The Blue Plastic Pool

I found Scott through a gay raunch site. Until a few months prior, I had considered myself mostly straight. I was attracted to women. I enjoyed relationships with them, their quirks and smells, and fucking them.  But there was a major tear in the fabric of my heterosexuality. I desired to be a submissive, degraded toilet for real men. I was never interested in vanilla gay sex, topping a man, blowing them, or anything else normal.

I wish I had been. I could have found an extra kinky girl, who was perhaps into cuckolding or swinging, who could accommodate all of this.  But if that were my nature,  I would have done exactly that. And if I had done that, you would not be reading this now.

The glitch was present early. Perhaps it was genetic. For perspective, I watched “Return of the Jedi” with friends when I was nine or so. When the famous Jabba the Hutt scene came on — the one with enslaved Princess Leia in a bikini and collar — my friends made dumb jokes about getting hard-ons. But I remained quiet, absorbing the scene. On some level that I could not yet grasp, I found Leia pretty. But I instantly also knew I wanted to be some androgynous version of her as well. How intimate it would feel, to be a chained, semi-clad slave, looking upward doe-eyed to a masculine presence. But I wanted to be muddy as well. That was the first vaguely sexual thought I ever had.

As I grew up, my physique became defined and masculine — a tall, athletic V-shaped body which was ideal for sports and dating. I told myself the mud fantasy would eventually go away. It was a phase, like the bands that were popular in middle school. After I lost my virginity, I told myself, it would all go away. But I lost it during my high school sophomore year to an older cheerleader. Objectively, it felt great. But the fantasy still came back. It always did, like the tide. By college, the fantasy had formally crystallized.

I was forced to crawl naked and completely shaven across a dim room to a familiar Master — a real man — then slinking up the back of his legs. He would silently point to one of his cheeks with his finger. I would devoutly kiss him there as if worshiping at a shrine. Then he would point to the other, where I would dutifully put my lips as well. Without a word, he would bend over and spread his cheeks, putting his hole in my face. I would open my mouth. This was my new religion. He would let out a long, low grunt, his back muscles shifting in the dim light. He would look over his shoulder at me, and I, upward at him, only able to see his knowing eyes. And he, mine. He would give one last grunt, then his warm gift would fill my mouth. The stare — or at least the fantasy of it — was not kink. It was ownership.

Inevitably, girlfriends and I would stop having sex after some time, typically after I became bored and retreated to my pig fantasy. We would break up, and the cycle would repeat. But after my most recent breakup, a thought percolated: “I’m single now. It’s obviously not a phase. Why not try it?”

With the newfound time on my hands, my porn browsing became increasingly raunchy. When I found Scott’s profile on a raunch site, I was intimidated but became addicted to his depraved, amateur video clips. Appearance-wise, Scott was just above-average: he had the stocky frame of a rugby player, with sandy brown hair, some body hair, and green eyes. His circumcised cock was about average as well. But he had a sharp sense of humor which he meted out on slaves, who always seemed fairly inexperienced in gay fetish. No extensive tattoos or nose piercings or shaved heads.

That was part of the thrill for Scott: he recruited kink-curious novices and turned them out as zero-limit faggots. He referred to it as “fucking their brains so hard they prolapsed.”
One of his videos, captioned “Business Lunch,” captured this process. It began with a straight-laced, handsome late-30’s businessman in a tailored one-thousand dollar suit. He had a granite, athletic build. 

He could have been a 1950’s leading man in another life. In this life, however, he played a very different role in a different sort of movie. He was on his knees in an upscale hotel room, with the words “DIVORCED FAGGOT” written on his forehead in black sharpie. Scott stood over him, slowly and methodically pissfucking his throat.

After the sixth or seventh large swallow of piss, the slave had enough and pulled back, giving a slight piss burp, which he politely covered with the back of his hand. “Daddy, I may get sick. I don’t…, ” he stuttered, now unable to maintain eye contact, “…I don’t want to make a mess.”
Scott responded, “Great idea! Let’s film that too. Give me your face.” The Suited Man leaned forward, glancing upward like an ashamed puppy. “Don’t stop until I tell you to,” Scott said curtly, to which the once-man nodded. 

Scott gently took his face, waited a moment, then pimp-slapped him loudly, causing him to wince and turning his cheek red. Scott worked his cock back into the man’s throat, continuing to irrigate his stomach with piss. But now he thrust deeper until his balls stayed snug against the slave’s chin. “I’ll also let you cover the cleaning fee too, my courteous little faggot.”

When Scott sensed the Suited Man was woozy from his full belly — by now, bloated with a gallon or so of piss — he leaned the slave back and pointed his face upward. “Now for the big finale. Open your mouth.” The slave obeyed, reluctantly opening his mouth wide towards the ceiling, waiting for what was to come. Scott slowly lowered three fingers towards his slave’s gaping mouth, causing the slave’s eyes to bug-out. The slave finally closed his eyes, knowing what was to come. Scott probed his throat.

“Keep your hands at your side. Be a good puke faggot for me,” Scott said calmly. The Suited Man complied, keeping his hands down at his waist, his spastic movements like a gyrating marionette puppet. A vein bulged in his forehead. He clenched his fists, resisting the growing urge in his throat. 

Scott probed deeper. “Oh yeah, we’re about to strike gold!” With that, the slave resigned himself to his new life role: his eyes glazed over and his masculine fists unclenched, becoming limp and faggoty. He vomited up a yellow geyser of piss and previous meals, completely covering his face and suit jacket. “Oh my God,” he said gasping, his eyes tightly shut due to the slime now covering his face, “Ahhhhhh, oh my God.”

“Perfect, faggot. Wonderful. One more time. Be a role model for any new puke faggots watching at home.”

Scott forced his hand further down his throat again. The Suited Man’s swollen, watery eyes pleaded for mercy. But it was unrelenting. The Suited Man heaved an even larger arc of thick yellow puke, this time all over his own crotch. Scott removed his hand, wiping it in the slave’s hair. 

The Suited Man slowed his panting, staring at the mess he vomited all over himself.
“I would give that a solid B+ for effort,” Scott joked while walking over to the camera to begin filming point-of-view style. Scott verbally soothed him from behind the camera, “That was pretty good, faggot. Next time I’ll pick up lunch…if it’s not all over the floor. Now tell everyone how you feel about being a new puke faggot.”

The defeated, athletic once-man looked down at himself, like a hunched-over dog that messed the rug. Then he looked into Scott’s camera lens, and said, “I want to be a better puke faggot, Daddy.”

“Of course you do. And if someone watching this messages me, saying they want to play fun games with your throat, then you would love that too, right?”

The once-man paused for a second, briefly looking downward to contemplate the implications of his answer. Then he quietly replied, “Yes, Daddy.”

“You told me you don’t want any more pussy. What to do you want then?”

“To be your puke faggot, Daddy.”

Not my proudest FAP. I was ashamed Scott’s clips got me so hot. I was ashamed juxtaposing this degradation with relationships in the past. I tried to stop watching, but I always came back, just like the prolapsed-brained Suited Man — and other turned-out faggots — came back for more. Invariably they wound up in the same position — open mouth quivering, waiting obediently under Scott’s rimseat.

When I finally messaged potential dominants on the site, I kept Scott at the bottom of a very long list, more in the realm of fantasy than possibility, despite him living nearby.