#smegma

in the event tumblr deletes my nsfw blog, i will be using my x-tube until i find a suitable blog for my ripe/cheesy foreskin content.  My profile on x-tube is uncut_sandiego    and, no, I no longer live in san diego!

To the guy who asked about how to make smegma:  I accidentally deleted your question.

stop washing it.  don’t let water get under your skin when you shower.  if you have to wash, just use warm water.  don’t piss or cum inside your skin.  a little cum is ok.  if you’ve been using soap to wash your cock regularly, it might take a while to get smegma, but once you do, it won’t take long the next time.

I woke up today to find my blog has 3003 followers.  I’ve said this before, I was surprised when I reached 100 and never dreamed my exotic fetish would be shared by so many others.  I’d love to get more submissions either here on my tumblr or via kik (skingames) or e-mail ([email protected])  All submissions will be treated as private unless specifically noted that they can be posted (anonymously or with credit).  Thank you.

We are looking for girls with dirty unwashed pussies, if you are interested PM for more details (we can pay you)

(Contains: M/M, Micro, unaware, smegma*, scat, farting, poor hygiene

*Emphasizing this as a warning, since I know it’s not a common kink.)

(This is my first attempt at a micro/tiny character.)

Little Johnny and Big Vince had been friends for years. Their nicknames couldn’t have fit better. Though they were the same age, the size difference went beyond just tall and short. Johnny had a rare form of dwarfism that led to his entire body being shockingly, and proportionately small. He resembled a Ken doll more than a man. Vince, on the other hand, was a giant. Not literally—this wasn’t a fantasy story—but compared to Johnny, it sure looked that way. At eighteen-years-old, he was already nearly seven-feet tall, and weighed around six-hundred pounds.

When Vince entered a room, he took up enough space for three people, which many found suffocating—but not Johnny. He barely needed any space. If Vince was taking up the entire couch, Johnny could sit on the armrest. If Vince needed both chairs at a restaurant—an unfortunately common occurrence—Johnny was small enough that he could sit on a stack of napkins beside his plate.

The only time their sizes caused any significant problems was when it came to hygiene.

Johnny was kind of a clean-freak. This wasn’t surprising, considering both how easy it was for someone so close to the ground to get dirty, and—seeing as how all products were made with average-sized people in mind—how quickly he could wash off. At least three times a day, Johnny stripped off his clothes and rubbed his entire body up against a soapy loofa. It was fast, easy, and therapeutic. When he walked on the side-walk, people often kicked dust into his face; and when he walked on the nature strip, even the shortest blades of grass usually passed his knees. He always came home with a face full of dirt—which stunk and itched—and grass-stains up to his shoulders, so feeling it all wipe off at once was something he looked forward to.

Vince was the opposite. Getting clean, at his size, was a feat. Shower cubicles usually didn’t fit him, and even the ones that did had a shower head that failed to wet his body in a timely manner. Bathing was a long, exhausting process. Given the amount of weigh he was carrying, he usually couldn’t stand for long enough to do it properly, and shower chairs made it harder to separate his folds. Because of this, he’d grown used to the feeling of sweat and grit, and the smell of body odour and human waste. He couldn’t see his penis, or reach most of his ass when wiping, so he stopped worrying about either.

Johnny tried to be understanding. He could imagine how difficult washing would be if his loofa was the size of his hand, not his entire torso, so he didn’t say anything beyond the occasional prompt to put on deodorant (which didn’t do much against sweat that was already a week old). Vince’s odour repulsed him, but good friends compromised, and Johnny prided himself in being a very good friend.

Today, they were watching a movie together at Johnny’s house. His parent’s couch was a two-seater, so he was perched on top of the tissue box on the side-table, leaning against a pile of Kleenex that he’d made into a make-shift pillow.

The movie was something a friend of theirs had recommended. He’d refused to tell them anything about the plot, only insisting that they absolutely had to watch it and that it would blow their minds. He’d given them a USB copy and instructed them to not watch it where their parents might see.

They were confused, but intrigued enough to arrange an impromptu sleepover, and plugged the USB into the TV as soon as Johnny’s parents were in bed.

About half an hour into the movie, they understood why their friend had been so vague. The protagonist had just finished an intense conversation with a woman who was implied to be his love-interest, and he invited her over to his house. They arrive, air ripe with sexual tension, only to find the protagonist’s roommate—who was supposed to be out with his boyfriend—reclining on the couch. Instead of this serving as an obstacle for the developing couple, it devolved into a threesome with the main character getting action from both sides.

Johnny shielded his hot face. He’d seen porn before—what man hadn’t?—but that was always by himself, in the comfort of his locked bedroom, notin his family’s living room with his best friend beside him. He heard shuffling on the couch and assumed Vince was having the same uncomfortable thoughts. Therefore, he did not expect it when large, chubby fingers appeared behind him, grasping around for a tissue. Before he could speak, Vince had grabbed a handful of his two-inch-high tissue-tower and was picking it up—the hem of Johnny’s shirt crumbled up with it.

Johnny kicked out his legs as he was lifted higher and higher above the table, his hands clinging to his shirt to keep it from slipping over his head. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. The sight before him had rendered him silent.

Vince, it turned out, hadn’t been moving around because he was uncomfortable—he was getting into the best position to masturbate. He’d ended up sprawled along the couch, knees bent, and tracksuit pants pushed down his thighs. He had reached behind him for the tissues, which was why he hadn’t seen Johnny. He didn’t even look at his hand as he lowered it down to rest under his belly, holding the flab out of the way of the hand that was stroking his short, thick cock.

This, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Vince had a bad habit of not looking at what he was doing, instead going by feel, and had once mistaken Johnny for one of his own father’s beany babies. This wouldn’t have been so serious of a mistake if he hadn’t proceeded to sit on Johnny, thinking he was just a stuffed toy.

He’d paused just above his friend’s body to release a silent fart, which to Johnny felt like a burst of car exhaust, and had stunk like rotten food. This fart had given him enough time to yell, so he’d been able to alert his friend just as the massive mounds made contact, but before he had a chance to crush him. What weight he did feel, along with the scorching heat and damp, meaty odour, still haunted him.

That little accident had nothing on this.

It wasn’t the sight of Vince’s cock that had rendered Johnny speechless, nor was it the fact that Johnny was so shamelessly jacking it on his friend’s couch, but the state of the cock. Vince, as we’ve established, wasn’t the best bather, but Johnny had never given much thought to what such bad hygiene could do to a man’s genitalia. Well, he knew now.

The odour coming off Vince’s dick was heavy and musky enough to be suffocating. The air felt too thick to fit down Johnny’s tiny throat, and with the way it reeked of vinegar and old piss, he wasn’t sure he wanted it to. The smell was nothing compared to the revolting sight, though. The head of Vince’s dick was smothered in a thick, lumpy-looking substance, which was mostly white around the tip and yellow lower down, around where his foreskin had contracted to. The yellow parts looked hard and crusty. It was a mix, Johnny realised with disgust, of new and very old smegma.

He wanted to say something—to scream for someone to get him away from that infected thing now—but he also didn’t want to hurt his friend. He knew from their conversations that Vince hadn’t actually seen his dick in a couple of years now, so he likely didn’t know how bad it was, nor would he have the means to clean it thoroughly if he did. He didn’t want to embarrass him by telling him not only that his penis was the single most disgusting thing he’d ever seen in his life, but also that Vince himself had force him to see it. He resolved, instead, to try and wait this out. He didn’t want to see his friend ejaculate, but he was confident he’d be able to manoeuvre himself enough to avoid getting any on him, even when the tissues he was bunched with were used for clean-up.

Vince pumped his cock, damp with what was probably spit, until beads of pre-cum leaked out. Johnny blanched at the sight, horrified at how the newly introduced moisture caused the white gunk to glisten. His horror mounted when Vince ran his finger over the head of the penis, wiping up some of the cottage cheese-like bacteria. Vince’s movements paused, and he lifted the finger up.

‘Gross,’ he muttered. ‘This shit again.’

Instead of returning the hand to his dick, he slid it down his gut, which caught Johnny by surprise. He turned towards the hand, but before he had an opportunity to pull away, the finger was on his face. Vince, thinking all he had in his hand was crumpled Kleenex, wiped the smegma off on his best friend’s face.

Johnny touched his cheek, feeling the chunky, slimy, yellow gunk that was covering his entire face and assaulting his senses. Everything reeked of sour, curdled milk, and a tangy yet bitter taste clung to his lips. He spat furiously into the air, but didn’t attempt to wipe any of it off in case he spread the substance around further. All of his clothes were handmade by his mother, so he didn’t want to ruin them—especially not with something as disgusting and embarrassing as this.

So overwhelmed, he didn’t notice when he was moved closer to the head of the penis. By the time he could focus again, he was being lowered face-first onto Vince’s cock. He scrunched up his eyes as he was rubbed against the hard, leaking flesh. He couldn’t believe he was being subjected to something so vile, so disgusting—that stunk so bad. He couldn’t imagine how Vince could live like this, how he somehow didn’t smell this shit on everything he owned. Johnny sure could. He now understood that the heavy, acidic smell that he’d always thought of as naturally Vince, was actually just dick cheese so overgrown that it was permeating his clothes.

After a few seconds—but long enough for him to feel like he was wearing a beauty mask made entirely of curdled yogurt—he was dragged down to where the foreskin bunched, and scraped along the crown of yellow crust. The pressure forcing back his lips, and old, dry smegma worked its way into his mouth. It was as sour as biting a lemon, yet still held a bitter, rotten undertone. The texture caused it to get stuck in his teeth, making the taste impossible to dispel. He tried to spit it out before it got that far back, but he couldn’t move his mouth away, and there was too much, so he had no choice but to swallow. His stomach tightened and roiled, and if he could see himself, he was sure he’d look green.

Once Vince was done with that area, Johnny was moved back up and used to wipe off the rest of the fresh, gooey smegma that was coating the tip. More wet, thick dick cheese stuck to every part of his skin it touched, and leaked between his lips, mixing with the other flavours. At some point, Vince stopped moving Johnny around and just held him against the slit. He was masturbating again. The sex scene, which seemed insanely long in Johnny’s opinion, was still going.

When Vince came, his grip of Johnny became painfully tight, causing the poor boy to gasp. Just as he did, Vince shot his load straight into his friend’s mouth. Johnny gagged, but seeing as he was right against the head of the cock, he had to swallow it. There was nowhere else for the hot, salty cum to go. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done—what he’d just been forced to do. That was more of any penis than he’d ever thought he would have to taste.

He felt tired and sick, so he sagged against Vince’s palm and waited to be thrown into the garbage bin. But that didn’t happen.

Vince, presumably still under the impression his friend didn’t know what he’d just done, shoved the handful of tissues (and Johnny) into his jumper pocket.

Johnny scrambled, trying to pull himself out of the space, but the fabric hung like a hammock, and the tissues were glued to his body with the various dick fluids, both covering his face and restricting his movements, making escape impossible.

‘Johnny?’ Vince said, confused. ‘Where’d you go?’

Johnny tried to call out, but the tissues were in his face and the fluffy material muffled sound.

‘Must be in the bathroom,’ Vince muttered.

‘No, I’m here! Let me out!’ he yelled, but it was pointless.

Vince started moving around, jostling Johnny. Every step sent his head smacking into the soft wall of Vince’s covered gut. The heat from the giant’s body caused sweat to seep through into the pocket, making everything damp. Johnny sighed when he finally stilled. He hoped they were in his room. He couldn’t tell if he was dizzy from the heat, the smell, or the motion, but he was more than ready to put this revolting mess behind them climb into his bed.

‘Huh, not here,’ Vince said, voice echoing. ‘Good thing, I guess. That Pad Thai isn’t sitting well.’ He patted his stomach, unknowingly forcing Johnny into the sweaty fabric.

There was more rolling about as Vince scrunched up his shirt and seemed to be sitting down. Johnny shook his head, which only further disorientated him. They couldn’t be in the bathroom—there was no way he was this unlucky. The large boy sighed as a deep, booming fart echoed against what could only be the porcelain toilet bowl, followed by a squelching sound and a splash.

Yes, he was indeed that unlucky.

Johnny gagged, forced to listen to his friend shit. That gagging nearly turned into dry heaves when the smell hit him. The bathroom stunk like a truck-stop restroom full of diarrhea-clogged toilets, and the sounds only made it worse.

The splashing increased as Vince’s bowel movement became sloppier, interspersed with wet, bubbly farts. ‘Fuck yeah, that’s the stuff.’

Johnny tried again to call out, no longer caring if he embarrassed the other boy, but gas and the splash of toilet water drowned him out.

The noises finally ceased, and Vince turned in the direction Johnny knew the toilet roll to be. No toilet-roll related sounds followed.

‘Shit,’ Vince sighed. ‘Who the fuck forgot to change the roll? Dammit, Johnny.’

Johnny kicked his legs out in frustration. He couldn’t even reach the roll to change it! He had his own custom toilet that he used, so there was no way the lack of toilet paper could be blamed on him.

He braced himself to be thrown about again as Vince made the trek to the bathroom closet, where the excess toiletries were kept. What he didn’t expect was for a hand to snag his foot—once again tangled up in tissues—and pull him out of the shirt. The bitter sewage stench became even more unbearable as he hung upside-down is the putrid air. He stared up at Vince, desperate to be seen, but his friend didn’t even glance at him. Instead, he lowered his hand towards his massive ass.

The sight of the saggy globes—wiry hairs matted with fresh brown shit; dark, gritty stains further out where shit had been smeared then dried, and was now crumbling like cracked cement—had Johnny nearly convulsing, and screaming. He screamed his lungs out. But, like all the others, this scream went unheard. Just as it was released, so was a booming fart, which echoed against the porcelain loud enough to drown out any other sounds. The pressure of the gas pushed Johnny’s hair back and made the skin on his face tingle. The added hot, eggy stench brought tears to his eyes.

Johnny didn’t get a chance to make further noise, as he was pushed in past the inch of caked shit, until he was flush against Vince’s asshole. He held his breath as he was submerged in what felt like hot custard mixed with sand, but that didn’t keep it from going up his nose and into his ears. It felt like every orifice was being invaded, and even without any passing his lips, he knew that if he didn’t wipe it off quickly it would make its way in there just like the smegma did. Vince dragged Johnny upwards, scraping him against his hole, then the top of his crack, coating him completely in shit.

When he lowered him down a second time, he paused. Johnny’s lungs were burning, and he couldn’t take it anymore, so he took a couple deep, gulping breaths. Like he’d predicted, the rancid, bitter taste invaded his mouth and made his tongue burn. He spat, as he’d done a lot of already that night, and like every other time, it didn’t help. The taste persisted, clinging to his taste buds and making his mouth ache. As he adjusted to the taste, he began to wonder why Vince had stopped moving. His question was answered with a pained grunt.

He felt the muscles open against his nose as Vince blasted a harsh, wet fart point-blank to his face. The noxious vapours made the air unbreathable, and Johnny broke into a coughing fit. The only thing keeping Johnny from throwing up was the thought of mixing bile with all the other nasty flavours. The farts continued, getting hotter and wetter until Johnny felt like he was suffocating.

Then, things got worse.

‘Oh no, oh no, oh no,’ Vince chanted, taking deep, bracing breaths.

He couldn’t see a thing due to the shit covering his eyes, but sound set off alarm bells in Johnny’s mind. Even if he’d know what was coming, nothing could’ve prepared him for the feel of liquid diarrhea being shot at him like a high-pressure hose.

He tried to turn his head away, but it was futile. Covering his face with his hands helped a little bit, but eventually the burning on his arms would get too much and he’d have to move them. His entire body was covered with hot shit—and it hurt.

He’d never smelt, felt, or tasted anything this disgusting before in his life. He wanted to die. This, he thought to himself, was hell. This was living hell. He wanted nothing more than to squish his body between the folds of his loofa and stay there, safe and clean, for the rest of his life. Instead, he was held in place as if he were a piece of toilet paper.  

When it was finally, mercifully over, Vince dropped him into the bowl. Johnny was able to grab onto the hanging toilet cleaner, and once again held his breath, this time as Vince hit the flush, sending toilet water rushing over him from all sides. When it stopped, he ran a hand over his face and opened his eyes. Looking down at himself, his body looked fairly clean. He never thought he would be this grateful to be covered in toilet water. His clothes were definitely unsalvageable, though.

He didn’t know what he was going to tell his mother.

He climbed up onto the seat. He couldn’t believe the ordeal he’d just been through, but at least it was finally over. He looked around for something he could use to climb down, since falling from that height would be the equivalent to falling off the roof for a normal-sized person, but there was nothing within reach. The thick, fluffy bathmat, which his mother had bought specifically to offer him some padding if he ever fell off the vanity, was sitting in the garage dryer. He spotted Vince—filthy ass still exposed, and still pretty much completely brown—standing a few feet away, retrieving fresh toilet paper. He looked at Vince’s boxers, nestled inside his thick sweatpants, wrapped around his ankles. He could probably make that jump. He didn’t want to touch the inside of Vince’s underwear, but it wouldn’t be the worse thing he’d done that day, and he’d only have to be there for the few seconds it took to climb out.

Once he was on the floor, Vince would see him, and they’d have to talk about this. With the way his clothes dripped, and how bad he surely smelt, he couldn’t exactly lie. He didn’t really want to, either—he needed his friend to know about the nightmare he’d just put him through. They were now well beyond the point of no-return.

Pushing that out of his mind, he hunched forward and prepared himself for the lunge. He jumped, and his trajectory was perfect. It seemed the day was finally starting to look up. Then, just as he was about to land, Vince bent down and grabbed a hold of his waistband. Johnny stuck the landing—right as Vince was yanking the pants back up over his ass.

He’d thought the heat from a sweatshirt pocket was bad, but it had nothing on this. Wedged between two ginormous, filthy ass cheeks, he was engulfed in a heat like none he’d ever experienced before in his life. His skin, which was already raw from its encounter with digested stomach bile, felt like it was being scorched. The flesh he was pressed up against was wet with both sweat and unwiped shit, and the heat made it smell like those things were evaporating, creating a sauna of human waste. He pushed against the soft fat until he was able to claw his way down. If he couldn’t get out, he could at least get away from the worst of it.

He made it to Vince’s huge, sagging balls, and was temporarily overpowered by the salt musk. It made his head spin. The loose skin was slippery to touch, but he managed to get a hold and pull himself under them, as if he were on an angled climbing wall. They dragged along his body and left a wet, salty residue.

Once he got to the front of the underwear, pressed up against Vince’s smelly, flaccid cock, he was again confronted with his friend’s cheesy ailment. The crotch of Vince’s white boxers was stained with chunky, white and yellow gunk, which had evidently scraped off inside before he’d used Johnny to clean himself.

As Vince walked, Johnny was jostled about, bouncing him against the fabric. His cheek was sticky where it’d slammed into the underwear, and the tip of Vince’s dick was poking him in the stomach. The longer he walked, the further down Johnny slid, until Vince finally sat down, and the small male found himself with a dick in his face and his legs trapped under the beginnings of a massive ass.

With his face pressed to the slit of his friend’s penis, clumps of smegma still lingering around it, he had no choice. He couldn’t escape. He took a moment to brace himself, then stuck out his tongue.

He wasn’t sure it would work, but it wasn’t like he could bite Vince—he didn’t want to hurt him—so he did the next best thing and lapped at his dick, pushing his tiny tongue against the slit until he was sure it’d be felt. The taste was sour but with a revolting note of piss, and the cottage cheese texture made him want to be sick, but he endured. He had to—he wanted out. He couldn’t take another minute of this torture.

The response was instant—a muttered ‘what the fuck?’ and the front of the pants were pulled away. Johnny looked up at Vince. Their eyes meeting, and he felt tears slide down his cheeks. Tears of relief, this time. Vince reached down and fished his friend out, placing him on the nightstand.

Johnny looked around, happy to see that he was in his room, and Vince was sitting on the spare-bed (with how small his custom furniture was, he had ample room for a normal-sized guest bed).

‘Johnny, mate, what happened?’ Vince asked, worry painting his features.

‘You—I—how could you? I mean—’ He took a breath. ‘How the hell could you mistake me for a tissue?!’

Vince paled. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry, man. I’ll be more careful next time.’

Johnny felt his face heat up. ‘There won’t be a next time! Don’t jack it in my house!’

‘You play porn on the TV and I’m going to jack off!’

Johnny put his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe, after all he’d been through, that Vince was actually trying to defend himself.

‘So, how am I looking down there, anyway?’ His giant friend asked.

‘Better, now that you used me to remove the smegma.’

Vince smirked. ‘Really? I’ll have to remember that.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t want me to be uncomfortable, do you? My dick’s been all sore and itchy for months now.’

Johnny shook his head. ‘Never again.’

‘Please? You want me to be clean, right? And it’s so hard, especially when I can’t even see what I’m doing.’

A familiar guilt overtook his anger. His condition had looked painful, and this was probably the cleanest Vince’s groin had been in years. ‘Fine,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll clean you, with a tissue and my hands, nothing else!’

‘Great, in that case, why don’t you finish what we started?’

Before he could argue, he was wrapped in a fresh tissue and thrust back into the dank, smelly cave of Vince’s pants.

(Contains: M/M, farting, face-farting, mouth-farting, minor scat, smegma*,smegma eating/licking*, body odour, poor hygiene, overweight characters. Non-con. 

*Emphasizing these two in the warnings because I know they aren’t common kinks.)

Sam hadn’t had an easy life. He’d been born with an extremely rare brain defect that impacted both his Broca’s and Wernicke’s areas—or the parts of his brain that processed and formed language. This defect caused the afflicted person to adopt a self-conditioned response to certain language cues, which could not be unlearned. Sam was one of the unfortunate few who’s conditioned response wasn’t just to particular words or phrases, but to questions. All questions. Even if the words weren’t phrased like a question, or asked in a questioning tone, if Sam’s mind interpreted it that way, he could only respond one way. Yes.

This was involuntary. An instinct. And when he tried to suppress it?

‘Of course.’

‘Okay.’

‘Alright.’

His mind would trick him with a substitute.  

Childhood was easy enough, kids just had fun asking him things that made no sense.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Yes.’

The less said about high school the better, but even those years paled in comparison to what he was about to endure.

Sam, now in his twenties, had ‘yes’-ed his way into one hell of a strange job—and not the good kind of strange, either. While at the grocery store, he spotted a middle-aged man with a cane, struggling to push his cart full of fizzy drinks. He considered flagging down a member of staff to help the man, but the cashier was busy, and he couldn’t see anyone in the immediate isles. He couldn’t just let the made struggle, so he made a decision.

‘Sir? Do you need any help getting to your car?’

The man smiled. ‘I’d really appreciate that, thank you.’

He pushed the man’s cart until they reached a blue hatchback, the words ‘Large and Sweaty? Our Crew is Ready!’ printed on the side, along with an address and a picture of a massage table. He got to work loading the boot.

‘You’re a strong fellow, aren’t you? And those hands!’ The man clasped one of Sam’s hands between both of his, kneading the palm with his thumbs. ‘These are a masseur hands if I’ve ever seen them. Are you experienced?’

‘Yes,’ Sam said, internally cringing. As much as he wanted to take that word back, he knew he couldn’t. His condition wouldn’t allow him to contradict it.

‘Wonderful! A position just opened up at my business, would you by chance be looking for work?’

‘Yes,’ he said, again.

‘Our speciality is large men, especially those with hygiene issues that would cause embarrassment or even refusal of service at other establishments. Are you comfortable working with those sorts of clients?’

‘Okay.’ Dammit, Sam thought, why did he have to phrase all his questions the same way?  

‘Perfect! Just put you name and number in my phone and I’ll forward you the details.’ The man grinned, evidently ecstatic to have found a new worker, so much so that Sam didn’t have the heart to clear things up yet. No, he’d wait and do it by text. ‘Oh,’ the man said, holding up his index finger, ‘One more thing. Some of our masseurs provide massages with “happy endings”,’ he made air quotations. ‘You don’t have to provide those, if that isn’t your scene, but the options there. Is that a service I can put you down for?’

Sam couldn’t believe it. He could not seriously believe the man had asked him like that. He did something he hadn’t done since high school, he tried to suck his lips in, biting down on them to keep them sealed. It didn’t work. ‘Of course.’

*

The man from the grocery store, who never even introduced himself, texted Sam later that evening. All it said was a time, date, address, and to call him Jim. Sam replied, asking to discuss their arrangement, but all he got back was that Jim was busy with his understaffed business and to please leave any questions until his first day.

As he entered the small building, he couldn’t believe what he’d gotten himself into. He could have ghosted Jim. He could have blocked his number and started shopping at a different store. But he didn’t, because finding staff for a specialty business like this one couldn’t be easy, and he felt he owed the man an explanation. If all else failed, he didn’t know how to massage, so that should be enough to get him fired.

The lobby was filled with large men ranging in size from moderately overweight to morbidly obese, and despite it being barely eight in the morning, most of them already had sweat patches growing under their arms and around their crotches. The entire room reeked of BO, among other rotten scents.  

A woman met him by the door. ‘Hello,’ she greeted with a large smile that did not meet her dull, tired eyes. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here. ‘Are you Sam?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’ He really loved it when the condition let him add onto his sentences, so he doesn’t sound like he’s answering a phone questionnaire. It only happened when he was affirming the yes, though.

‘Great, I’m Anette. Your first client is all ready and waiting. Just a heads-up, he’s a particularly foul one, hygiene-wise.’ She did an exaggerated shiver, and Sam’s heart fell into his shoes.

They reached a door, wider than average, with a round window positioned at about Sam’s eye-line. He peaked inside and saw a man lying face down on what must be a specially-made double-wide massage table. His fat was still rolling off the edges, and if it weren’t for the sheer size of the mound that was the man’s back, he’d think the guy was melting. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.

‘You’ll be fine. The boss said you were experienced. I’m sure you’ve had worse at your old job, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll send someone in to re-prep the room.’ And just like that, he was alone. His only chance to explain the misunderstanding, gone. He’d just have hope this guy thought he was a terrible masseur.

The minute he opened the door he was assaulted by a horrendous mix of stenches. The distinctive odour of armpit sweat was palpable, but underneath it was something bitter and earthy, then something else sour. As he stepped closer, he saw that the man’s ass was barely covered by the standard white towel he was given. He’d had the decency to position it low enough to prevent his dick and balls from being seen (if that was enough possible with so much fat), but that left at least half his crack visible. As he looked at the glistening line of moisture running down between the two cheeks, he realised that the bitter musk was this guy’s unwashed swamp-ass.

He decided it was best not to say anything and just get to work. Sure, he could comment on the smell, making the client feel like shit would be a real quick way to lose his unwanted job, but he didn’t want to do that. This guy didn’t know he was here against his will, and he didn’t want to harm the business’s reputation. Instead, he ground his palms into sweaty back fat and forced himself not to groan at the warm, slimy feel. It was like sinking into warm, wet putty.

‘Enough,’ said a gruff voice.

Sam stopped his movements.

‘Let’s cut to the chase. The massage is nice, but I paid for a cleaning, so get to it.’

‘A cleaning?’ Sam asked. What on earth could that mean?

The man sighed. ‘It’s fine, they told be you were new. I’m horny, and I can’t afford a home nurse or anything to help me bathe, so paying for a cleaning gets me an ass and dick licking from a cute young man.’

Sam was grateful that the man had kept his head down, because he didn’t want anyone to see how red his face had become. He couldn’t do that. There was no way.

‘Hey, you listening?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, distress clear in his voice.

‘So, you’ll do it?’

‘Yes,’ surely his suffering was coming through, right? Did the man not care? Maybe his tone didn’t matter, because what sane person would agree to a request like that if they weren’t willing? He wished he had a more mainstream condition.

‘Good, because after the last dickhead who worked on me, you’re the only thing that can save this place from a one-star review.’

Well, that was it. He had to do it, now. It sounded like this place had already had issues with uncooperative employees, and Sam couldn’t risk making their situation worse just because he hadn’t made enough effort to talk to Jim.

He could do this. He spread the fleshy globes apart and both saw and smelt the brown skid running along the hole. He couldn’t do this.

He took a step back and swallowed, trying to force the nauseas back down.

‘What’s taking so long?’

‘I… uh.’ He couldn’t form words.

You taking the time to admire my fat ass?’ The man laughed.

‘That’s right.’ Sam wanted to punch himself.

‘Well, in that case, wrap your mouth around my hole and I’ll give you something to really get excited about.’

Just don’t think about it, he told himself. Don’t think, just do, and it’ll be over before you know it. He pulled the cheeks apart again and leant down. Before he had a chance to properly register the sight or the smell, his tongue was out and touching perineum, licking up towards the anus. The taste of slimy, old sweat was bitter and salty, but he could handle it. That first bit of faecal matter was another story. It tasted like old, rotten meat, but so much worse. Sam reeled back, gagging and trying not to vomit. He took a deep breath. He could do this.

‘You liking the taste so far?’ the man asked, a playful lilt to his voice.

‘Yes,’ Sam’s voice was deadpan, but he doubted the man would care.

He tried again, this time managing to drag his tongue all the way up, catching all the filth on in it, like a spoon against a bowl. The asshole twitched as he passed over it. He held the shit in his mouth, waiting for his throat to stop spasming at the mere idea of swallowing, and wondered what else he’d be forced to do. He remembered the man’s earlier instructions, and once he managed to force the grot down his throat, he wrapped his mouth around the man’s anus. It was hot against his lips, and it began to push out into his mouth. He realised too late what was happening.

The man released a booming fart right down Sam’s throat. It tasted like rotten eggs and fresh shit, and tears filled his eyes.

‘That turn you on?’ The man grunted.

Sam pulled back. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good, me too. I got one more in the tank for you.’

Sam leant back down. He felt like sobbing, but held it in. This was humiliating enough without making a spectacle. This changed when rancid, burning silent fart hit his tongue. He gasped in pain, which only pulled the heat down into his lungs, burning his chest as well. He sobbed into the sweaty flesh.

‘Had enough, eh? Time to move to the front, then.’

Sam thanked his lucky stars. He didn’t want to suck a dick, but it had to be better than that. Anything would be better than eating shit and farts out of a filthy ass.

Or so he thought.

The man rolled over on the massage table and lifted up his gut. The sour stench, which had been hovering around them since Sam entered the room, grew stronger. The man’s penis was erect, pulling down the foreskin and revealing a revolting, festering sight.

Sam supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that a man this big would have smegma. He definitely couldn’t see his dick, and probably had a lot of trouble reaching it too, but that didn’t mean the sheer amount of bacteria growing there wasn’t horrifying.

‘As you can see, I haven’t been cleaned down there in a while. The last little shit I hired here refused to do it. Think you can manage?’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Sam felt bile rising in his throat. He swallowed, which only reminded him of everything his poor mouth had already suffered through.

‘Good, because I want it all gone today. Now, get that pretty mouth down there and let me feel some tongue.’ He gave Sam a flirtatious smirk.

Sam hesitantly took the base of the penis into his hand. He ran his thumb over the head and rubbed off one of the soft, white chunks. He brought it to his mouth and gave a tentative lick. The texture was like Swiss cheese, and the taste a little bit as well. It was salty, with traces of stale urine and cum, and a tangy, bitter aftertaste. Sam’s face scrunched up like he’d bitten into a raw lemon.

The man chuckled. ‘That good, huh?’

‘Yep.’ He gagged.

He looked back down at the dick, a thick yellowy-white band of smegma circling the entire head, and took a steadying breath. He can’t back out now. If he did, this man would still leave a bad review, and Sam would leave with the taste of shit and dick-cheese in his mouth, along with the knowledge that his condition could tank a business. Still, he could at least try to get out of this.

‘You know what?’ Sam said. ‘I’m not feeling too good, maybe I should go see if I can find a replacement to finish off your cleaning? I want you to have the best experience, after all.’ He fakes a smile.

‘Aw, but the best experience would be with you and your pretty mouth around my cock. You think you can tough it out for me?’

‘Yes,’ he says, defeated. Well, he didn’t really have a choice, now.

He grabbed hold of the shaft and leant down. He hoped that if he was pragmatic about this, he could get it done fast but thoroughly. He put the head of the penis in his mouth and circled his tongue along it. The soft chunks collected on his tongue like licking soft cheese off a finger, so he treated it like such. The tangy, bitter taste was amplified now, and had a sulphuric tinge to it. He gagged against the dick, but didn’t pull back. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, and he tried to lean into that disbelief to make it easier—to pretend he was doing something else. It didn’t work. Sweaty pubes tickled his nose, disrupting any attempt to dissociate. He could feel the smegma move down his throat as he swallowed, like it was clinging to his tongue. He would be tasting it for days.

Once he thought all the smegma was gone, he started sucking properly, bobbing his head and pumping his hand at the base. Every now and then something would scrape off onto the roof of his mouth or his tongue, and he’d swallow it, just like he swallowed the man’s hot cum.

‘Done.’  

*

Sam cleaned himself up in employee restroom. Just as he’d finished drying his face off with paper towel, Jim waked in. Thank God, Sam thought, I’ll finally have a chance to clear things up and get the fuck out of here.

‘Hey, newbie! Great work so far today. I don’t normally send people in with Trevor during their first shift, or hell, their first month, but it was clearly a smart choice. I don’t think he’s ever left so satisfied. Are you okay to take over with another difficult client? I know you probably want a break, but his usual guy just walked out. Just, straight up left. I guess the requests got too much for him. So, can I count on you?’

‘Sure.’ Sam wished Jim wouldn’t talk so much.

He tried to convince himself it wouldn’t be so bad. The man from earlier—Trevor?—had been such a difficult client Jim had no one to work with him, but this guy had a regular masseur. That was a good sign, right? But this experienced employee had left. Hadn’t been able to handle the requests. But they couldn’t be that bad!

Sam talked himself in circles until he reached the room. He looked through the window and was instantly relieved. This man was still overweight, but he had to be at least half the size of Trevor, and less fat meant less sweat. This would be easy.

He opened the door. He’d been wrong.

The odour was worse than earlier. So much worse. The stench of shit permeated the small space, so heavy he could almost feel it clinging to his skin. He coughed into his hand and the man—Sam’s new worst nightmare—laughed.

‘Sorry about the smell. It’s not usually this bad, but the bathroom in the foyer was out of toilet paper, so I figured, what the hell? May as well go and let you deal with the aftermath. It’s what you’re paid for.’ He lifted his head up from its place in the hole and gave Sam a mocking smile. ‘Bon Appetit.’

It seemed the man’s towel had been discarded while he was with the last masseur, so Sam approached his backside to see what he was dealing with. He nearly threw-up in his mouth. Between the man’s cheeks were caked with fresh, dark shit. It looked like he’d had tummy troubles.

Sam dove in.

The taste was worse than earlier—like stomach acid, decaying meat, and spoilt milk—and the added heat only made it worse by reminding him where this tastebud-torture had come from. There had to be at least three-times as much shit hear as what was stuck to Trevor, and it was mushier.

When he was finished, he felt light-headed, and the skin on his face prickled unpleasantly.

The man surprised Sam by getting up. Was it over? Was that all he wanted?

‘Laying down’s getting uncomfortable. Hurts my back, you know? Think you can lay down for a little while so we can make this more enjoyable?’

‘Sure.’ Sam had no idea what he was agreeing to, but what was done was done.

He laid on the massage table, face up. Before he a chance to react, a bare ass crashed down on his face. At first, he only felt shock, but that was soon replaced by an overwhelming heat, strong pressure, and the inability to breath. Something twitched against his nostrils. He braced himself. A long, bubbly fart seeped into his nose and he sniffed it up. His chest and throat burnt.

The ass shuffled back, scraping ass juice across his face, and Sam’s mouth was free. He gasped. The weight was still on his skull, and he couldn’t see, but at least he could breath. The air tasted salty and bitter, like a polluted beach, but he didn’t care. Not until a testicle made its way into his mouth. He could taste the sweat, urine and shit mixed on the skin.

‘Well, what’re you waiting for? Clean them up!’

Sam did his best to suck each teste into his mouth and lick them clean, but with no vision and the man’s thick thighs holding his arms down, it took longer than it should have. When the man finally got up, Sam’s entire face was drenched with both his and the client’s sweat.

‘Okay, I got one more job for you, then you can go.’ He lifted up his belly, and Sam had a sense of Deja-vu. Thick, white smegma covered the end of a short, greasy cock.

‘No, please. No more.’

‘What’s wrong, don’t you like eating dick cheese?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, because Jim says your amazing at it.’

Sam shut his eyes and prepared himself. The taste of Trevor’s rancid cock still sat heavily on his tongue.

He got to work.

This guy had a different idea. Instead of letting Sam lick him clean at his own pace, he took to thrusting. Each time he pulled out of or shoved into Sam’s mouth, the end of his painfully thick penis scraped along every inch of the space, depositing his dick gunk everywhere it could reach. The rotten taste filled his mouth and slid down his throat as he swallowed against the intrusion. By the time the man came, he’d wiped every speck of smegma off in Sam’s mouth, only for it to mix with his cum and get pulled into the poor guy’s stomach when he swallowed.

Sam felt tired, and sick, and used, but there was nothing he could do about it.

The man left satisfied, and it further bolstered Sam’s reputation.

He was going to be popular, and there was nothing he could do about. He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t say no.

This was his life now.