not like me. But with Logan’s help, and Logan’s belief in me, I could do it, right?

When, out of nowhere, Logan had shoved me to the ground and started ripping my clothes off, a belt (as I now realise) being looped loosely around my neck, I’d thought it was a prank. Some practice hazing, so that when the real thing happened in a year’s time I’d be prepared. When they dragged me, arms-bound and nearly naked, into the loungeroom, I’d been uneasy but still trusting. Then they started talking.

‘Do we set him up out here or in the bathroom?’ Kevin, Logan’s best friend, asked. Like Logan, he was an extremely muscular jock-type, but with more fat on him. At first glance, he could be mistaken for out of shape, but in reality his fat was only so obvious because of the thickness of the muscles underneath it.

Logan shrugged. ‘Here might stink things up, but what’s the fun in putting him in the bathroom where we can’t see him?’

‘What’s going on?’ I’d asked, tugging anxiously at the belt around my arms. ‘What’re you going to do to me?’

‘Who really gives a shit about a bad smell, everyone’ll be too drunk to care. It’ll be worth it to watch how your fag cousin squirms.’

‘Hey!’ I snapped. That was rude. I may not be as strong or popular or social as them, but that was no reason for name-calling.

Logan laughed. ‘You’re right. No other frat has a fag toilet, so why not show him off? Derek will be here with the serum soon, then we can break him in.’

‘Logan, what the fuck? Let me go!’ I begged, but they ignored me.

Derek and Brett turned up. Derek, a fat guy who a recognised from photos of Logan’s college baseball team, handed Logan a vial.

‘Here. That science slut I’ve been banging turned out to be crazy smart. She says this thing will annihilate its gag reflex for at least a week.’

It took a moment for me to realise that I was ‘it’.

‘Will he be able to throw up at all?’

Derek shrugged. ‘Said she hasn’t, but she’s only taking cock, so I guess we’ll find out.’

And with that, attention is back on me. Skinny Brett—lean from years on the swim-team—has me by the shoulders, and Logan tries again to jam something in my mouth. I don’t know what’s happening, but talk of gag-reflexes and toilets and ‘it’ have shattered any chance of this being a prank. This is too far for a prank.

Brett pries my jaw open and the item—a ring gag—is placed in my mouth. The long end of the belt around my neck is fastened to a broken radiator, so I can’t escape.

Logan smirks down at me with a sickening glimmer of pride. ‘What do you think, boys?’

‘I think I need to shit,’ Derek say.

‘Should we take off his tighty-whities? I’ll feel like I’m shitting on a child,’ Kevin says.

Logan snorts. ‘Who’d want to see that? Better to remind everyone what a worthless little fag he is with those than with his micro-dick.’

My vision blurs, and I’m glad for the tears because at least I don’t have to see Logan—my cousin, my friend, my idol—looking down at me like I’m some filth he just stepped in.

‘Is he crying? Ha! We haven’t even started yet, how pathetic!’ Derek says.

‘Hey, cheer up man,’ Logan slaps me hard between my shoulder blades. ‘You said you didn’t know what you wanted to do with your life, you whined about how no girls wanted you, and I bet you were too weak and boring for even the other Nancy Boys to want to touch, but we’ve solved that for you. You’ll be useful, and get to be up and personal with the bodies of alpha males. It’ll be our dirty asses, but it’s not like you could hope for any better. You should be grateful you’re even getting this,’ the hand moves up to tug at the hair at the base of my neck, and his voice drops to a menacing hiss, ‘so act like it.’

I whimper, but I can’t go anything else. Even if I could speak, I’d be far too scared to. How long had Logan been planning this? How could I have not noticed how much he hated me? Am I really that pathetic? That stupid?

‘Seriously, man,’ says Derek, ‘I need to shit. I got the serum like you asked, so give it to him so I can go.’

There’s shuffling above me, and I try to blink the tears out of my ears so I can see. There’s a pain, like a small pinch, in my neck, and my vision clears in time to see Logan step back with a syringe in his hand.

My throat feels cold and dry, but then the feeling passes, and an unusual amount of saliva starts flooding my mouth.

‘My turn first.’ Logan turns his back to me and drops him basketball shorts to just below his thick, toned ass-cheeks.

I shake my head. No. No, I can’t do that. He can’t make me do that. He wouldn’t make me do that. He’s family. We’re friends. I helped him with his homework all through school and went to all he football and basketball and then baseball games. He wouldn’t do this to me. Please, for the love of all that is good, don’t let him to this to me.

‘Put your head back, Toilet, I don’t want a mess. Messy toilets get put in a public bathroom until they learn their lesson.’

A hand yanks my head back and he sits. His warm ass-cheeks, dotted with spars but dark hair, mould over my face, and his hot anus touches the tip of my nose. I never thought I’d be this close to any man’s ass, let alone my cousin’s. His asshole feels hot and damp and hairy, and I hate that I now know that. It twitches, pushing against my skin, until a burst of heat hot enough to burn hits my face, spreading out as his cheeks ripple against my face in a wet fart. The stench is incomprehensibly vile, like burning and meat and rot, and impossible to escape. The heavy air—if it can even be called air—clings to my nostrils like condensation on glass.

I groan, and the men around me laugh.

Logan slides his ass down until his hole is positioned between my lips. ‘Hope you’re hungry, fag. Tonight, you’ll get the sort of banquet any toilet would envy, and the only sort of meal someone as low as you deserves.’ He lifts himself up slightly, his hand still holding me in place. I watch in horror as his hole opens and stretches around a log at least an inch wide. It squelches as it slowly slides out. He grunts. ‘Remember this: you are at the bottom of the food-chain—the very bottom—so low down the only food you deserve is that which has already been eaten and shit out by your betters.’

The log touches the tip of my tongue and it’s slimy and bitter. The taste is a million times worse that the rancid, disgusting smell, yet I can do nothing to stop it from dragging along my tongue, the tip heading towards the back of my throat as more comes out. I wish I couldn’t see every brown ridge, smell it up close before it reached my mouth, all while the taste assaults me. His anus slaps shut as the end of the log drops out, resting against my bottom lip, and I see that too. The log is covering the length of my tongue and warming up my lip, and I want to be sick, but my throat hasn’t got the memo. It isn’t reacting to the churning nausea or foul taste at all.

‘Well? Swallow!’ Logan snaps in mock exasperation, like he doesn’t understand why I’m resisting.

‘I think he wants to be a public toilet. A little shit whore in the public park, getting drunk off the liquid shit from unwashed drug-addict asses.’

I shiver. I thought this hell I’m in right now was the worst situation possible, but if that’s where they’ll send me next, I don’t have a choice. I swallow. The first clump of shit goes down easy, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. The tears are back, even stronger than before, as I eat down the rest, using my tongue to pull it towards the back of my throat. I want, so badly, to be sick, but I just can’t. Derek’s girlfriend really is a genius.

‘There we go, you’re a natural. I knew you would be—you had to be good at something, after all.’

‘I’m next!’ Derek declares.

I’m near suffocated under his enormous, sweaty ass. His ass hair is gritty with dried shit, and he doesn’t let me breath until he’s finished pushing out two big, but soft logs. The texture, as if the shit were melting, made it even worse, but I had no choice but to swallow as they came out. It was the only way to keep from suffocating.

My stomach is tight and sore, but this is only the beginning.

The party starts, and more muscular, sweaty frat boys arrive. Some members of this fraternity who’d been in class until now, and others who are their friends. I’d thought—hoped—that someone would see the depravity in what was happening and help me, or even call the police, but no one does. They all smile, or laugh, or make comments about not wanting their asses bare to touch another guy—you know, in case I get off on it. Beyond that, they don’t acknowledge me. One even sits his jean-clad ass on my face, the metal accents on the pockets digging into my cheeks. He’s tipsy, so I assume it isn’t intentional—that is until he lets blow a silent beer fart straight into my mouth. The girl across from him laughs at his joke, while I’m mentally screaming for the spicy, eggy taste to leave me alone.

A different man decides that he needs to take a leak and stands in front of me, unsteady, pulling down his zip. His thick cock is uncomfortable close to my face—and my mouth—and I’m once again reminded that I can’t pull away. A jolt of fear shoots down my spine as the man steps closer, but all he does is aim his dick in my general direction and let lose. Some of the urine lands in my mouth, filling it with an acidic yet salty taste that, though better than shit, is still revolting, but most of the piss lands elsewhere—on my shoulders, in my hair, up my nose. The bastard doesn’t even look at what he’s doing, instead staring off towards his friends.

The urine doesn’t seem to bother anyone else. At least three random men I’ve seen around Logan in the past decide they need to shit during the party.

One is fairly discrete about it, treating me like a real toilet. The way he doesn’t even look at me as he sits his toned ass down, never saying a word as he defiles my mouth and terrorises my tongue, is hurtful. I wonder, again, if I really am as pathetic as they seem to think. Afterall, by body is suffering and I’m thinking about how this stranger hurt my feelings.

The next two guys make a show of things. Hovering above my face so I and everyone else can see the brown logs as they come out, and making exaggerated groaning sounds. One talks like he thinks he’s in a porno: ‘you like that, bitch?’, ‘yeah, take it,’ ‘you like them big, don’t you? Whore.’

By the time they’re done, my gut is aching and bloated.

The party starts winding down and I’m filled with immense sense of relief. I don’t know what tomorrow will hold—whether they’ll let me go or if I’ll be stuck here like they said—but I’m too tired to worry. I need rest.

This relief came too soon, as one final drunk frat boy stumbles into view, hand braced on the wall for support. His pants are already unzipped and hanging low on his tanned hips, and he only needs one hand to shove them the rest of the way down. He spins around and practically falls onto me, his full weight pressing his ass onto my face and his hole onto my open mouth. My neck throbs and I can feel a bruise forming on the back of my head, which is pressing down hard into the unforgiving mental of the radiator. His anus pulses and I groan, begging the universe for this to not be happening. Please, no more. It’s too awful. I’m too full.

A wet fart sputters out, and I hope that’s all. The hot, bitter air burns my tongue and fills my gut with nausea, but I’d rather be full to bursting with nausea than the alternative. Unfortunately, the next sputtering burst of gas is accompanied by drops of liquid and small clumps of wet shit. Then it’s like a waterfall in my mouth. The burning digestion-soup tastes like if death was a food, and someone left it out in the sun for a weak until it was mouldy and rotten. Swallowing it down physically hurts, because everything that toxic mixture touches burns, but it just keeps coming.

*

I wake up shivering. The cold bathroom tiles sear my bare legs, and a breeze from the constant, buzzing overhead fan brings goosebumps to the rest of my exposed skin. My underwear, which I’m still wearing, are soaked with half-frozen piss and I swear I’m going to get frostbite. Frostbitten balls—that’s a scary thought.

It’s been the same every morning for the last week. At least, I think I’ve been here a week. I haven’t seen a calendar since they tied me up, so I’m trying to keep track of the days in my head. They didn’t let me go, nor have they shown any signs that they’re going to.

It must be a weekday because the sun has only just started to peak through the window above me when the bathroom door opens. Brett doesn’t even look at me as he lowers his boxers and empties his bladder. After who-knows-how-many hours spent sleeping with my mouth open, the feel of the warm liquid is actually pleasant. The taste, however, is not.

Speaking of bad tastes, my stomach churns painfully as Brett turns his small, but plump, ass towards me, blond hair poking between pale cheeks. Breakfast time, then. He sits down, causing the plastic of the toilet lid I’m leaning against to bow slightly, and begins with a long, harsh fart. The pressure of it forces my tongue flat, and the spicy, eggy taste has the urge to fight rearing its head. I don’t. I tried for the first couple of days, but it didn’t work. All it did was encourage them. If I stayed quiet, they treated me like an object; but if I reminded them I was human, it seemed to remind them that they are sadists. A few shallow, sputtering farts follow, each one getting wetter, until we reach the main event.

A log, nearly two inches wide hits my tongue, and Brett groans like he’s the one suffering. I flatten it with my tongue to make it easier to swallow. The uneven texture means that the mushier parts give instantly, while the harder parts take a bit more work. More work, of course, means more time suffering through the bitter, heady flavours. By the time it’s all down, by entire tongue is coated with greasy, vile tasting shit.

‘You like that? You sick freak. Clean me up like the ass-loving faggot we both know you are.’

I lick his hole, trying to hold back the tears. It’s been a week of this, and it’s not gotten much easier. The bastards are experts at kicking people who’re already down. I thought after the psychic damage of licking my own cousin’s—my previously favourite cousin’s—dirty hole, dealing with these guys would seem easier, but it never gets easier. Feeling another man’s hot, twitching anus against my tongue is not something that will ever be easy.

While Brett shaves, Derek comes in and also takes a leak. He doesn’t need to shit, fortunately, but he will by the evening. Derek’s huge, sweaty ass often provides my disgusting, unwanted dinner. He often farts in my mouth, bare-assed, just for the fun of it, though. His fatty ass-cheeks cover my ears so thoroughly I can hear my own pulse. Well, at least until the long, bubbly explosions start—then I can only hear the inside of my mouth.

Logan, with a now familiar evil grin, is next. He pats his stomach. ‘Just got back from my morning run and that protein shake isn’t sitting well, so this going to have a lot of flavour. Hope you’re hungry.’

My body is shaking, muscles seizing violently as he lowers his visibly damp shorts. His ass cheeks glisten with sweat and the oniony smell is palpable before he even sits down. The stream of gas, mostly silent but occasionally wet, that follows the minute his hole meets my lips is hot enough to hurt. My vision blurs from the sheer intensity.

‘Ready, toilet? Here it comes.’

A stream like a thick soup hits my tongue and it burns like the world’s spiciest curry—if that curry were made from only the most dangerously expired meats. Even with that drug in my system—and Derek gave me a top-up of it yesterday—I still struggle to swallow. It doesn’t stop.

By the time he’s down I’m sure my face is going to melt off, and the others aren’t even up yet.

*

Kevin has an important test tomorrow.

He didn’t tell me this, because they don’t tell me anything outside of the occasional taunt or insult, but he told Logan when he asked why Kevin was undoing the belt around my neck that had been keeping me fastened to the toilet.

‘I’m moving it to my room for the night. I don’t have time to be coming all the way out here every time I need to piss and shit—may as well use the portable shitter as a chair.’

I’d assumed I’d be restrained the same way I was in the bathroom—head against the seat. But no. He shoved his desk chair out of the way and put me in its place. He tied the end of the belt to the rope around my ankles, making it so I have to arch my back and tilt my head all the way in order to be able to breath. Then, he sat down, forcing me to support the entire weight of his toned muscles and thick fat with only my neck. Within seconds, I was in agony. The back of my neck throbbed and a sharp pain raced down my spine along with it, every second like the tick of a clock.

It’s been far too long now, though by the sound of the TV he has on for background noise, it’d been less than half an hour. The heat of his fat, round ass-cheeks was uncomfortable at first, but now it’s suffocating. I can just barely suck air from his crack in through my nose, but the longer he sits, the sweatier his crack gets, and the sweat mixed with the course hair is making each breath overly moist. It’s like I’m being waterboarded by ass. To make matters worse, every few seconds he pushes out a fart—the bitter, eggy taste like the nauseating, mouldy cherry on top of this pain sundae.

Every time he shifts or wriggles, I’m afraid my neck will snap, but all it does is hurt more. The pain is mounting enough for me to want to cry, but I don’t allow myself, if only because it might stuff-up my nose. The pain is now radiating upwards as well, causing a rapid shift from headache to migraine.

I begin to feel feint, and I hope the universe will offer the small mercy of allowing me to pass out.

It doesn’t.

The second my consciousness begins to fade, the cheeks clench around my face and a long, harsh fart ripples through my mouth, echoing in my skull like an earthquake. The taste is, without question, the foulest so far, and the pressure the strongest. The strength behind the burst has my tongue tingling like it would from a drop of diarrhoea.

Kevin grunts. ‘Guess that protein shake is kicking in, let’s hope it’s enough to keep me awake.’

Protein shake? A icy dread settles over me. No. I can’t handle the affects of a protein shake along with this heat on my face and torturous pain now filling my entire body.

I don’t have a choice, though, and the onslaught of gas continues.

Hours later, when the rest of the house has gone silent and my mind has shut off—the pain reaching a point beyond what it could handle—Kevin turns the TV off. I’m only distantly aware of this, and only enough for a tiny part of my mind, muted by past disappointments, to hope that this means the suffering will be over for the night.

Like always, I am wrong.

Kevin groans and pats himself on the stomach. ‘Fuck, man. I shouldn’t have added that caffeine shot. Shit doesn’t mix.’

And then, with no warning, no curtesy drops like at the beginning of a rainstorm, it’s like a boiling hot bucket of liquid shit is poured into my mouth. I swallow as best I can, with my throat sore and aching and feeling like it should’ve burnt-through like acid, but it doesn’t stop, and I can’t swallow fast enough. It leaks out my lips and runs down my chin—neck—chest. Kevin doesn’t notice.

He continues studying, until at some point in the early hours of the morning, he falls asleep. The way he hunches forwards over his desk causes his hole to angle back, out of my mouth and towards my nose. When I look down, I can see it—a swollen ring of muscles and wet, matted pubic hair from the clinging shit. The first of his sleep farts is silent, but hot like my nose is in an oven. In what has become a rare occurrence, I’m forced to smell the fart as well as taste it—and the smell is just as foul. The next farts is rumbly, wet, and lasts nearly ten seconds. I can smell the remnants of diarrhea and wonder briefly if he might shit up my nose, but he doesn’t. The gassy onslaught continues, assaulting all my senses and keeping me from passing out.

Come morning, I’m dragged back to my place in the bathroom. Dirty and so sore that every movement makes me sob. They don’t care. Logan sits on my face for his morning dump.

*

Logan and his friends planned a camping trip. No one told me, which by this point is to be expected, so I figured it out as they were forcing me into a suitcase in the living-room, beside their bags and a few camper chairs. Three camper chairs, actually. One less than they need, and by now I can guess what this means for me. My neck still aches from the night I spent with Kevin, which was a few days ago now. It hasn’t even had the chance to heal.  

After they lock me in, body bound and my mouth still gaping, there’s a lot of bouncing and jostling as they wheel me down the stairs. I thought I’d be beyond the point of fear now, yet with every sudden movement I’m terrified that they’re going to throw me down the stairs. After everything that’s happened, it seems like something they’d do. That they’d find funny. If that happens, I can’t even lift my hands to protect my head.

I assume by how muffled their voices get that I’ve been placed in the car’s boot, along with their other luggage. I’m not hurt by this, more just numb at this point, but I am overheated. They must’ve piled stuff on top of my suitcase because it’s heating up in here fast. I hope I don’t suffocate, but I also hope I do. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

Like I’d thought, they put me in front of the campfire alongside the other chairs. No one even acknowledges me at first, instead setting up their tents and joking around. This changes when evening hits.

‘I want the toilet chair,’ Derek says.

Logan scoffs. ‘Your huge ass will break it!’

‘Then we’ll get another one! It’s not like he was hard to train!’

Kevin smacks him upside the head. ‘Only because he’s a wimpy little pervert. Some people are just made to be objects, that,’ he gestures to me, ‘was always meant to be a toilet. It was hard to find something that pathetic. Even most whimpering little ass-sluts have limits.’

Brett steps in front of me, his yellow basketball shorts blocking my view. I don’t have to look at them for long, though, as he slumps against my face, the fabric slipping up his crack along with my nose. He’s lighter than Kevin, but with my muscles already sore, even the weight of his small frame is unbearable. ‘Sorry Derek, you’re last. We want to at least get through the weekend before we have to toss a broken toilet.’

I shiver. Toss? Do they mean abandon me, or that I’ll be dead? I decide I don’t want to know. I’ve got enough to worry about just living in the moment, thinking about the future can only make things worse. Worse, ha! Like that can happen. I can’t image what worse than a toilet could be—unless they really do make good on that threat to leave me in the park. But even then there’d be a chance someone might help me. Not a high chance, given the area, but something.

‘Anyway,’ Brett sighs, ‘I’m making dinner. Hotdogs or burgers?’

While Brett cooks, Logan takes his place sitting on me. He shimmies out of his jeans and plants his bare ass over my mouth, using his full weight this time, his feet rested on my bent knees. The pain is making it hard to breath, and I could swear my spine had started to crack. His cheeks and thighs are so toned, it’s like having two sweaty, smelly rocks crushing my face. He lets rip a silent fart, bathing my tongue in a familiar, rancid heat.

Once food’s ready, they switch and Kevin sits on my face. He puts his naked hole over my nose, forcing me to breath through my mouth around his salty, unwashed balls.

‘Foods good,’ he says, ‘I’m sure the toilet will agree. You know, in a couple hours, when it gets to him.’ He pushes out a long, rumbly fart straight into my nose. It stinks of rotten meat and old shit, and the other men laugh.

‘Yeah, it’s got to be double baked,’ laughs Logan, ‘ferment it real good, like the bitch boy deserves.’

After dinner, they crack open some beers. Logan regains his spot on my face, grinding around unsteadily as the alcohol takes its toll. I wouldn’t be surprised if my neck was already broken, with the delirium of agony I’m experiencing. Logan’s beer-farts are some of the worst I’ve ever smelt or tasted, and he doesn’t show any signs of stopping. The sound of my groans are lost in the rumbling and bubbling of his nightmare ass.

‘My ass is cold, who wants to switch?’

Mercifully, Brett offers. His light frame is the closest thing I ever get to a break. My relieve is short-lived, however, when a few minutes after sitting down I feel something touch my tongue. He’s taking a shit, right here, while still drinking and laughing with his friends. I’m forced to swallow the vile, repulsive mush down while they sound like they’re having the time of their lives. In my struggle, I nearly topple over.

‘You alright, Brett?’ Derek asks. Of course, they only care about Brett.

‘Yeah, just feeding the toilet. It’s his turn to taste my cooking.’

Finally, who-know-how-long later, when the sun is well and truly down, the men start packing up their stuff and getting ready for bed. I slowly turn my head, trying to stretch my muscles, but all that does is cause a shooting pain.

Just when they’re about to enter their tents, Derek speaks up. ‘I didn’t get to sit on the toilet-chair.’

Logan shrugs. ‘Take it to bed with you.’

Before the horror of those words can fully hit me, the end of the belt around my neck is detached from my ankles and I’m dragged, like a dog on a leash, towards Derek’s tent. He strips down to his round, hairy birthday-suit. The only piece of clothing he doesn’t throw onto the thin tent floor is his extra-large belt, which he grips with both hands, staring down at me appraisingly.

I whimper.

He grabs my hair and turns his back to me, shoving me head-first into the deep, fleshy cavern of his ass-crack. Once my lips touch his hole, the hand leaves my head and something firmer replaces it. I can barely breath, with nearly no air making it down between those humongous cheeks, and it’s slimy from old sweat and other substances I’m unfortunately well acquainted with. He takes a step, and I slide against him. He lies down, and I’m lying too, cushioned by the same skin that’s burning my cheeks—dampening them. He pulls the blankets over us and it’s total darkness. Total, burning heat.

I can’t see, or move, or even breath properly. I can taste, though. And I can hear. The night farts start, and they’re loud, noxious beasts.

(Contains: M/M, face-farting, mouth-farting, scat, scat eating, urination, urine drinking, underage, non-consent.) 

(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.

(Contains: Scat. Mostly just 2500 words of shameless scat and scat eating. Incest. Anal sex. But mostly just more detailed scat than I’ve ever written before.) 

Jamie woke up a few hours later to a hot, wet feeling against his legs, and the most horrid, overwhelming stench. As he slowly rolled over, trying to wake up enough to figure out what was going on, he heard a groan.

‘Fuck,’ a voice whispered, followed by a booming, wet fart, and something spraying Jamie’s thigh under the covers.

His eyes widened and his mind flew into a horrified panic as he realised what was going on. He turned on the lamp and threw off the covers. Sure enough, the bed was filled both mushy and liquid diarrhea, the latter of which was still leaking out of Scott’s naked ass, pointed right at Jamie.

He put his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. The backs of both his legs were smeared with the stuff, along with the side of one. He pounded his fist down on the side of Scott’s head.

‘Urg,’ he said groggily. ‘The fuck’s that smell?’

‘You are! It’s you!’

Scott rolled onto his back. ‘Oh, yeah. That seems right. Must be the double-dose of laxatives finally kicking it.’

Jamie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Or seeing, really. Or smelling. ‘Why did you take a laxative?!’

Scott shrugged. ‘Dunno. Figured shitting in your bed could be fun.’

‘I’m telling my parents.’

‘I’ll tell them you drugged me when I threatened to turn you in. I already hid the medical-strength laxative box in your school bag.’

‘Why?’

‘So you wouldn’t be able to do anything when I did this.’ He lifted his legs up and grabbed them under the knees. His face tensed up and a stream of brown liquid shot into the air and painted a thick, speckly line along the length of the comforter.

Jamie put both hands over his face and tried to focus his breathing. He couldn’t breathe. All his muscles where twitching and no matter what he did they wouldn’t stop, just like his breathing wouldn’t slow down and the room wouldn’t stay still and oh fuck what was he going to do about this? His bed was full of shit, literal shit and he couldn’t tell his parents, so what the fuck was he supposed to do?

‘You’re panicking, aren’t you?’ Scott said in a kind voice. That fake-kind voice people use when you’re being pitiful. When they know something you don’t.

‘Yes, and you’re about to make it worse, aren’t you? You already have an idea about how you’re going to make me fix this and it’s going to involve more torture.’

‘I don’t mind taking the rap for this, telling your mum I’ve got a stomach virus or something, but only if you clean up the more embarrassing elements. You know, like the big chunks, and the stuff smeared on my legs.’ He gestured down to where his moving around had caused shit to cover almost all of both his legs down to the ankles.  

‘How?’

Scott smirked. ‘You know how I like you to clean. With your hands and tongue.’

Jamie leant over the side of the bed and vomited into the garbage bin.

‘I can tell your parents that was me, too, if you want.’

‘I can’t do that. I can’t. It’s too much,’ he said, still facing away from Scott.

‘It’s really not that bad, and it’ll get the taste of vomit out of your mouth.’

‘I’d rather taste vomit.’

‘This is better, trust me, and it’ll cover that taste completely.’

More bile rose in Jamie’s throat at the thought, but there wasn’t enough left in his stomach for him to throw up again. He actually kind of wanted to do what Scott said, eating shit sounded better than letting his parents listen to all of Scott’s lies, but he really didn’t believe his body could take it. ‘You’ve done this before?’

‘Only tasted by own. It was bad but it didn’t make me sick or anything.’

Jamie turned back around on the bed. His cousin showed no sign of shame on his face, even though he had just made one of the most disgusting admissions a person can make. ‘Liar.’

Scott smiled and got onto his knees, facing Jamie. He leant onto his hands and lowered himself until he could lick a slow line up Jamie’s dirty calf. When he sat back up, he was cringing, but beyond that he didn’t look particularly affected. ‘Terrible, but you can do it.’

Jamie ran a finger along the path Scott had just licked. Something about his cousin licking his own excrement off his skin turned him on. ‘I’ll do it if you will.’

‘What?’ Scott asked. His eyebrows shot up and he had an amused smile on his face. ‘If I do what?’

Jamie sighed. ‘I’ll do… whatever you want, if you clean the rest of my legs, too.’

Scott licked his lips. ‘Deal.’

Jamie got onto his knees and looked at the mess surrounding him. Pretty much every inch of the sheet and doona were covered with shit. His nose had already adjusted, making the smell seem weak and bearable, but he doubted his tongue would feel the same. He decided to start with the stream Scott had shit-out a few minutes ago. It was mostly water, with only a few solid chunks that he’d be expected to lick up, and it’d still be warm. Cold shit sounded like it’s taste so much worse—like something that was already rotten somehow going bad.

As he leant down, he still wasn’t sure he’d able to make himself do it—the sight made his stomach roil and bile climb up his throat. But he’d though the same thing about sucking Scott’s toes, and eating his ass, and blowing his dick. He’d done it all. He didn’t like it, but he’d done it. And unlike with those things, he had something to look forward to once this was finished. Maybe it was just the idea of Scott debasing himself as much as Jamie had, or the impure insanity of the situation finally taking its toll, but he really wanted to feel Scott’s tongue on him again.

He ran his tongue along the nearest section of the wet patch, lapping up the small amount of intestinal grit, and was overpowered by the horrid taste. It was acidic, but unbelievably bitter, and before he could even try to swallow he was already gagging. It was the worst thing he’d ever tasted, and burnt his tongue like a Carolina Reaper. Still, he managed to swallow it down without throwing up again.

It was a good start. The next lick was marginally easier, and he held the small particles, like bits of sand, on his tongue to try and adjust to the flavour. He noticed while he had his head lowered that this section of diarrhea smelt like burnt popcorn, and sure enough the solid parts felt like bits of undigested kernel shell. He knew corn sometimes came out whole, but he hadn’t considered whether that would also apply to popcorn (he hadn’t spent much time thinking about poop, in general). His cousin had scarfed down some popcorn after dinner, so he wondered if that was the same stuff that’d just come out of him, with the laxative forcing it through quicker. He swallowed.

Now that he had a specific texture and flavour note to focus on, he had no trouble licking up the shit trail. Each lick, despite being unpleasant, sent an electric shock to his steadily hardening cock. Everything about the situation was becoming so disgustingly sexy.

Once he was finished, he turned back to Scott, who was sitting with his legs apart in a very similar position to earlier that night, except he’d moved into the middle of the bed, putting the thick, sludgy mess that had first woken Jamie right between his legs.

Jamie shuffled closer, then used his hands to cup the wet fecal matter. It felt like lukewarm mud and smelt rancid, bitter and rotten. The nausea was returning, but Scott was giving him this wide-eyed look of anticipation, and he reminded himself that there were pornstars out there who did this all the time, and many even managed to smile through it. It was Scott who forced him to watch Two Girls One Cup back when it was the go-to shock video, and now Scott was sitting in front of him with his dick rising, and staring at him like he was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted Scott to be attracted to him, but now that it was happening, and Scott’s face looked so open, he liked it.

He lowered his face into his cupped hands, eating the chunky shit-slop and feeling it squish against his chin and cheeks. All his senses were filled with the smell, taste, feel and sound of his cousin’s laxative shit, and it was revolting, yet so good. His stomach ached with the need to puke. His dick ached with the need to cum.

‘Fuck, Jamie. You’re perfect,’ Scott muttered reverently. He combed his fingers through Jamie’s hair, pushing it out of his face. Their eyes met.

Something inside Jamie snapped.

He rubbed what was left in his hands against his thighs, then dove down, shoving his face into Scott’s ass. He dug his tongue deep between the cheeks and dragged it along the crack like toilet paper, collecting every last morsel and swallowing it. Scott pushed out a booming, wet fart, which sprayed droplets like spittle, and Jamie immediately wrapped his mouth around the twitching anus and drunk it down.

He put his hands on the older teen’s thighs and pulled himself up. Their faces were barely inches apart. Jamie held that position, staring into his cousin’s intense eyes, as he reached down and collect what was left of the diarrhea into his hands. He pushed it all into his mouth, then forced his mouth against Scott’s. Scott’s mouth opened and Jamie used his tongue to shove as much of the bowel evacuant down his throat as possible. Scott gagged and frowned into the kiss, put he didn’t even try to pull away.

If he had tried, Jamie wouldn’t have let him. At this point, he wasn’t thinking about the details. The who and the what had left his mind, now all he cared about was the unbearable feeling of desire and need that had been awoken in his body. He needed more. More shit. More Scott.

‘Jamie,’ the older boy said into the kiss. His intestines grumbled.

‘Again?’ he asked.

He nodded. ‘Where do you want it?’

Jamie didn’t have to think about it, not that he was thinking all that much anyway. ‘On the pillow.’

‘Yeah?’ For the first time that night, Scott looked unsure.

‘Yeah. Then, you’re going to shove my face in it and fuck me.’

Scott’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. ‘Fuck yeah I’m going to do that.’ He clambered up the wet bed and squatted over Jamie’s pillow, arms on the headboard for balance. He grinned. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to tell your parents.’

‘Worry about that later.’

Scott scrunched up his face, and out of him came a waterfall of light brown mush, which tapering off into a spraying fart. Jamie leant forwards and licked the stray droplets off Scott’s balls. He’d long since lost his sense of taste and smell, only leaving the burn and a vague sense of something rotting, and he hated that. He wanted to be overwhelmed again, and losing his virginity while the skin on his face was defiled and burnt by his cousin’s fresh shit sounded like the right way to do that. It also sounded like it’d lead to the best orgasm ever.

Scott pushed himself off the headboard and landed on his knees. Jamie pushed him down onto his stomach and leant over him, cleaning his newly dirtied ass. Scott moaned into the mattress, then smacked him. ‘Stop it, or I’ll cum like this.’

Jamie sat back up and allowed his cousin to rearrange them until he was on his hands and knees, Scott behind him. Scott parted his cheeks and put his mouth on his hole, giving it wet kisses until the muscled had relaxed enough for him to work his tongue inside.

Jamie whined, a sound which turned into a high keen when Scott grabbed him by the hair and forced his face down into the shit piled onto his pillow.

Scott fucked him, hard, the whole time gripping the back of his head and grinding his face into rancid diarrhea. Jamie could barely breath, his body hurt, his face burnt, and every time he opened his mouth to breath more shit was forced into it by his cousin’s frantic movements.

When he came, he could swear his soul left his body. He could swear his heart stopped from the sheer force of the pleasure. He’d never felt like that before in his life.

Scott pulled out and collapsed beside him.

Jamie’s senses started to return, and he could feel something wet leaking out of his ass. He figured Scott must have also cum. Scott, his cousin, had come inside of him while suffocating him with his laxative poop. The heat left his body as he realised what the hell he’d just done. Before he could start to panic, Scott had something to say:

‘So, do you want to be my boyfriend?’

Jamie sat up. He could barely see from the shit caking his face and hair, but he did his best to look down at Scott. ‘What?’

‘Do you want to be a couple?’

‘But, we’re family.’

‘Yet, I’ve been wanting to fuck you since I hit puberty. And where else am I going to find a guy who’ll let me do thatto him. You’re a fucking dream.’

Jamie laid back down, closer to Scott this time. He thought, why not? They’d already well and truly crossed the incest bridge, so no going back there, and Scott had made him feel pleasure at a degree he hadn’t thought possible. He’d ruined him, in a way, but Jamie couldn’t even be mad about it. Besides, a part of him had always really wanted his cousin to like him, and now he did.

‘Sure, okay. But… ah… What arewe going to tell my parents?’ he gestured to his pillow.

Scott snorted. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to clean up. I filled your parents with so many tranquilizers we’ll be lucky if they wake up within the week.’

‘You drugged my parents?’

He nuzzled Jamie’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t want us to be disturbed. Now, let me know when you’re up for round to. I owe your legs a licking.’

(Contains: M/M, farting, face-farting, mouth farting, scat, scat-eating, scat torture. Everything is non-consentual.)

Inspired by this post: https://bodyadydyadyady.tumblr.com/post/649739198178443264 

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.’

(Contains: M/M, face-farting, mouth-farting, scat-eating, torture. Non-con.

This story is NOT for those with a weak stomach.) 

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.

So spoilers: my favourite part of this video is when she wrapped her lips around his asshole and started sucking that shit out. Oops. Did I give away too much? 

http://bit.ly/2l9auNu

This is another video that made me cum hard. I dunno about you, but I think this young lady has talent.

http://bit.ly/2ag7wCN

What do icecream, cake and M&Ms have in common? Don’t you wanna find out?

http://bit.ly/2l95jwZ

So this one might be a bit boring to some of you. It’s just a guy taking a shit and casually eating it like it’s perfectly normal. For me it was really erotic watching and listening to him eat his shit. It’s not often you see something like this (at least not for me).

http://bit.ly/2jPeuRq

Over the past 2 months or so, I have really gotten into feeding. This is one of my fave videos because of it’s many surprises. Love it!

http://bit.ly/2kAA9RL