Nov 24, 2008
I remember the day as if it were yesterday, although in truth I do not know how long it has been. I know no day or night -- only blinding light, and the taste of darkness.

It was the smell that first roused me, that first black morning. What had happened? Had I pissed myself? Perhaps after some epic, self-destructive bender? That would be uncharacteristic but not unheard-of. No, the memories began seeping back. I was in a bar, yes, but not alone -- no, not at all. I wouldn’t have believed it but the memory returned so clearly. She sat across from me -- stunning. Raven-haired and all in black. Piercing eyes that seemed to be sizing me up, stealing my breath whenever they locked with mine. Poised, commanding, impatient with frivolity and intolerant of weakness -- but nonetheless across from ME, completely dismissive of the chaos, and the stares, that surrounded us.

What followed that image? Blackness, only. I let out a low groan.

My utterance echoed slightly -- I was in small room, clearly, of tile from the smoothness under my face. My eyes were open but all was black. I moved to rise -- but immediately fell back, the sound of metal chains echoing off the tiles. Chains? I tried to move my arms to discover that they were behind my back, cuffed, it seemed, attached to a chain leading somewhere behind. I lifted my head and felt the stiff leather of a collar around my neck -- clinking chains stretching in front, and behind. My legs -- thankfully free. I could work them under me into a kneeling position, and even sit back, all with the ominous clinking of chains. An attempt to stand landed me back on my side on the cold tile floor. The chains were securely attached and I had discovered their extent...

Suddenly, blinding, white light knocked me back onto my haunches. The room was all white save HER, silhouetted against the far wall.

She spoke -- nearly the last words I have heard her speak. “Ah, excellent. You are awake. You see this? Keep it empty and clean. Failure will bring consequences. We will leave the light on for a time, until you are familiar with your task. Don’t bother trying to make noise. It will just bring you pain.”

With this, she motioned to a gleaming white object in front of me -- a white, porcelain bowl. The bowl sat on a small platform -- what looked like the bottom of a drawer that could slide towards and away from me, in turn anchored to a squat white tiled pedestal. The bowl was currently at its farthest extent towards me, and I could kneel and lean forward to look inside, my wrists pulled slightly behind me by their restraint. In the bowl a pale yellow liquid. I raised my gaze to see what its source could be...

It was directly in front of me -- gleaming white and clean. The toilet seat. Lidless, anchored at the sides to thick, metal bars, but nonetheless seeming to levitate before me, buffered by the awareness that was slowly washing over me.

She laughed. “Yes, you have a new role. Perform your duty well, and you will be spared excess punishment.”

Of course, I screamed at first, only to discover that current could be passed through my restraints and double me over in agony. For two days I resisted, I refused, I rebelled. I strained against the chains until my neck and wrists were raw, to no avail. I cursed and floundered -- each effort meeting escalating pain.

Until I broke.

I took a long look at a once white bowl now brimming in front of me. Shit, piss, spit, toilet paper and tampons from four mistresses, who had without a word sat, expelled, wiped, and left. A growing, glistening pile in a moat of filth. I slowly bent over, gently grabbed a solid piece of excrement with my teeth, closed my lips around it and began to chew. It was cold. The smell and taste were overwhelming and I gagged at first, but ultimately forced a swallow. A tampon string -- I inched it into my mouth like spaghetti. The tampon was full of blood and urine -- I chewed it into a small ball and gulped it down. I was taking mouthfulls now -- and I could feel my stomach bloat with each slick swallow. I pressed my lips to the liquid surface and took long, deep draughts of brown piss and dissolved shit. At the bottom of the bowl was a thick sludge, which I sucked, then licked until the white shone through...

We can learn to do anything -- and I’m as smart as the next guy. Even in the pitch black I can do my job -- when the bowl slides back and the light goes out, I can make sure it is spotless when it needs to be. Of course, the vomit and diarrhea are the worst -- care must be taken to make sure the sides are all devoid of smell. But these are relatively rare, and otherwise there is a schedule to my time that has become one of my only comforts. Piss by Mistress O. marks what must be morning. She is followed by Mistress A., magazine in hand, with dark, bitter urine and a hard, thick load that makes me feel like a nibbling squirrel. Mistress O. will return a short time later with a soft deposit, a glistening mound that I must carefully make sure does not get all over my face. Mistress Y. visits hours later and also, through some special sadism, kindness, (or perhaps just bulimia?) decides to regurgitate her dinner for me with some regularity. Mistress W. is oddly shy, and averts her gaze to not return my pathetic stare before sitting down and expelling a dark, brown meal...

Except for the air they breathe, everything that leaves their body passes through me, into a small hole where I can sit, in one of the only comfortable positions I can assume. How my waste makes it down to the water faintly trickling below, I’m not sure.

There are certain things that I gather. The mistresses live together, and eat together. Asparagus, or corn from one means the same from all, and every month, I am full of blood. Mistress O. has one lover, but I think Mistress A. has many, and will deposit tissues soaked with semen and her juice at all hours, laughing with abandon. She truly delights in my servitude, and I am convinced will chew tobacco just so she can pour a beer can full of cold spit and cigarette butts into my bowl with a wry wink, and or will store up green phlegm in a glass to drop with a sticky, marbled mass. It doesn’t even phase me anymore -- and I even welcome with some strange, expert curiosity novel deposits from slavegirls that come and go. Thankfully, something -- maybe ethics, if you can call it that, keeps males from my place of servitude...

My body is slowly wasting, or changing. Muscles atrophy, and disuse sets in. I am not a permanent fixture, but stopgap, a temporary diversion, to be replaced when necessary. My ability to imagine outside of this room, outside of the bowl, is beginning to slip away, to seem illusory. Spotlessness is the only reality. Impurities must be wiped away.

The bowl is my mandala. I am one with my task. I am almost free.
Last edited:
Sep 5, 2002
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Hot, hot, hot!!!

Great tale of total degradation. Please write more - and I'll kick in my own story of how my Mistress put toe-jam caked q-tips up my nostrils while she painted my face like a clown with her shit and make me gargle her piss and spit cocktail and hold it in my mouth while I jerked off onto my face which she then smeared into my shit-clown face with her bare foot. Or the time she made me toenail clipping and snot soup and had ten people watch me enjoy it and filmed me while doing so.

This is deep, heavy stuff! Let's go the limit in our imaginations if not in reality.