I was wondering if you could make me in to a toilet gimp?
You answered the ad on a whim — Waste Management Specialist: Temporary Contract. The construction company’s recruiter, a burly man with rough hands, didn’t ask questions. Just grinned and slid a pen toward you. “Sign here, boy. We’ll take real good care of you.”
The first day blurred. They handed you coffee that tasted metallic. Then came the dizziness, the heaviness in your limbs. When you woke, your world was orange. A rubber sleepbag encased you head-to-toe, snug as a thick second skin, with a mask cemented over your face. A tube snaked from your lips to the base of a urinal above, its icy drip steady against your throat. Your bladder pulsed — a catheter fed into you, filling and draining in rhythm with the crew’s shifts.
They’d built a special slot for you in the men’s room floor, narrow and discreet. Every morning, calloused hands slid you up through the manhole from the utility room below, your body a living fixture. The workers jeered affectionately — “Check out the new piss-pipe,” one rumbled above you. “Bet he loves the taste,” another laughed, his boot tapping the thick rubber tube. A thick stream arced into the metal urinal above, the tube down your throat pulsing as you swallowed.
You drifted in and out. Sometimes, the tube detached, and voices murmured, “Time for maintenance.” A needle pricked your neck. Darkness. You’d wake back in the sac, clean, the catheter adjusted, your limbs oddly languid. IV nutrients, you realized vaguely. That’s why you never hungered.
Then came the days they swapped your mask. A fleshlight molded to your lips, its entrance ribbed and warm. “Open wide, rubberboy,” a worker growled, thrusting into the hole. Others waited their turn, their taunts dripping with dark praise. “Such a good hole.” “Born for this, weren’t you?” They used you rough, their grip tight on your rubber-sheathed scalp. You couldn’t answer — could only choke, their sweat mingling with the rubber’s musk.
A month slipped by. On the final day, a needle met your neck again. Half-conscious, you felt hands hoist you onto a table. “Contract’s up,” a voice said. “Wanna stay, boy?” You moaned, aching and empty. The man chuckled. “That’s a yes.” A pen scraped paper — your limp finger smudged ink on the line.
When you woke, the tube was back. The grate shook as boots stomped above. “Welcome to month two, buddy,” someone sneered. You throbbed, helpless, as someone started using you. The tube gulped. You drank.
They’d keep you forever.
And you’d never say no.
baratheonpilled
andulkaphoto
dededos
