I'd never cleaned in the nude for this gentleman before. He was a new client. After I arrived and undressed, and after he gave me the once-over with his paw-like hands, he showed me his "honey-do" list. I was amazed by its brevity:
-dishes
-vacuum
-toilet
Shit, I thought. I'll get these things done, give him his complimentary blowjob and be out of here in an hour. (The normal deal was, up to three hours cleaning in nude for $50, including one blowjob. Additional services, such as giving massages, rimming, a second BJ or bottoming for a guy, might double or even triple the rate.)
As I washed his sinkful of dishes my client stood behind me caressing and squeezing my ass, fingering my hole and reaching under and fondling my little balls. I didn't mind. TouchingÑgroping evenÑwas included in the price. Most of my clients were older, guys 50 and up, and who in that category wouldn't want to put their hands on a college boy's slender, hairless body? This guy was typical: middle-aged, big-bellied, very hairy. He wore a pair of baggy shorts. Over the past couple of years of doing this job, I'd come to appreciate men with big bellies. At first a turn-off, I now enjoyed kissing their taut, encased fat on my way down to pleasuring them with my mouth. It was the same with unclean penises. The smell of stale urine used to make me gag. But now I enjoyed it, preferred it even. Something about knowing I was experiencing not just the taste of their sperm, but their pee as well. The full essence and outflow of their penises, in other words. Or perhaps it was owing to all the toilets I'd cleaned over the past two years, working for Boymaid. Stale piss and shit smells no longer bothered me. They'd become as normal and natural to my nostrils as the mildly scented women's deodorant I applied to my shaved armpits every morning.
The livingroom rug was nothing. I was done vacuuming it in, quite literally, five minutes. My balls had finally relaxed and in their distended state swung back and forth in opposite rhythm to the Hoover. My balls may not be large but I'm blessed with low-hangers. My client sure got a swaying eyeful. On to the toilet.
I'd seen worse but not by much. As you entered the double-wide's lone bathroom, the washstand was on your right, then the toilet then a shower stall. The floor was tile. The toilet? Filthy. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months. Even worse was the surrounding floor, discolored by all the layer-upon-layer of pee stains. I got down on my knees. I went to work.
Surprisingly my client left me alone. I'd expected him to squeeze my ass or reach underneath and fondle my balls againÉbut that would've meant kneeling down at my level and perhaps that was too much for my obese host. I heard a cellphone ring at one point followed by his deep, laconic voice. It sounded like he was talking to a relative. His mother? Hey Mom! Guess what I have in my bathroom right now? A naked boy scrubbing my toilet!
I was just finishing up when he made his return. I glanced around and discovered he'd lost his shorts. He had huge balls but a smallish, limp willy. Impotent? He was carrying his phone, but not for long. He set it down on the side of the washstand.
"It's looking pretty good," he said of his now-pristine toilet. "But you've still got a lot of work to do."
Work to do? Your toilet looks like it was just installed out the box by an appliance store, I knelt there thinking. What work? Was he referring to the blowjob I owed him? The hard work it would probably take to get an erection out of that puny thing?
He walked past me, to the far side of the toilet and set his feet. Somewhat wide apart. He leaned forward slightly. I couldn't see his front but it appeared, from behind his saggy ass, that his right hand had taken hold of his cock. I heard the sound before I saw its cause: the splatter of his urine stream on the stretch of tile floor in front of where he stood, outside the shower stall. I knelt there in disbelief. The guy's peeing on his own floor!
"I been savin' this up all morning. I didn't even pee when I got up this mornin'," he added, with a one-note laugh.
And now I understood why he'd wanted me over so early this morning. He was holding it in. His bladder was about to burst!
He must've peed a half-gallon. No, literally. The arcing yellow stream lasted a good 90 seconds before slowing to a dribble. Almost the entirety of the floor forward of him was a shallow pool. Jesus! It was a minor flood!
I maintained my astonished kneel as he turned 180 degrees. I watched a lone drop of residual urine fall from penis's tip. Had he been a tad closer I might have caught its fall in my mouth. I've been peed on before and I actually like the taste and smell of fresh piss. The guys who'd peed on me had all been drinking beer. Light beer. I loved its pale yellow color and mild, tangy taste. This guy's was a darker yellow and gave off a stronger odor. Not unpleasant, just different. Like a strong ale compared to a low-carb lager.
My client, meanwhile, had bent over and put his paws on his chubby knees. He made a faceÑgrimaced. After a grunt, he said, his voice having risen an octave: "Now I got something else for you."
Unlike him unexpectedly urinating on his own floor, this next phase came as no surprise. Though I still watched in a state of disbelief as the first giant turd departed his ass and splashed in the urine pool below. Another slightly smaller one followed. Then another, a shit pile forming on the wet floor. Looser stool followed. Then, after a final grunt, a lone firm circular turd, or piece of turd, fell to the floor. My client rose up. Yanked some toilet paper off the roll, wiped himself and tossed the soiled wad behind him in the piss and shit mess.
Forget the nuances of his urine smell. That was now overwhelmed by the shit stench filling my nostrils. It was fetid but...all the same, somewhat sweet-smelling. Almost a note of chocolate to it. Hershey's bars? Is that why the guy was so big?
My client had straightened. He was looking down at me now. Which led me to look down at myself. I was getting an erection. He smiled.
"You like piss and shit, huh? Watching a guy take a dump? I knew it."
I swallowed. I was speechless.
He walked past me, washed his hands in the sink, dried them, flipped on the exhaust fan and picked up his phone. I can only say in retrospect that, amazingly enough, the thought of fleeing the bathroom, pulling on my clothes and rushing out the door never onceÑonceÑcrossed my mind. I would have been fully within my rights. The deal, the gig was: housecleaning in the nude followed by a blowjob. There was nothing in the unwritten contract about a Boymaid being required to wade into a client's body waste and attempt to clean it up. But I remained there in the stench, still on my knees.
"It'sÉIt's OK," I finally stuttered. "I'll clean it up. I-I'll just need more--"
"Fuck yes you will. But before you clean it up you'll wallow in it."
Wallow? He was laughing, softly. "Like a pig in shit." He gestured me forward. "Get to it, boy. Little pig. Go!"
Something about his commanding toneÉbrought back to me memories of all the dominant men I'd known in my life. As a teen and even as a pre-teen. Military men. Officers. Men who relieved the stresses of war on "sweet little boys." Men like my late dad and his Scotch-swilling compatriots. And needless to say I was a sub. Who else, at age 18, would take a job working for Max at Boymaid? Who but a sub is willing to be groped in the nude, manhandled, made to clean house? Who but a sub willingly drops to his knees to give blowjobs?
"Yessir," I heard myself say.
"On your belly first," he commanded.
Slowly, hesitantly, I walked forward on my hands and knees. Soon enough my hands were in the pee-pool, at its outer edge. The pile of shit was just below my face, my nose, at this point. I crept further forward into the shallow pool. Somewhat reluctantly, and again very slowly, I lowered my body. And as chest met floor I felt my client's shit mash outward under my weight. Once I was completely prone he said:
"Move around in it. Swim in it."
Swim? The pool was, like, an eighth of inch deep! Nevertheless my body wagged and I made a kind of swimming motion.
"Lick it. Lick the tile."
My face was forward of his flattened shit. I licked his cooling urine. Tasted it. Again, the odor, the flavor was stronger than any I'd ever experienced. Heavy. A strong brew.
"Now roll over," he commanded.
And as I obeyed I took the opportunity to glance down at myself. My hairless body. The dark brown smears and clots of shit on my chest and belly. Some of it falling to my genitals and thighs as I rotated.
"Lie on your back, piggy-boy. Wiggle in it."
I wiggled. And as I did so he took pics of my piss-wet and shit-smeared front. Either pics or video I couldn't tell.
Video, I decided as, still holding his phone out at arm's reach, and walking back a step, he said: "OK, get up now. Turn around. Slowly! A full circle. Now step in it. My shit. I want to see it between your pretty toes," he said, lowering his phone and presumably zooming in.
It was true. I had pretty feet. Pretty feet and long, slender legs. They were my best selling point. On the Boymaid website, that is. A girly-boy from the waist down. If only I'd had tits! Even peaky little A-cups like my mom!
Now my client's shit oozed up between my toes. It was getting under my painted nails. How would I ever get it out! It could take days, weeks!
My client let out an unexpected gasp. His way of climaxing? He'd lowered his phone, show apparently over. He said, bully-gesturing toward the stall, "OK, clean yourself up good. I'll bring supplies. Then clean this fucking mess up you made!"
I made? It was his piss and shit! I was just theÉwilling victim made to crawl into his open toilet! And wallow thereÉ
Emerging from the shower meant, of course, wading back into the shitstorm. Sleeved rolls of paper towels were piled in the bathroom doorway. As was industrial cleaning solution and a jug of bleach. He'd also lit a stick of incense, to mask the smell. Good luck.
I used, fully, three rolls of paper towels mopping up the piss and wiping up my client's shit smears. The worst part was the white grouting between tiles. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Then resorted to bleach. The Clorox made my eyes water and left me short of breath. Frankly I preferred the smell and substance of shit fresh from a man's ass.
I worked at it diligently until the bathroom floor was clean, spotless and sanitized. It took me over an hour and by the time I was done, and climbed back in the shower for another washing off, my poor knees were red and raw. I invited my client in for an inspection but he seemed disinterested. He was far more intent on showing me the video of myself he'd uploaded to a website called, appropriately enough, "humantoilet."
Christ, I thought. You can see my face! My slender body, front and back, is smeared with human shit! I shuddered. I dressed. I left.
This is how Max, of Boymaid fame, reacted to my call. Let me first explain that we boys are required to call in and report as soon as our gig is over. This is so Max can monitor time spent with clients and, more importantly, confirm that his "boys" have emerged from their jobs safe and sound. "There's a lot of crazies out there," as Max likes to say during the vetting process.
"WHAT?"
I told him again. About my client's piss and shit.
"Jesus fucking Christ! How much did you charge him?"
"Um, wellÉ"
This is how it worked with Boymaid. A prospective client called in. Said he wanted a cleaning boy. Max took his credit card info and debited for $50. That was Boymaid's cut. The rest was up to us. There were guidelines, of course. As mentioned previously, an additional $50 bought you up to three hours of cleaning by a nude boy, plus complimentary blowjob.
"Fifty," I finally allowed.
"You shitting me?" Max exclaimed, no pun intended. "Fuck, dude, you shoulda charged him a hundred-fifty. Easy. Hundred twentyfive anyway. Clean up his shit? I'm red-flagging this dude right now. He ever calls back, I'm charging him a hundred up front. YouÉ? Well, you or whoever can charge what you want. But I'd charge his ass a hundred-fifty."
"He won't pay it," I protested, feebly. My body still stank of human shit. Didn't it? I showered once back in the dorm, using that rose-scented body wash mom had sent me. But couldn't you still smell it on me? The shit? "He lives in a double-wide."
"I don't give a fuck if he lives in his car. We clean toilets at Boymaid," my exasperated boss explained, "we don't wallow in `me!"
Wallow? How the fuck did he know?
My dormmate, and lover, Timmy, walked in just as my call to Max was ending. He tossed his backpack into a cluttered chair. I was already working for Boymaid when Timmy and I hooked up. Now he turned the occasional trick as well.
"How'd your gig go?" he wanted to know.
I shrugged. Didn't let on. Explaining the whole thing to Max had been torture enough. "OhÉthe usual."
Timmy sniffed the air. Frowned.
"You just take a shit?"