GREASE BIN (1) by Shelm s.hayemere@gmail.com Boy, urination/scat, solo, pain/desperation
Work of fantasy. Don't encourage you repeat, though feedback is always welcome. Young and old perverts should exchange stories and patronize the hub!
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
X O X O
I noticed as a kid I felt safe in the warmth of old bathrooms. Unkept rest stops and campgrounds were the best for me.
I'd hide in a stall, letting some clay mountain of human shit perfume my body. The seat would be greasy, or sometimes carry hair.
I remember one time. It felt slick under my little legs, which I had to spread real wide. There was no water and hardly any paper. Piss pot to the side, its own jug.
I felt so strangely attracted to it, the mass beneath me. I wanted it back inside me. I wanted to touch it. That heap was a gift I was left to play with. I wondered how it'd feel slipping between my fingers and stuck to the inside of my legs.
It was quiet outside. I thought I was in the clear.
Hands on either wall, the dank rushed up through my legs like hands on my skin when I steeped into the shit hole. I kept my knees hooked over the seat, pushing hard on my asshole while it hovered down into the chamber.
At first, it was hard. Solid, I felt the tip of the scat heap poke me directly in my shitter. Whorish little shivers started rolling through me. I was nine. Wild kid.
My toes curled. I slipped in more. It cracked and opened fresh moisture under me. New levels of odor started filling my pores. I felt claimed by an absent crowd of men who didn't care I was frolicking in their shit like some prepubescent dog.
Then I fell. Really fell.
I'd still pay to see another dumb 12-year-old get curious and stick himself in a dry toilet. Seriously. What a stupid fucker.
My knees hit my chin. I bit my tongue. Was there blood? I couldn't get up. My shoulders immediately ached and the walls were out of reach. There was no cistern on the toilet, which extended high off the ground.
In the middle of Maine Depot Trails, there I squirmed, cupped like an egg in old feces. Breathing got harder. The smell of crap turned acidic in my tight chest.
I was so fucking hard.
Every time I tried to lunge out, my cock would grind on the wet, resinous inner wall of the bowl. It didn't take long before I was light headed. I could feel the filth making new skin on my back. The way it curved toward you at the bottom had me facing up.
Little edges started cutting my shoulders, tickling my spine. Working in the blackness. Painting me down.
My grainy seat was cushioned below the ass with that sticky mound. Did they change it, or just leave it to soil?
My breathing had become nothing more than little heaves and slutty yelps. Part of me was excited. Part of me feared suffocation. I smeared through the fine grind in ecstasy, all of a sudden feeling close to orgasm.
My throat was swelling. A hard knot crawled up from my gut to my chest. I was actually choking. That little pucker pushed and pushed on its smelly seat. I came like the damaged goods I was. The knot in my throat undid itself, two thick strands of spit escaping me.
I felt sweaty. A little colder.
Then I heard clapping.
"What a fucking mess."
I couldn't see any eyes below the stall. Then I heard him again,
"Look up, you fucking faggot."