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I wake up with a pounding in my skull and a mouth like sandpaper. This is nothing new—nor is the sound that woke me. Sometimes, Adrian makes me sleep under the blanket in an eight-hour Dutch oven—his bare ass pressed to my face. These nights are torture. I don’t fall asleep so much as pass-out from the increasing heat and noxious fumes—the two combined in spurts of hot, eggy gas, blown directly into my face.

I’m still suffering the after-effects when his booming morning farts wake me up.

This usually happens when he’s in a bad mood, so I try my best to keep his mood up. I’ve taken to degrading myself in ways he doesn’t ask for, but clearly enjoys, in the hopes that he’ll spoon me in bed that night. This can be anything from giving him compliments to initiating sex acts. It doesn’t always work, though, and some things are out of my control. Like this recent falling out with his friend.

Josh has been Adrian’s friend for eight years now, with the two sharing a dorm room for six of them. All of Adrian’s friends are people he went to school with, which I’m somewhat jealous of, and a few of them even came to meet me after the wedding.

I only met Josh a week ago, since he was away on a business trip for whatever company his father bought him, and it was a much-anticipated event.

Since marrying, Adrian has taken the time to fill me in on all the little details of his life.

I was surprised, at first, that he would care enough to open-up to me, but I’ve since learnt that this isn’t a sign of care at all. He’s treating me like a human diary. He doesn’t talk to me so much as rant, and theorise, and reminisce. I’m not expected to respond to any of this—not that I can, usually, since he keeps my mouth busy—so I probably don’t even need to remember the details, but I do. Adrian is the only person I see most days, and on the other days, when we have guests, they’re usually Adrian’s friends. I like that I’ve memorised little details about them. Their favourite foods, whether or not they snore, what they’re afraid of, when they lost their virginities—knowing these things allow me to pretend they’re my friends, too. Instead, they just see me as Adrian’s toy.  

That’s how it is. I’m just a fancy toy Adrian’s dad bought him, so why would they treat me as anything more? I’m allowed to speak to them, and I’m required to answer any questions they might ask, but it’s clear they don’t actually care what I think or feel.

When Josh finally stopped by, Adrian gave me a new pair of frilly, silk panties. These ones were red—Josh’s favourite colour—and apparently contrast well with my pale skin. He wanted me to ‘give Josh something nice to look at’.

Just like my mother said, Adrian didn’t let me keep any of my clothes when I moved in with him. In fact, after giving me the grand tour of his penthouse apartment, he’d made me strip naked and thrown a lacy thong at me. He informed me that there was a draw in the bedroom full of a variety of brand-new underwear just for me, and that was all I was permitted to wear. If I’m cold, there are heaters in every room and I can run them whenever I like, as hot as I like, so long as I know I’ll have to lick up any drops of sweat that form on him as a result.

I stood a few steps behind my husband as he answered the door.

Josh is tall, like Adrian, with a firmer build and a light tan. They slapped hands and pulled each other into a half-hug.

‘What’s up, buddy? How you been?’ Adrian asked.

‘Not bad. Heard you got married.’

‘You heard right.’ Adrian gestured to me.

Our eyes met and Josh froze, taking in my almost-naked appearance with a worried sort of frown.

‘Uh, Adrian,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘What the fuck?’

‘What?’ he replied absently, ushering his friend further into the apartment so he could shut the door.

Josh walked past me, giving me a wide berth, and headed into the living area.

‘Why is he in his underwear?’ he asked, flopping down on the couch and picking up the remote, as if he also lived here.

Adrian’s muscular arm snaked around my waist. He led me towards a plush chair and pulled me into his lap as he sat. I leant the side of my face against his chest, ignoring the hand massaging my thigh and periodically plucking at the waistband of my panties.

‘Thought you might enjoy the view,’ Adrian responded mildly.

‘You bag yourself a slut?’

Adrian shrugged. ‘He’ll be whatever I want him to be.’

‘Seriously man, what the fuck is going on? I’m getting weird vibes in here.’

‘His parents sold him to me. They had him sign a contract and everything saying he’d do whatever I tell him, or his dad would lose his company. It’s fucking amazing.’ Adrian grinned. ‘Watch this,’ he said and shoved me off his lap.

I hit the ground with a yelp. My knees were scaped by the carpet and there was a sharp pain in my wrist. It was jarred, and I assumed—correctly—that it would be sore for at least a few days. Beyond hair-pulling, Adrian is almost never violent, and had never injured me before. He prefers humiliation to pain. I looked up at him, wrist cradled to my chest and heart racing in my ears, wondering what the hell was going on.

Instead of an explanation, I got an order. ‘Take off my shoes.’

I did as told and removed his sneakers. My nose scrunched up at the stench radiating from his damp, brown-yellow socks, which had been white when he’d put them on. Like underwear, he re-wears the same socks until they become uncomfortable, and he’d had that pair on for over a week. Between his morning runs and afternoon gym sessions, they were far from fresh.

‘You like what you see? What you smell?’

‘No,’ I answered honestly. He told me on my first night here that I should always be honest with him. He enjoys my pleasure and my suffering equally, so there’s no reason to lie.

‘Why not?’

‘They’re dirty. Your socks are covered in dirt and sweat and they stink. The smell is making it hard to breath.’

‘Is that right?’ He lifted one foot towards my face, tracing my cheekbone with his big toe. I grit my teeth to avoid flinching. ‘Sucks to be you, then. Open up.’

I opened my mouth and groaned as he forced all his socked toes into my mouth at once, curling them to scrape against my tongue. My eyes watered and I choked on the sharp, vinegary flavour, which mixed with the bitter tang of sweat and dirt. He kept pushing until half of his foot was in my mouth and I was audibly gagging around it, tears running down my face.

When he removed them, I doubled-over, dry-heaving. Nothing came out, as all I’d had that morning was Adrian’s concentrated, first-of-the-day piss.

I got my second shock when a hand—unfamiliar and clean—grabbed me by the forearm and pulled me up.

‘Are you okay?’ Josh asked. His eyes were wide and horrified.

I nodded. There were lots of things I could have said, from reassurances to complaints to pleas for help, but in the moment, nothing came to mind. It’d been too long since anyone cared how I felt, and I no longer knew how to react. My mind was totally empty.

He rounded on Adrian. ‘What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?!’ he demanded. ‘You do realise this is a person, yeah? Not a toy? The fuck are you doing torturing your husband like it’s some cool trick?’

Adrian stood up and shoved Josh back, hard enough for his to stumble. ‘Don’t you tell me how to treat my property! He’s my husband and my toy and whatever else I want to use him as. I know he’s a person, why else would my dad have paid so much?’

Josh shook his head. ‘Your fucking crazy. Don’t talk to me again, you fucking monster.’

And with that, he left.

I’d naïvely hoped that this altercation would trigger some kind of revelation in Adrian—or at least encourage him to treat me a bit more gently. It did the opposite. In the week since that visit, things have been worse than ever. It’s as if he’s acting out just to spite Josh.

Dutch ovens have replaced spooning, I’ve lost all water-drinking privileges, and he’s gone from just farting on my meals to—at best—giving me food he has sat on for thirty minutes or more, thoroughly dousing it with both his gas and his bare-ass sweat.  

This morning is no different. After waking up to a hot breeze and a booming noise, the blanket above me shifts. Despite the rancid stench still swimming around me, I take deep, gasping breaths as light and cool air seep in. Of course, this shift isn’t a mercy. It’s Adrian reaching behind him to grip one of his own ass cheeks and pull it to the side, showing off the hairy, damp hole.

A signal.

Without a sound, I dive in, lapping at the filthy exit—tasting the foul mix of sweat, gas, and shit. Every morning is like this. I lick his ass clean, then his armpits, and—if he deems it necessary—his balls and pubes. I don’t know what qualifies as ‘necessary’ given that all these areas are always dirty. He has not bathed once in the month I’ve been here, and tongue-baths aren’t hygienic even when I haven’t spent almost ten hours huffing farts.

At least he lets me brush my teeth at night. I assume this is less about my comfort and more about him not wanting to see my teeth fall out.

His muscles tense and the hole protrudes slightly. I freeze, my head still and my mouth open. He pushes out a long, bubbly fart that puffs my cheeks and makes my tongue numb. I’m used to the spicy, bitter burn and manage not to pull away, even if I can’t hold in my whimper. I go back to licking, and his belly rumbles. This time, he kicks me lightly in the stomach, so I take the cue to slide down and press my nose to his asshole. This fart is weaker, but deeper than the previous one, and it lasts longer. I loudly sniff it up.

Once this is done, I lick his armpits—a job that is only getting harder as the grim continues to build up—and drink his morning piss. The first, concentrated piss of the day is always the hardest to swallow, and the taste makes me think of spoilt chicken broth.

I put on my panties and wait for Adrian to dress himself. He puts on the same briefs he’s been wearing for the last week and a half. As disgusting as they are, I’m glad he isn’t changing them yet. To celebrate ‘the changing of the underwear’, as he calls it, he likes to hold the old pair against my nose while prepping me, then shoves them in my mouth while we fuck. The taste and smell isn’t as bad as when I’m licking his ass, but the sheer number of senses being assaulted at once makes it an overall worse experience.

Along with the briefs, he dresses in shorts and a singlet—his usual gym attire.

We walk together into his expansive, modern kitchen, where we sit beside each other at the breakfast table and Adrian gives our orders to his personal chef.

The chef comes every morning and every evening, leaving me to handle lunch.

Today, he orders a full English breakfast for himself, with extra baked-beans, and a plate of scrambled-eggs for me.

As usual, my meal is made first, and Adrian puts the plate on his chair. He lowers his pants and briefs, pulls his cheeks apart, and sits down. It isn’t long before a torrent of deep, rumbly farts can be heard, muffled slightly by what would be my breakfast.

I’m on the edge of my seat, hunched forward with my shoulders drawn up like a defensive cat. The gas doesn’t bother me—I’m used to it now—it’s what might, or might not, happen afterwards that frightens me.

Adrian’s breakfast is brought out roughly half an hour later, and at that point he stands up. He parts his cheeks and farts, spraying the bits of egg that stuck to his hole back onto the plate.

Then, he does the thing I was afraid of.

He squats a little more and a short, thick log slides out of his ass and onto the plate, on top of the eggs. He turns his back to me, and I don’t need to be told twice. I kneel behind him. Egg is squished against his crack and there’s a brown ring around his hole. The stench of fresh shit is nauseating, and it’s punctuated by the heat radiating from his skin, but I force myself to stick out my tongue and lick. First, I lap up the egg, which was unseasoned but is now salty from sweat, and then I lick the hole. The taste has me retching. I push through it.

When we’re both seated again, our respective plates in front of us, I have to decide how to proceed.

I don’t have to eat his shit. Not yet, anyway. Despite his sadistic tendencies, Adrian really doesn’t like vomit, so he’s easing me into this. A week into our marriage he started periodically defecating on my food. I’m not allowed to remove the shit from my plate, and I have to eat majority of my meals, which can be difficult. I wasn’t given a large serving of eggs, so it’s impossible to eat most of it without eating some that has come in contact with his waste.

I hover my fork over the plate, trying to decide whether to roll the log off the bits of egg trapped underneath, or attempt to pull them out. Either way, I’ll have to eat something that has been flattened by shit and then marinated in the juices.

‘Eat, before it gets cold,’ Adrian says around a mouthful of bacon.

I go with the second option.

Each bite is an ordeal, even if it isn’t contaminated. The smell is putrid and intense, permeating the room and enveloping every other scent, including the bacon Adrian is somehow still able to scarf down.

Unbothered by the odour, he prattles on about some new pair of sneakers he wants to buy, smiling at me as if we’re your typical newly-weds.

Eventually, I’m forced to slide my fork under the turd and pull loose the egg. The prongs mould the brown log like Play-Doh, creating a thin row of indents, and some mushy remnants cling to the metal. I don’t breathe as I bring the fork to my mouth. I pull the egg off with my teeth, making sure the utensil doesn’t touch my lips, and swallow.

Even with all my precautions, the taste is the same as licking brown marks from his asshole.  

After breakfast, Adrian goes for a run, and I turn up the heater. He’s going to be covered in sweat either way when he returns, so I may as well be warm.

I watch the morning cartoons. It’s silly, but this is one of the rare moments I get to relax, so I don’t want it to be disturbed by anything scary or dramatic. I also can’t really get invested in TV dramas anymore. The issues being portrayed are nothing compared to what I’m going through, so the characters’ stress seems ridiculous. I prefer harmless slapstick and pretty colours.

When Adrian gets back, he switches the channel to The Sports Network, and I set about ‘cleaning’ him.

He strips off his shirt, first, so I can lick the sweat from his chest and armpits. The taste isn’t any worse than earlier this morning, just a lot wetter, and his skin is hot. He moans while I work—I get a small sense of satisfaction from that.

I just want him to be happy.

I just want to be safe.

Next, he takes off his shoes and socks. I lavish each foot with attention, sucking on each toe and flattening my tongue against the soles of his feet. The taste and smell are worse than his armpits—most likely due to the old, wet socks—but at least it’s just sweat.

I get a chance to catch my breath as he removes his shorts.

His dick is hard, but I don’t get to suck it until I’ve licked his thick, sweaty balls clean. Sucking dick has become my favourite part of this routine. It’s not so much that I enjoy the process, but that it’s the most normal part of my life. The one normal thing we do. Now that the smegma has cleared up (entirely my doing, though I prefer not to think about it), nothing about the activity is tainted.

Normal couples eat together, but one doesn’t shit in the other’s food.

Normal couples share a bed, but one doesn’t trap the other under the covers and force them to huff gas all night.

Normal couples have sex, but one doesn’t burp in the other’s mouth, or gag him with used socks and underwear.

I lap and suck the salty, slimy sweat from his balls quickly, so I can do something entirely normal.

Once his cock is in my mouth, he grabs me by the hair and sets the pace. He doesn’t ram it in hard enough to choke me, just enough that I’m forced to sniff his musky, not-washed-in-a-month pubes. I shut my eyes and give myself over to the sensations.

He comes down my throat.

I sigh.

‘Okay, now onto my swamp ass,’ Adrian says, running his fingers through my hair absent-mindedly. He can be incredibly gentle at times, but I know better than to think it’ll lead to mercy.

He leans over the arm of a chair, eyes on the TV, and I kneel behind him. His cheeks are red and glistening from his recent workout, the dark hair flat from sitting on the couch, and they part with a wet sound. His crack is drenched.

I give one hard, thorough lick from his perineum to his coccyx, gathering as much sweat and other filthy juices into my mouth as possible. There’s around a tablespoon of foreign liquid in my mouth, slimy and specked with grains of dried shit, and I swallow.

The hole twitches and a deep, lazy fart hits my face. The stench is like a busted sewer pipe.

‘I guess that protein shake is finally hitting me,’ Adrian mutters.

I commit to a couple more long licks before focusing on circling my tongue around his asshole, the way he likes.

‘Mouth.’

On command, I wrap my mouth the pulsing muscle. The bubbly air vibrating my skull is almost inaudible over my unsuppressed groan.

Protein farts are by far the worst. They’re all-encompassing vessels of grossness. Not only do they burn my tongue, and throat, and lungs, but I can smell them when I exhale—the stench still clinging to the air as it leaves my lungs.

I’m trapped there for the next hour, alternating between licking his hole and having my airways assaulted.

Finally, it’s lunchtime.

I’m not allowed to eat lunch, but that’s fine. That wasn’t the most appetising morning.  

I make Adrian a couple of sandwiches, then sit beside him and watch him eat. He thanks me by filling my stomach with urine.

I asked him, on my second or third day here, why I only get two meals. It was afternoon and were sitting together on the couch. He was watching TV while I curled and uncurled my limbs, trying to find the warmest position that didn’t involve leaning into him.

‘You’ll get fat,’ he told me. ‘You aren’t going to be leaving the apartment often, so you aren’t exercising. If I give you three meals a day, you’ll start piling on the pounds, and I want a skinny wife.’

I hadn’t argued, but I did frown, and he wrapped an arm around me in what I assume was supposed to be a reassuring gesture.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll only be hungry for a few weeks. Once You’re able to eat my shit, you’ll always have a full belly.’

‘What?’ I wished I’d misheard.

‘I shit like two or three times a day, so with that on top of your normal meals, you’ll never be hungry again.’

I shudder at the memory.

Adrian does some freelance work for his father. I don’t understand it, though he has explained it to me multiple times now, but I do know it involves computers.

We spend the rest of the afternoon in his office. He put a woollen sweater on after his tongue-bath, but his bottom-half is still bare. He sits bare-assed on his leather office chair, legs spread, and I am stashed underneath the mahogany desk. My chin rests on the seat of the chair, his thighs pressed to my ears, his dick on my head, and my nose against his balls.

Like most afternoons, he types away, while I sniff up any fart that squeaks out from between skin and leather.

With nothing to do, and my only view being his wrinkled ball-sack, I retreat into my mind. I try to imagine what I would be doing if I were still at home, with my parents, but nothing comes to mind. It’s getting harder and harder to remember what my life was like before Adrian. Before this waking nightmare. 

Today, while he works, he also drinks from a carton of banana-flavoured milk. It’s both his favourite snack, and the one that agrees the least with his guts, which is why he rarely subjects himself to it.  

The farts get longer, and airier, and the smell reaches a point where I have to fight to keep from choking. By the time Adrian pushes me away, I’m shaking, and my vision is black around the edges.

‘Bathroom break,’ he announces, sounding pained.

He hobbles to the bathroom, hunched over and with both hands around his stomach.

I follow.

The moment his ass hits the toilet, there’s a sound like someone emptying a bag of coins into a well. He hunches over further and groans.

The bathroom floor is cold on my legs as I kneel in front on him, but I barely notice, too focused on keeping myself from dry-heaving. Lactose-induced diarrhoea is a stench in its own league. It goes beyond rot, and death, and sewer-pipes, and takes on a sharper note. It tingles my nose and tongue and seems to reach inside me, trying to pull my stomach out. There’s nothing more sickening.

A booming fart gives way to waterfall, and he uncurls further into himself.

‘Fuck, that burns,’ he says.

‘Sounds like it.’

‘Come here.’ He touches my head and guides it until my chin is on his knee. ‘Good boy. This’ll be so much easier once I can use your mouth. My ass cheeks won’t burn if the acid is spraying into those pretty cheeks, and then that soft tongue can sooth me.’

My throat gurgles. I swallow down the rising bile. That’s the nicest thing he’s said to me in a week, and it’s just a promise to defile me in new, terrifying ways.

He gives me a sad smile. ‘Not ready, then? Shame.’

His hand wraps around his dick, which has been slowly gaining life as he speaks.

‘You can take care of this, though.’

As I take his cock into my mouth, the stench and sound of diarrhea closer than it ever should be, I decide that blowjobs are ruined. There is nothing normal left in my life.

Splashback hits my collarbone.

He orders me to stay on my knees as I wipe his ass. His shit-stained cheeks are at eye-level as I tend to them—the heat, and the squishy texture, of his excrement are apparent through the 3-ply.

‘When you’re done, give it a lick.’

I freeze. ‘Why?’

‘So I know it’s clean.’

I do as he says. I can feel how swollen his anus is through its increase in size and in heat. There’s so much burning, spicy heat. No amount of wiping could have protected my tastebuds from such a vile, painful experience.

Afterwards, we go back to the office. The remnants of digestive fluids continue to make my mouth tingle, and he claims to not have enough in his bladder to wash it away for me.

He needs two more toilet breaks throughout the afternoon, and I accompany his for each.

The smell under the desk gets worse and worse.

He doesn’t make it to the gym that afternoon, for obvious reasons, so I don’t get any kind of reprieve until it’s time to begin our dinner routine.

My dinner—a burger with beef, lettuce, tomato and no sauce—is made over an hour before Adrian’s. He puts his underwear back on for the sole purpose of shoving the meal between his cheeks.

We put on a movie while we wait. If Adrian likes it, we’ll probably eat in front of the TV. I don’t mind this, as it offers something to distract me from the taste. Right now, I’m using the movie to distract myself from the sound of wet, bubbly farts slipping out of a dirtier-than-usual ass and being absorbed by something I’m supposed to eat.

The rumbling of gas turns into a rumbling of guts and Adrian stands up.

‘Pause it,’ he tells me, rushing towards the bathroom.

A now familiar, common dread fills me.

I hear him before I smell him, then smell him before I see him. It’s waterfalls again, so it’s no surprise he’s doubled-over and cringing. The burger sits damp and squished inside his briefs—the contents still trapped in the bun, thanks to his powerful glutes.

Kneeling, I stare at my dinner, as well as the copious amount of yellow and brown and stains inside the fabric, and prepare to grab the toilet paper.

This isn’t necessary.

The noise stops and Adrian kicks me gently. ‘Get up.’

He doesn’t wait for me to move before standing himself, and I scramble to my feet, giving him room to move. My mouth drops open as he leans down and grabs the sides of his briefs. He pulls them up. There’s a wet squelch as the burger slides into place between the unwiped globes, no-doubt being pressed against a swollen, shit-drenched hole.

‘What the fuck?’ I ask. The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it, spoken in a breathy disbelief.

He shrugs. ‘You’re taking too long. Eating shit is one of your responsibilities, and you can’t do it. You’ll manage tonight or I’ll have to give my father a call.’

He shoulders past me without another word.

I spend the remainder of the hour holding back tears. Not only am I terrified of the nightmare about to overtake my tastebuds, but also of the future. If I succeed, I’ll be expected to act as toilet starting tomorrow. If I fail, my family will be bankrupt and this all will have been for nothing.

Eating dick-cheese, drinking piss, licking armpits, letting this monster fuck me. It will have all been pointless.

Adrian’s plate of burger and chips is brought into the living room, along with an empty plate for me.

He slides off the couch into a squat, then reaches into his underwear.

What he puts on my plate isn’t even recognisable as food. The previously golden bun is a patchy brown, and not only is it flat from pressure, but moisture too. It looks small and soggy. The edges of the lettuce poking out are wilted.

‘Well,’ says Adrian, around a mouthful of his normal-looking burger. ‘Eat up!’

When I pick it up, I notice three things. First: it’s warm. The patty was cooked more than an hour ago, yet the entire thing feels like it was just taken out of the oven. Second: I was right to think it looked soggy. The bread is close to sopping off from the weight of the liquid it’s retained. Third: it stinks as badly as having Adrian’s unwiped ass in my face. Any odour the beef had has been thoroughly engulfed.

I take a bite.

I gag.

I swallow.

It’s indescribable how bitter, spicy, and all-around unpleasant the taste is. It burns my tongue in the same way I would expect stomach-acid to, while also leaving behind a slimy film that will ensure that, no matter how many times I swallow, the rancid flavours won’t leave.

‘Whoop!’ Adrian slaps me on the back and grins. ‘You did it!’

I stare at him. He sounds like he’s congratulating his friend on asking out a girl, not congratulating his husband on stomaching human waste.

‘This is a new chapter for us.’ He pops a chip into his mouth.

Each bite hurts more than the last. I swear I can feel my tongue swelling, like it does when I’m made to lick Adrian’s pits for too long, and just moving it makes me gasp. The pain spreads down my throat. The inside of my cheeks are collecting pieces of hard, gritty shit, and I wish I was allowed a glass of water to wash them down. Or better yet, a bottle of rubbing alcohol to cleanse my insides.

By the time I’m finished, my whole body is shaking. Tears run freely from my eyes, so much so that I can’t see.

Adrian pulls me to his chest and makes quiet shushing sounds. ‘Good job, baby. You did so well.’

I want to pull away, but I’m too exhausted. I want to yell at him, call him a psycho and ask how the hell he can act so loving after putting me through that, but my mouth is too sore to talk. At the same time, though, I want to lean into him and bask in the praise, before it’s gone. It’s been so long since he’s praised me.

‘As a reward, you don’t have to bathe me tonight. Sound good?’

I nod.

*

Brushing my teeth stings. The cooling mint of the toothpaste feels like thousands of tiny razorblades being swished around inside my mouth. Each push or pull of the toothbrush tears another sob from my aching throat, and it’s made all the worse by Adrian crowding me, rubbing my sides and kissing the crook of my neck. I can’t tell what he’s thinking—whether these acts of comfort are genuine, or just a way to mock my pain—which only serves to make everything even the more overwhelming.  

During sex, his kisses are gentler, but no less frequent. I’d hoped he wouldn’t want to kiss me after what I’d done, but he licks into my mouth with the same fervour as always. He seems cognizant of the amount of pain I’m in, though, and doesn’t bite my lip or lap too harshly at my tongue.

I’ve been doing that all evening.

I didn’t let myself react when I saw him for the first time, or when I smelt him up close during an unwelcome hug, or when he groped my ass. The repulsion is showing now, though, as I move the pasta around in my bowl without eating any, and I can feel my father’s disapproving gaze.

I had less than two days to prepare for this dinner, which I assume was by design. Dad probably didn’t want to give me enough time to get worked up. Or to run away. Not that I would.

My father is an extremely successful, wealthy businessman, who immigrated to our country, alone, nearly two decades ago. His birth family is lazy, and poor, and greedy—this is all he’s ever told me about them. My mother was an orphan. Family-wise, they are all I have, and I’m all they have. Maybe that’s why they’re so controlling. Due to their decision to hire private tutors instead of sending me away to a private boarding school, the only friends I’ve ever had being those they hand-picked, and one wrong step by their parents would make them disappear.

Because of all this, although they have no legal control of me now that I’m an adult, we both know I wouldn’t survive without them. I have no work experience, weak social skills, and no connections that don’t just see me as my father’s son. If I left, I would be as vulnerable as the day I was born.

I knew my parents would end up picking my spouse. I came out as gay for that exact reason. With how huge my father’s social network is, and how ruthless his business practices are, he wouldn’t have trouble finding a gay man who’s influence he could use.

And he didn’t.

By the time he told me, the contract had already been written. Apparently, the son of the obscenely wealthy CEO of a rival company had seen me at an event. His father proposed a merger—something my father had never even allowed himself to dream of—in exchange for a marriage. Or, what they’re calling a marriage, at least.

Me and Adrian will be legally married tonight, but along with that I’ll also have to sign a contract that will basically make me his slave. According to my father, who approved the document without my knowledge, it stipulates that I’ll have to do everything Adrian asks, without complaint, or it’ll spell disaster for my parents.  

Knowing how big this deal would be for my father, I didn’t object, but I hadn’t expected Adrian to be so… unappealing.

I could smell him before I saw him—his sour and pungent body odour wafting out from his pit-stained button-up shirt. His face is greasy and acne-scarred. His teeth were yellow when he smiled. His body is large and well-built—something that would be sexy on someone who showered regularly, but as this reflects his active lifestyle, it only foreshadows just how bad the stench can get.

This first thing he did when he saw me was pull me into a hug, groping my ass in the process. His cheek felt sticky when he rested it against my neck.  

Not much has been said since we sat down for dinner, but Adrian hasn’t taken his hand off me. His nails are filthy.

‘Are you not hungry, Luka?’ asks my father. There’s a warning in his tone.  

‘Just nervous,’ I reply. It’s a safe enough reason. Who wouldn’t be nervous on their wedding night?

‘I’m excited,’ Adrian says around a mouthful of pasta. He cups my junk properly, making me shiver. ‘He’s way prettier up close.’

His father chuckles. ‘You have always liked the delicate ones.’

I want to argue that I’m small, not delicate, but I hold my tongue. Dad needs tonight to go well, and maybe, if he sees me as something fragile, this creep will be gentle.

Adrian leans over, and his breath heats my face. It smells like dog shit. He whispers into my ear: ‘I can’t wait to take you apart.’

I drop my fork.  

Our eyes meet.

He smirks. ‘Want me to season that for you?’

‘What?’

He picks up my fork, still speared with penne pasta, and lifts it to his mouth. He licks the sauce off the noodles, giving me a proper view of his furry teeth and nearly-white tongue, then holds the utensil out to me.

Glancing to the side, I see both sets of parents watching me expectantly. I accept the food and chew it slowly. There isn’t much of the tomato taste left, instead replaced with something bitter and slimy. This time, I can’t suppress the cringe.

He wipes a non-existent stain from the side of my mouth with his index finger, then forces it past my lips. I wrap them around the digit and lick. It’s sour.

He pulls his finger back and idly licks off my spit, never breaking eye-contact.

‘Do you want something a little stronger?’ His smirk morphs into a cruel grin.

I shake my head, mutely, trying to keep myself from imagining what ‘stronger’ could mean. I shouldn’t refuse anything this man offers, but my stomach is already doing flips trying to keep its meagre contents in.

‘Don’t be rude,’ my mother snaps. ‘This is your soon-to-be husband—don’t insult his generosity.’

I give Adrian a pleading look before muttering, ‘I’m sorry, please do what you want.’

He stands up and undoes his belt. If my stomach weren’t nearly empty, I would be sick. The smell emanating from his crotch his horrendous, and when he pulls out his dick, it is obvious why. The large appendage looks slimy from sweat, and the head, which becomes visible as he rolls back the foreskin, is clumped with something thick and yellow.

My soon-to-be-husband, the man I’m contractually obligated to have sex with tonight, has years’ worth of smegma on his dick.

I throw a hand over my mouth and focus on breathing. It’s difficult, given the smell, but I do my best. If I throw up now, my dad might actually kill me.

When I come back to my senses, it’s to the sight of Adrian wiping some of is dick-cheese off on a newly-speared piece of pasta, coating the noodle in yellow and his dick in red. He holds it out, like before, and like before, everyone else at the table is watching me. Watching, as if there’s nothing incredibly, nauseatingly wrong with this picture.

I wrap my mouth around the fork and choke on bile. The taste is indescribably bitter, and acrid, and tinged with ammonia. I swallow it down without chewing, praying all the while that it won’t come back up.

‘Good boy,’ Adrian croons. ‘Now, be a dear and lick my dick clean. These boxers have got a few more days in them, at least, so I don’t want to ruin them with a stain.’

I lean forward, head going fuzzy from the stench, and offer the weakest lick to the head of his cock. It’s even worse than the pasta. He holds my head in place, so I give another, firmer lick, and feel a chunk of something slimy stick to my tongue.

‘Swallow it.’

I do, then I swallow again a few more times to keep it down. It’s intense. Like old cum, spoilt milk, and stale urine.

This is the first time I’ve even seen, let alone touched, another man’s penis, and it’s like this. I never imagined that my first sexual experience could be so awful. The taste, feel, and smell are all revolting, and on top of that, both sets of parents are watching with visible irritation. Irritation towards me, probably, because they can tell I don’t want this.

A tear runs down my cheek.

‘Keep licking.’ He yanks on my hair. ‘I want to be nice and clean for when I fill your ass, later.’

With no other choice, I lap up more of the smegma, forcing it down my throat. Adrian’s dick gets hard and before I can process it, he’s fucking my mouth.

I let him. I’ve never had much of a gag-reflex, so I give myself over to the feeling, suffocation and all. Since I don’t need to be present for this, I try to imagine I’m somewhere else. Maybe in the study, looking at dad’s new books. Or exploring a stranger’s manor at a party.

I’m ripped from these thoughts as Adrian releases a final grunt and ejaculates in my mouth. It’s warm and salty, with the consistency of watery snot.

More tears fill my eyes, but none of the other four people at the table are reacting. On the contrary, I hear the scrape of forks in bowls. They’ve gone back to eating. They’re all acting as if this is normal.

I gag, and sob, but no one needs to tell me to swallow this. I know enough about sex to understand how this part works.  

Once I’ve calmed down, it registers that Adrian is still standing beside me with his pants down. He came, so shouldn’t this be over? Shouldn’t he go back to eating, like our parents? He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls his pants down further.

He must notice my confusion because he takes a moment to explain. ‘That was fun, but I haven’t finished seasoning your food. Make sure you eat it all, because this extra ingredient is going to be in everything you eat for the rest of your life.’ The way he speaks—steady and sinister—sends a shiver down my spine.

He picks up my bowl, puts it on the floor, and squats over it. The squat is so deep he appears to be sitting on the bowl, the rim pressing into his cheeks.

The sound that follows is deep and wet—the kind of fart that has you covering your nose pre-emptively. The one after than is longer, rumbly, and fades into an airy whistle.

When he stands back up, the stench shakes my vision. It’s suffocating, to the point that even my father’s face scrunches up in disgust.

When he puts the bowl back in front of me, my heart plummets.  

I can’t eat that.

Adrian grabs my hand and presses the fork into it.

I don’t have a choice.

It tastes how the fart smelt. Putrid, eggy, bitter, and like fresh shit. The flavour of the pasta sauce is still there, but it comes across as spoilt, now. Rotten.

The remainder of the meal is spent in a silent hell.

_

The ‘wedding’ is held in my father’s study.

There’s a leather, two-seater couch in front of the desk, and when Adrian sits, he pulls me down with him. His arm snakes around my waist and tucks into the waistband of my slacks, squeezing my bare side. I try not to think about that, or the armpit sweat seeping into my shoulder, or the disgusting taste still in my mouth, as I read over the marriage contract.

It's exactly what my father had described. I’ll be signing away my autonomy, including any say over where I go, what I eat, what I wear, and who I see. I won’t be allowed to refuse any demand made by Adrian—even impossible ones must be attempted—and should I annoy him, he can punish me however he sees fit. I can never refuse sex, or any other forms of intimate contact, no matter the situation. Failure to meet these requirements will result in Adrian’s father taking full ownership of my father’s company.

I hesitate for a moment, knowing my parent’s very livelihood will depend on me submitting completely to these rules, then write my name. Adrian signs next. Then, we fill out the official marriage documents.

‘Congratulations, son,’ dad says, slapping me on the back.

Before I can reply, he’s already crossing the room to talk business with my new father-in-law.

‘Come on,’ Adrian says. ‘I’m thirsty.’

We head back downstairs in uncomfortable silence. He walks a few steps ahead of me, as if this were his home, not mine, and doesn’t look back until we reach the kitchen.

‘Water okay?’ I ask, because I figure I should be a good host, especially to my own husband.

‘It’s fine.’ He sits at the breakfast bench.

I fill a glass with water and hand it to him. He takes a big gulp, then another, then holds the third mouthful, swishing it around. He gestures with his hand for me to step closer. I don’t. He gestures again, more emphatically, and I obey. I can’t fuck this up. I definitely can’t fuck this up on the first night.

I stand between his spread legs.

He pulls me in by the jaw, his grip forcing my mouth open, and smashes our lips together. The water flows into my mouth in a salty, bitter flood. I swallow it down, shivering at the gritty texture created by whatever was dislodged from his unbrushed teeth, and wonder how the fridge-cooled water had warmed so fast.

He licks along my teeth, the roof of my mouth, and then laps at my own tongue, which pulls back in disgust. The slimy appendage doesn’t let up. He explores every inch of my mouth, all while his hands knead my butt and something hard not-so-subtly presses against my stomach.

When we part, he’s breathing heavily. The stench of rotten food and dog shit now has a matching flavour.

‘You like that?’ he asks. ‘Of course not,’ he says, not giving me time to respond, ‘which is too bad, because I did. I think I’m about ready for our honeymoon.’ He waggles an eyebrow.

I lower my head. The kitchen tiles look shiny enough to eat off of, and I idly wonder if that’s something he’ll make me do.

Adrian is staying over tonight for our ‘honeymoon’, and then tomorrow I’ll be moving into his apartment. It should be a quick process, my mother claimed, as it’s unlikely he will let me keep any of my old belongings. He’ll want to buy me new ones. New clothes, shoes, toiletries, books, stationary—all chosen to suit his preferences. Yet another reminder that I’m more like property than a spouse.  

Once in my room, Adrian wastes no time in removing his clothes. Since I haven’t been given an order, and I’m in no hurry to get naked in front of this creep, I sit on the end of the bed.

The sheen of grease I’d noticed on his face earlier covers his entire body, and the stench of BO is even stronger now that there’s no fabric to dampen it. His chest is hairless, but he has a thick, dark happy trail leading from his belly button to the large, bacteria-ridden cock I was forced to taste earlier. When he removes his underwear, he turns away, giving me a proper look at his round ass, damp with sweat that clings in droplets to the thick hair running along his crack.

Facing me again, he steps forward until he’s the one standing between my legs this time, and I’m at eye-level with his nipples. He lifts his arms to reveal the dark, wet bushes underneath. His armpits are as visibly sweat-drenched as the rest of his body hair. I watch a drop of perspiration as it follows a trail—an existing, evidently well-travelled trail—down his side.

‘Been sweating up a fucking storm today,’ he says. ‘I was so excited for tonight I spent the day at the gym, trying to kill time. First the gym-sweats, then I had to put on that stupid, thick fucking shirt, I feel like I’ve just gotten out of the shower.’

‘You shower much?’ I slap a hand over my mouth. Shit, this isn’t the time to get snarky.

He laughs. ‘Nope. It’s been a full eight days, in fact. Eight days of working out, without deodorant, just for you. Haven’t changed my underwear, either. I want you to know what you’re getting into from the start—I’m a nice guy, like that.’

He leans forward, angling his right pit towards my face. I choke on the stench.

‘Lick it.’

I stick out my tongue and take the tiniest kitten-lick. It’s enough to have me reeling back, gagging. The taste of his dick-cheese was definitely worse, but that didn’t have the same suffocating smell. The vinegary taste-smell combination is unbearable.

‘A proper lick,’ he demands.

I take a few more gasping breaths and lean back in. I groan around my tongue as I flatten it against his pit and drag it upwards. The flavour is vile, as is the feel of coarse, slimy hair.

‘Again.’

I sob and do it again.

‘Keep licking until it’s clean. If I think you’re skimping, I’ll make my father sniff’em to confirm your work. He’s a harsh critic.’

My head hurts and I’m in a haze. His body odour has gone beyond the point of an odour and become some kind of fume. When I decide I’m done—because whatever viscous film was coating the hair is now on my tongue—I don’t even question why he’s shoving the other pit in my face. It’s filthy, so I have to clean it.

My head clears as I lay back on my bed, my visions still somewhat unfocused and what feels like an invisible rubber glove covering my tongue. My mouth sort of tastes like rubber, come to think of it. It tastes a bit like the smell of burning rubber.

‘Good job,’ Adrian says from somewhere outside my field of vision. ‘I only shower for special events, but I might not even have to do that anymore. We’ll have to see how well you do cleaning my pubes, feet and ass, but I think I’ll enjoy using you for all my bathing.’

It isn’t until I hear sobs that I realise I’m crying.

‘Now, now. None of that bullshit,’ he says gently. ‘This is all just part of your wifely-duties. I’ve decided you’re going to be my shower, my fuck-hole, my fart-sniffer, and my toilet. Accept it and submit yourself to your husband, like a good boy.’

‘Toilet?’ I mutter, mouthing the word a few more times in disbelief.

‘Yep, but we’ll get to that. There’s no rush. You can drink my piss tonight and we’ll work out the rest later.’

I don’t resist as he man-handles me into bed, or as he takes my clothes off, or as he fucks me, for the first time, with his tongue jammed down my throat. I’m in shock. The fact that having his unwashed, smegma-covered dick inside me isn’t even going to be the worst of this ordeal, is shocking.

Once he’s finished, he works my dick with his hand, panting in my face, even angling his mouth to burp up my nose. I cum. Not because I enjoy it, but because this is the only hand besides my own that’s ever touched me.

I stare at the ceiling and try to block out the feel of his wet tongue licking my stomach clean. I don’t think about the feeling of his… stuff… leaking out of my ass. I attempt to disassociate, but it’s hard to do when he keeps talking, and I have to keep listening in for orders.

‘You know, now that that’s over, I’m getting sleepy. Would you mind sliding down so I can take a piss?’

‘What?’

He huffs, flopping down on the mattress next to me. ‘Get under the covers, put my dick in your mouth, and drink my piss,’ he speaks like he’s giving me directions to the nearest supermarket.   

I freeze for a minute, very much not wanting to do that. My insides clench just thinking about it. But I’m exhausted, and sore, and scared. I do what he says.

Under the blanket is humid and smelly. He pulls the covers down flat, like a seal, so I’m forced to feel along his damp body to find his dick.

I’m grateful that I can’t see it, especially knowing where it’s just been, but the smell is stronger than ever. With neither the smell nor our body heat having anywhere to go, there’s no escaping the reek of BO, piss, shit, smegma, and general male-musk. I prop myself up with my hands on the bed, just below his ass cheeks, and take the head of his cock into my mouth, careful not to lick it. I wish I’d never have to lick this thing again.

His muscles relax and a stream of hot, salty fluid fills my mouth. I gulp it down as quickly as I can, trying and failing not to taste it. Salt and ammonia stings my still-raw tongue.

The stream petters out, then stops, but right as I try to pull away, something pushes down on my head.

At first, I’m confused, but then it registers that Adrian’s hand is holding me in place from on top of the blanket. His abdomen tenses and I distantly wonder if he’s going to force out more urine, but that’s not the case. A long, bubbly fart erupts from the bare ass just a few inches below my face. The heat hits my fingertips, which are almost touching his ass cheeks, and the shock has me falling further onto his cock.

The rancid, eggy, and slightly burnt stench makes my eyes water and my throat convulse. I breath shallowly, trying to wait it out, but the smell doesn’t dissipate. It only gets worse as he releases another vile fart. This one is longer, louder, and wet in a way that makes me afraid that he’s about to shit the bed.

I can’t breathe. Any attempt to take in air is met with resistance by my aching lungs. I try to pull back, fighting Adrian’s hold and no longer caring about the consequences, but he stays firm.

The next burst of gas doesn’t make a sound—I only know he releases it because of the sudden burning it my fingertips—and my thoughts quiet.

My head hits his thigh.

_

Waking up is unpleasant.

My head is throbbing, my mouth feels both dry and like it’s full of some oily slime, and there’s a far-too-warm body pressed up against my back.

As the memories of last night come back to me, I’m vaguely surprised to find I’m still alive. It felt, in the moment, like he was planning to suffocate me to death with his farts. The fact he’s spooning me now, though, means he must have pulled me up at some point afterwards.

How disappointing.

‘Morning,’ a deep voice slurs into my ear.

‘Morning.’

He rolls away from me to stretch, so I take the opportunity to inch further towards the wall.

I don’t get far before my head is tugged sideways. He smirks, eyes still somewhat fogged with sleep, and pulls me in by the hair.

This languid kiss, with a slow tongue and barely moving lips, is even worse than the tonsil-licking of the night before. The taste is worse. His mouth is just as dry as my own, and the rotten taste of morning breath mixed with his filthy teeth wakes me up with a nauseating lurch.

‘Thanks for cleaning my armpits last night,’ he says earnestly, as if I’d had a choice.

‘Okay,’ I reply, looking past him to the wardrobe. My brain tries hard not to process everything that has happened.

‘I still stink, though. Need you to clean the rest.’

‘Huh?’  

‘You’re stupid, aren’t you?’ he asks with a kind smile, like he’s talking to a child. ‘Do you need everything spelled out for you? That’s fine, I can do that.’ He kisses me on the nose. ‘I need you to get back under blanket and lick my pubes and asshole clean, so I won’t stink so bad. Understood?’

‘My mouth’s too dry for that.’ I cringe, afraid he might take that as a refusal. I want to refuse, more than anything, but I signed the contract. I don’t get a choice in this.

The hand still in my hair begins massaging my scalp. ‘Sorry, honey. I should’ve thought about that. You poor thing.’ He strokes my cheek. ‘I’ll empty my bladder, first. That should fix it.’

His gentle hands guide me downwards, back under the covers.

The head of his penis has a fresh, hard crust that I don’t let myself think about. The taste of piss is even more pungent, and more ammoniac, than the previous night.

When that’s over with, I move to the thick forest of hair above his junk and start licking. The taste is reminiscent of his underarms, mixed with piss and musk, and it doesn’t take me as long to lick it clean as I’d expected. I’m not sure how clean a surface scrubbed with saliva and piss can be, but there’s less of a stench now.

He pulls his legs towards his chest, holding them behind the knees. This action causes the blanket to tent, letting in light, giving me a clear view of his ass—which is only two or three inches from my face—and him a clear view of me. I resist the urge to cover my nose.

He smirks. ‘It’s been nine days now since my last shower, and I don’t wipe well. Actually, I don’t really clean my ass at all. That might be why my farts stink so bad,’ he says conversationally.

At this angle, the cheeks have parted enough to show a hairy, puckered hole. The smell wafting up from it is unimaginable. The hair around it looks clumpy, like it’s knotted with filth, and the hole itself pulsates. I watch with a combination of disgust and curiosity as it opens, just wide enough for a slow, bubbly fart to seep out. It warms my face.

‘Well?’ he asks.

The rotten smell is only just registering as I stick out my tongue. Since there’s no point in stalling, I lick all the way up the crack. It’s moist, and hard pieces of something I don’t want to think about dig into my tongue, amplifying the bitter, decaying taste of dirty ass. It’s a bit like spoilt milk, only more savoury, mixed with something meaty and unmistakably off. His ass has gone bad, I think, as my brain fails to find logic in everything my senses are experiencing.

I lick again, and the grains of old, harden shit come loose in my mouth. I gag on them, swallow down the piss that’s trying to jump back up my throat, and go in for another taste.

At some point, one of his hands grabs my head and holds it in place. My mouth around his anus.

‘Get your tongue in there deep,’ he says. ‘When I sit on your face later, I don’t want to leave a stain.’

I press my tongue inside and am assaulted by more horrendous flavours, but this time they’re fresh and soaking the entire surface of my tongue. I whimper, tears running down my face. I’ve done more crying in these last twenty-four hours than I had in the past nineteen years.

There’s a pressure on the tip of my tongue—one that burns. I rip my tongue back, only for a rumbling fart to follow it, puffing out my cheeks. It tastes like burnt popcorn and literal shit.

‘Ah, aren’t morning farts the best?’ he asks, grinning down at me.

More gas follows, and the hand in my hair is like an iron clasp, so I have no choice but to suck them down.

When it’s finally over, I don’t even have the energy, nor the oxygen, to lift my head from his crotch.

_

This really wasn’t how Josh thought today would go.

He’d expected to be humiliated, of course, because what was Valentine’s Day without a creepy loser getting his heart broken? He’d planned to finally confess his feelings to his crush, Callum. Callum, the cute boy in his maths lectures. Callum, the cute boy whose cute smile with his cute crooked teeth and vibrant green eyes are the reason he can never remember a word the lecturer says. Callum, the reason he’s failing his maths unit and doesn’t even care. How could he care about anything as inconsequential as a failing grade and increased student-debt when Callum sat next to him in yesterday's class, and he can still feel the warmth where their arms brushed? Today he was finally going to tell the boy how he felt, then get rejected and outed to the rest of their course and spend the night crying into a tub of his sister’s favourite raspberry swirl ice-cream. That was how it was supposed to go.

So, really, he hadn’t expected to have a good day, but this was still a strange direction for his bad day to go.

Apparently, there’d been some misunderstandings amongst his other classmates regarding his sexuality. Josh had never broadcasted the fact he was gay, but he’d always assumed it was obvious. Like, rainbow earrings and striped pants one-step-below-TV-twink kind of obvious.

So, therefore, when the captain of one of the university’s sportsball teams (basketball? Volleyball? Baseball? He didn’t know) confronted him first thing in the morning about trying to steal his girlfriend, he was too shocked to even deny it. It turned out that Helen, the sweet nerdy girl who’d been gathering information about Callum for him all semester, had landed herself a jock.

Lacking the wherewithal to properly fight the allegation, he did nothing but kick air and gape like a fish as Mr Sportsball dragged him to one of the porta potties set up for the special Valetine’s Day vendors. Two of Mr Sportball’s sportsball friends were already waiting for them, having up-turned then re-righted one of the cubicles, effectively emptying all the chemical water from the tank.

‘Aw, come on, man, let me explain!’ he yelled as they dragged him inside. ‘You’ve got this all wrong!’

‘Shut up!’

Together the three forced Josh into the toilet feet-first. The tank under the toilet was about two-and-a-half feet deep, two feet wide and four feet long. Despite his fighting, they managed to shove him inside, leaving Josh half lying-down and with his knees bent, peering up at his attacker through the wrong side of a toilet seat.

‘What the fuck?!’ he demanded.

‘Let’s see how much she likes you when you’re covered in shit.’ With that, he slammed down the lid and left Josh to his fate.

And this is where we find Josh now, contemplating this bizarre turn of events. Contemplating how a fate could be so cruel as to postpone his upcoming rejection with an even more humiliating detour. The remaining cool, fragrant liquid is seeping into his shirt and making his shiver. The smell of it, meant to cover the odour of human excrement, makes his nose itch. He wishes to contact the universe and issue a complaint. He could have ruined today himself, to his own miserable standard, yet apparently that wasn’t good enough.

He tries to shuffle down, hoping that if he can line his head up with the hole, he’ll be able to pull himself out head-first, but with no success. Instead, he finds himself stuck. His hands are stuck at his sides at an odd angle and the moisture inside the toilet tank prevents his feet from finding any sort of grip. It’s too slipper to push himself back or pull himself up. He’s stuck where he is, with his face positioned perfectly under the toilet seat. His only way out would be for someone to reach in and pull him up by the shoulders.

This isn’t the worst position for me to be in, he lies to himself. The acoustics around a toilet-bowl are fire. The minute someone comes in, I’ll yell for help, and as soon they look down, they’ll see my face. Getting out will be easy.  

He keeps up that positive self-talk when the porta potty door opens.

‘Hey!’ he yells. ‘Help! Some assholes shoved me in here and I can’t get out!’

Apparently, Josh hasn’t dealt with enough assholes today, because when the person lifts the lid that’s the first thing he sees. A fat, saggy ass is descending upon him, and beyond it is a greasy head wearing a set of noise-cancelling headphones. Fuck.

Spurred on by panic, Josh keeps yelling, screaming for the bastard to take off his fucking headphones and look down! Who doesn’t look inside a toilet before taking a dump? What if there was a snake or a spider inside? Hasn’t he heard about the Redditor who had a Huntsman cling to his balls? It’s an outside toilet, for fuck’s fake!

He’s still yelling when his little prison goes dark, the ass and surrounding fat creating an air-tight suction. He keeps yelling until, mere inches from his face, the ass relaxes. The first fart hits him straight in his open mouth. It’s a deep, wet sound that devolves into moist bubbles. The odour is bitter and heavy and leaves Josh gagging, but he can’t turn away. He can’t even raise his hands to cover his face. More bubbly farts pour out, each bout getting longer and deeper until something wet hits his cheek. It burns like acid and the stench almost knocks him out. Then there’s more. A steady dribble of liquid that runs along the bridge of his nose, down his cheek and into his hair. Tears burn his eyes from both misery and the smell. It doesn’t stop there, though. The man must be pushing, because an avalanche of chunky diarrhoea pours down on his all at once, splattering across every part of his face. It’s covering his lips, it’s in his nose—running down his throat and making his choke—and even on the shells of his ears. His eyes are trapped shut to avoid burning. He doesn’t want to think about whatever kind of super-infection getting it in his eyes would cause. The bastard above his sighs and pushes out another fart.

Once the man is done, he wipes and throws the paper at his chin. It feels like an insult. The moron doesn’t even notice when the flush button does absolutely nothing. There’s no water left to flush with.

The door opens again a few minutes later and a now familiar, irritating voice goes: ‘Few! Gotta air this place out!’ Master Sportsball, sadist extraordinaire, has returned. Josh can hear the moment the bastard sees him because he barks out a laugh. ‘Nice face you got there, could use some eyes, though.’

There’s the sound of pants rustling and a zipper being pulled down, then a warm liquid hits his face. He’s pissing on him. After everything he’s already done, the jerkoff has the balls to piss on him. Josh’s fists clench in a mixture of shame, gratitude and white-hot burning rage as the jock rinses the shit from his face with a stream of hot urine. He hopes Helen dumps him. He hopes he gets kicked off whatever overblown sports team he’s a part of. He hopes he trips while walking to class and gets a nettle jammed up his dickhole.

‘There, much better.’ The bastard smirks.

Josh opens his mouth to yell something back but ends up gagging instead, his tastebuds assaulted with a tangy, bitter mix of salt and rot. He can’t believe he was stupid enough to let some of the shit-piss mixture drip into his mouth. Actually, he can. He was stupid enough to end up in this situation to begin with, after all.

‘What was that? Were you going to ask me to let you out? Maybe beg? Too bad, I don’t like getting my hands dirty. You’re going to have to wait until the porta potty company comes to get its shitter back tonight.’ He closes the lid again.

Josh doesn’t know how much longer he’s stuck lying there shivering, with burning skin, an awful taste in his mouth, and cramps in his legs. Seconds would still be too long. Tears are rolling down his cheeks and he forces himself not to sniffle. Maybe the snot will flush the piss from his nose.

Finally, the door opens again and so does the lid.

He’s hallucinating. He must be.

There’s no way beautiful Callum, of all people, is staring down at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. It just isn’t possible. This is both the worst thing that could happen and exactly what he’d been hoping for. Finally, some actual fucking help.

‘Josh?’ Callum asks tentatively, like he, too, can’t believe what he’s seeing.

‘Yeah?’ The burning in his face isn’t just the residual stomach acid.

‘What’re you doing in the toilet?’

‘It’s a long story, but I’m not in here willingly.’

‘Oh.’ Callum frowns, like he’s thinking way too hard, but he doesn’t make a move to help.

‘Can you pull me out?’ Josh asks.

‘Oh. Yeah, sure.’ Again, no movement.

‘Why do you sound so disappointed?’ Josh doesn’t know why he asked that. It’s a terrible thing to ask, especially if he’s wrong and Callum isn’t disappointed, just put-out by the idea of having to reach into a toilet, and he’s now making things weirder than they already are.

‘I’m not,’ Callum answers, a flush colouring his cheeks, ‘it’s not like that. I can help.’

He continues staring.

‘Callum?’

‘Have people been using you?’

It’s Josh’s turn to frown. ‘Using?’

‘Yeah. Like, I can tell you’ve been peed on, but it looks like a bit more than that. Have you been…’ His reddens, ‘you know… soiled?’

Odd choice of words, Josh thinks, but he gets the point. What he doesn’t get is why Callum’s eyes seem to light up with something intense, but since the intensity seems closer to excitement than disgust, he figures he should answer.

‘Yeah. Some fat guy with the runs,’ he swallows down bile at the memory, ‘it was awful.’

That’s definitely excitement on Callum’s face, along with something else. Anticipation? Anxiety? Happiness? Oh God, lust?

‘Anyone else?’ Callum asks eagerly.

‘No, just one.’

He doesn’t like the way his crush’s face drops, but it’s not like he wishes more people had shit on him, either. He isn’t really sure what he wants in that moment, but having the other boy’s full attention, even in a position like this, is thrilling.

Callum’s stomach groans and he winces. ‘I better get you out of here, quick. I really need to go.’

Ah, there’s an idea.

‘Do you want to use me?’ he asks with a smirk.

Callum’s eyes widen and his flush creeps all the way to his cute little ears. ‘What?’

‘I asked if you want to use me. Would that turn you on?’

He blinks. ‘It would turn me on so fucking much.’

‘Okay, go ahead. You can’t be worse than the last guy.’

Callum nearly trips over himself scrambling to get his pants down. ‘Oh, fuck, thank you Josh, seriously,’ he rambles. ‘You have no fucking idea how hot this is. You’re amazing.’

The ass above his face is firmer than the last, and tanner, and has an unexpectedly thick cluster of hair between the cheeks. It takes a moment for said cheeks to relax, and he can hear the other boy taking deep, slow breathes, apparently trying to calm himself.

This is not a situation Josh ever thought he’d be in, but despite himself, he finds Callum’s excitement endearing. His limited experience with being shit on has been pretty fucking terrible, but it’s also not something most people would let their crushes do, so he focuses on that. He’s got this confession in the bag.

The ring of muscle twitches, then opens, and slowly a thick log begins to slide out. It keeps coming, and coming, until the tip touches his nose and a solid six-inches of compacted shit slaps down across his face. The odour is foul, and bitter, and suffocating. He chokes on the stench and his throat convulses, making a sound somewhere between a cough and a dry-heave.

Callum stands up.

The fumes from the log sting his eyes, so he has to squint, but he thinks he sees Callum lick his lips. He definitely sees an impressively large cock standing tall.

Callum moans. ‘Fuck, you look amazing.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Amazing enough to date?’ It’s not something he should be asking with three different guys’ piss and shit caking his face, but he doesn’t think he wait much longer.

‘Sure, we can date. After I fuck you over this broken toilet then make you eat my ass clean.’

He smiles. ‘Sounds fun.’