Human Toilet (SCAT)
(Contains: M/M, face-farting, mouth-farting, scat-eating, torture. Non-con.
This story is NOT for those with a weak stomach.)
I open my eyes, slowly, and am met with an unfamiliar room. Grey cement walls and floor, a window across from me—high and narrow. A basement, maybe? It looks how basements do on TV, but we don’t have them around here. If it is a basement, it’s smaller than I would’ve expected—about the size of a bathroom. Below the window is a young man, looking to be in his twenties or maybe younger, but it’s hard to tell. He’s naked, and his wrists are chained to the walls, level with his shoulders. His skin is taut against his bones, bruised, and sickeningly pale. Looking at him fills me with cold dread. I try to move, to run away, only to realise I’m chained in the same position.
I shut my eyes and try to figure out how I got here. I went out clubbing with some friends to celebrate our high school graduation, and I got a little drunk. A lot drunk. I figured I’d be fine to walk home, but I don’t remember if that was true or not since I don’t remember the walk. I guess it mustn’t’ve been, because I’m here. Naked. Chained to a wall. Oh, fuck.
There’s the rattle of keys in a lock and the man across from me lifts his head. Now that I can see his face, I see the metal hoop gaging him, holding his mouth open. The rim is coated with something brown. It’s then that I register the rancid smell in the room. The man’s thighs are coated in his own urine and shit, so that’s probably it. The door opens and a chubby man, in his mid-late forties, wearing tracksuit pants and a sweat-stained t-shirt walks in. Before he shuts the door, I see trees and dirt behind him. We’re in the forest, then. He doesn’t say anything as he stands in front of me. He looks over my exposed body as he runs a hand through my hair. I shiver.
‘What’re you going to do to me?’ I ask, barely a whisper. His eyes are cold, like he isn’t even looking at a person.
‘I’m gonna train you,’ he says, gruffly.
He points to the man across from me, who pushes himself as far back as he can into the wall, eyes wide and shaking with fear. ‘I him Shit Eater, because he eats my shit. But he’s been real sick lately, so I decided to replace him. That’s gonna be your new job.’
I shake my head, bile rising in my throat. This can’t be real. This isn’t even like something out of a horror movie, because not even horror movies get this fucked up. ‘No. No. Fuck no! You can’t make me do that, I won’t do it! You can’t force me to!’
He smirks and pulls a ring gag out of his pocket. He dangles it in front of my face, like an offer. ‘You’re right, I can shit in your mouth but I can’t make you swallow. You’ll come around to that on your own.’
‘No, I won’t.’
He chuckles. ‘You will, for two reasons: it’s all I’ll be feeding you, and if you refuse you’ll be punished.’
‘I’d rather die.’
‘You say that now, but starving hurts, and so does punishment. No matter how you feel about it, when it’s between this and dying, your body won’t give you a choice.’ He grins. ‘You’ll be surprised by what a man will do to stay alive.’
‘Fuck you.’ I spit at him. It lands on his shirt.
Instead of being angry or indignant, like I’d expected, he laughs, deep and guttural. ‘Right, gag time.’
He grabs my hair with one hand and forces my head back in one sharp pull, making me gasp. He shoves the gag into my open mouth and positions it between my teeth.
‘We’ll start with something easy.’ He turns away from me and lowers his sweatpants, revealing his bulbous, hairy ass. It smells like sweat and old farts, and I can see moisture glistening between the cheeks. My breathing speeds up and my feet scramble on the concrete, trying to push me away from him, but there is no away, only the wall behind me. The chains rattle and cut into my wrists. I try to turn my head away, but he’s too fast. He grabs my hair and shoves me into his enormous ass. I scream against the flesh, but it’s useless. He keeps pushing, the sweaty flesh sliding against my face, until my wide-open mouth is around his asshole.
‘There we go,’ he mutters. ‘Now be a good boy and hold still, and I might leave you alone for the rest of the day.’
I scream against the flesh, but it’s useless. A burst of hot air hits my tongue, burning it. The taste is horrendous, like the steam if you boiled rotten eggs. I gag as I suffer through a second, sputtering fart. Then a wet one. The next is the worst by far, and I’m sure would have been the silent kind that empties a room. My throat gurgles and he lets go of my head. I slump forwards, coughing bile onto my bare legs. There’s nothing else in my stomach to bring up.
‘A few farts is all you can take? Well, that’s a shame. This is going to take longer than I’d hoped.’
‘Fuck you,’ I try to say, but it’s incomprehensible around the gag.
He turns towards his other victim. ‘Position,’ he says.
Shit Eater (I may as well call him that, since I can’t ask his name) releases a pained groan, then shuffles forwards until there’s enough room behind him to lean his head back. His arms are bent at an unnaturally and definitely uncomfortable angle.
The man looks me in the eyes as he squats over him and grunts. My heart nearly stops as a thick log descends into my fellow captives mouth and he starts swallowing, using his tongue to flatten it piece-by-piece against the roof of his mouth, until the entire thing has been eaten. I want to cover my nose from the smell alone, so the thought of being forced to taste it makes me want to throw up again.
I’ll never do something like that. This disgusting pig won’t break me.
Later that day—or maybe the next morning—I wake up to the sound of that man’s keys. I passed out not long after he left last time, exhausted by my own distress. Shit Eater is watching me. His eyes look dead, but there’s a spark of something underneath. Pity, maybe? Regret? Does he blame himself that I was brought here? I wish I could tell him not to worry about it, that he’s suffered so much already, so I can’t blame him for this. I also want to ask how long he’s been here for, so I can get an idea of how long I should expect to live.
The door opens. The man’s in jeans now, so I guess it is the next day. He stands in front of me and unzips his fly. ‘Head back,’ he says, then pulls out his flaccid dick.
I lower my head further. Fuck that.
He grabs my hair and pulls it back until I’m looking at him. I glare the best I can, but there’re tears in my eyes. He grins, and I figure I must look fucking pathetic. He holds up what looks like an old jam jar, but it’s full of a yellowy-white fluid. ‘This is a jar of cum. My friends and I have been filling it for weeks. I’ve been keeping it on the dashboard of my car, right in the hot sun. You drink my piss, or I’ll tip this down your throat—I’ll use a funnel if I have to. Which do you think tastes worse? Which will make you more sick?’
He lets go of me and straightens up, waiting for my answer. I lean my head back.
‘Smart boy.’ A stream of yellow piss hits my tongue, hot and salty and ammoniac. The sight and smell of his urine would be enough to roll my stomach, but the added taste has me using all my self-control to keep swallowing it down. If I weren’t already dehydrated from who-knows-how-long without water, I wouldn’t be able to do it. When he’s finished, he leans forwards and rubs the tip of his penis on my tongue. I turn my head away and glare at him. ‘Well, it’s a good start, anyway.’
He pulls a clear plastic bottle out of a satchel over his shoulder—an item I hadn’t noticed until now and assume must be where the cum-jar disappeared to.
‘Your turn now,’ he says to Shit Eater, who leans his head back again, tongue poking out past his lips. ‘This piss was donate by some friends of mine, so I hope the taste is as good as you’re used to.’ He tips the entire bottle of yellow liquid down Shit Eaters throat.
As he swallows, he gurgles something that sounds like a ‘thank you’.
My face heats up and tears fill my eyes. I try to steady my breathing, not wanting this monster to see me break-down. How much did he have to shatter that guy’s psyche for him to be openly grateful for a bottle of piss from some strangers? Shit Eater laughs and sticks his tongue out further to lick his stained lips.
‘Next lesson now, boy. Same as yesterday.’ I’m pulled from my thoughts when the man lowers his pants to his knees. He grabs my head and shoves it into his crack, but this time my nose is to his hole and his sweaty balls are in my mouth. They taste like stale grease and salt. He farts, hot and rumbly, and I try to breath through my mouth but that just sucks his balls in further. I have no choice but to sniff up his gas. His next fart is wet and burns my nostrils—I can feel the heat travel down my throat and into my chest. The odour’s so strong I’m on the brink of passing out, but each new fart pulls me back with its revolting intensity.
He lets go and the spots begin to fade from my vision. I lean back against the wall and gasp with relief. The air probably stinks, but it tastes sterile compared to what I just experienced. There’s a pubic hair on my tongue so I turn my head sideways and lick it onto my shoulder. Gross, but not the worst this guy could put me through.
No, he’s about to demonstrate the worst he could put me through. He squats over Shit Eaters face, but unlike yesterday he doesn’t push out a log, instead out comes a mushy stream of liquid shit straight into the poor man’s mouth. It sprays across his cheeks, some droplets even landing on his neck and chest, and it reeks. I thought my nose would be useless after the ordeal it just went through, but I was wrong. I can smell the vile, sickening stench of diarrhoea. The sort that can only come from eating something rotten.
Even Shit Eater, with all of his apparent experience, is struggling. It’s coming out faster than he can swallow, causing his mouth to overflow, and his abdomen is twitching in a way that tells me he’s fighting to keep the shit down.
When it’s over, Shit Eater’s whole face is brown and his chest and neck are speckled with wet dots. The man pulls out an old pair of underwear from his satchel, turns them inside out and wipes the other man’s face with the crotch.
He comes back over to me, grinning in a way that sets my sore muscles on edge. ‘Here’s a little something to get you used to the taste.’ He shoves the underwear into my mouth, the hot, damp and shit-covered crotch pressed down against my tongue. I gag, and wretch, until finally I get a break from this nightmare as my consciousness wanes once again.
I’m woken by pain. Not a new pain, but the accumulation of old ones. My arms ache (what I wouldn’t give to stretch them) and my shoulders burn from the constant strain. My wrists and hands are numb, barely even tingling when I try to move my fingers, and the movement itself is never more than a twitch. My arms have been pinned beside my shoulders for who-knows-how-long now. My jaw has been locked wide-open for so long it probably isn’t capable of closing anymore. By far the worst pain, though, is in my stomach. I’m starving to the point of a tight, gnawing ach, like my insides are collapsing in on themselves. The smell of shit in the air is still nauseating, but only when I consciously think about it. Otherwise, I don’t even notice.
The door opens again.
The man leers down at me as he unbuckles his belt. Once again, he pisses down my throat, and it’s warm and disgusting, but I let him. My mouth is so dry.
‘Right. Today’s the day, boy. Are you ready for breakfast?’
My starved brain takes a moment to realise what he means, but when it does I violent shake my head. I said I’d rather die than eat his shit and I meant it. After everything he’s put me through, he won’t get that satisfaction.
‘I thought you might feel like that, so you get the same options as yesterday.’ He pulls out the cum jar. There’s more in there today, and a yellow crust has dried around the edges.
My instincts tell me to run away, to find a nice river to drown myself in so I can die without any more suffering, but at this point, even if I were no longer tied down, I doubt my legs would work. I nod weakly towards the jar. This is going to be hell, but so would the alternative, and at least this way this crazy bastard isn’t getting what he wants.
He takes the lid off the jar and the smell is a mix between chlorine and rotten fruit. There’s something so foul yet so… chemically about it. He forces my head back as far as it will go and I imagine that I’m about to be poisoned. I suppose technically it’s true, but imagining that it’s straight bleach is much more appealing than wondering how many different guys with how many different diseases came in this jar who-knows-how-long ago.
He tips half the jar in my mouth, and I swallow. It goes down like slime, leaving behind a slick, oily coating. It tastes like ammonia and sourness and rot. I gag, and my throat gurgles with bile, but I force it down, and when it’s over my stomach actually feels a little better. Having anything to eat is better than nothing.
At least, for a little while.
The man relaxes against the wall, smirking. Shit Eater looks at me with frightened eyes. Soon, I understand why. My abdomen is overtaken by a kind of agony I’ve never experienced before, like all my organs are constricting. My face turns red as my anus start to burn. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. My bowels, already empty, explode hot, liquid acid all over the floor and my feet. Tears fill my eyes from a mix of shame and pain—both the pain inside of me and on my scorching skin---but the stream doesn’t stop. I’m probably going to die of dehydration. If so, I hope it happens soon.
When the sickness passes, I sob. My skin, and my ass, and my insides are on fire, and the smell clinging to me is unbearable. I can feel the shit drying on me.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow, with the second half of the jar. Hopefully you’ll make a better choice then.’
He leaves, and I look down at my body—thin and weak and soiled.
He was right, in the end I really don’t have a choice. He’s broken me. I’ve lost.