The Blue Plastic Pool

As it turns out, life has a way of whittling down options. My submissive fantasies began extravagantly then met the realities of the gay BDSM dating world — the steady parade of time-wasters, Larpers, and oddballs. 

With each passing week, Scott gradually moved forward in the conga line of potential dominants. I finally reasoned with myself one night. “Okay, why not? He probably won’t respond anyway. Or he will be completely insane, and I can write him off. But why not?”  I wrote a brief message, clicked “Send”, and went to bed.

When Scott wrote back the next day, I was pleasantly surprised. His response was the most normal, well-written, and polite of any message I had received. He had read over my profile and asked perceptive questions. Over the next two weeks, we casually exchanged messages, which grew into talking on the phone. I confided about my lack of experience with men, the desire for discretion and safety. But most importantly, I told him about my toilet fantasy but still having serious doubts. He was cool with it all. He said most of his pigs start out the same way but end up wanting to be on camera doing it.

“Why?” I asked. “I guess I have that effect on them,” he wrote back, “But either way, I respect their limits, even if I don’t have many myself.”

He had me order a flexible chastity cage, telling me it would come in handy down the road, regardless of whether we messed around. We agreed to meet for non-committal drinks on a Thursday night, where I should show up wearing dark jeans, briefs, and my chastity cage. “If we both feel the vibe, you may get a little messy,” he wrote, “But nothing crazy. We can save that for weekends :) I want to get to know you first.”

We finally met in a dim upscale bar in a trendy part of town. I saw Scott at a high-top table, more muscular than how he looked in his videos. He gave me a nod. His green eyes held a bead on me, as I crossed the room. “Hey, glad to meet you,” I said, assertively extending my hand, wishing to conceal my nervousness. “Likewise and in the flesh,” he remarked, shaking it firmly.

We ordered drinks, making small talk. As we chatted, I wondered if I could go through with this. It felt different than my fantasies. I sipped my drink. He graciously entertained the chit-chat through our first round.

Beginning to feel a buzz, I asked, “So how does this typically go for the guys you meet?”
“Pretty much like this. They buy me drinks, like you will. We make small talk. They’re polite and bashful at first, which is completely understandable. But sure enough, they roll with it and love it.”
He waited for a beat, then said with a grin, “Also, I think calling them ‘guys’ is a highly offensive term. I believe the proper term is ‘faggot pigs’.”

My mouth dropped, letting out an embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” I said, nodding playfully, looking into his eyes, “fair enough.” My cock twitched a bit, face flushed. I had never been called a faggot before.

“To be honest, poppers help them loosen up,” he added, “You know about those?” I told him I had never tried them but was open to it. He continued, “Yeah, they will unstifle your inner pig.”

He leaned in. “The other thing that helps is when I keep your cock in a cage. Is it now?”’
Yeah,” I said, keeping his gaze, “for around a week now.”

“Nice, so far, you’re batting two for two. How about this? We have another drink. I’m enjoying this. You are too. If we’re both feeling it, we can go out to my car to talk more privately. Maybe have you try a popper. No pressure. Also, I don’t have sex on the first date. I’m not that easy.”

“I can now see why you’re trouble,” I laughed.

“It takes two to tango, piggy.”

Over the second round, hearing Scott speak made me feel warm and at-ease. My jeans were dampened with pre-cum. Sensing my comfort, he finally suggested, “Well, ready to bounce?” I was relieved. “Sure,” I responded, “I’ll get the check.”

We walked to Scott’s luxury tinted-window SUV, which was discretely parked on a quiet side street. As I followed, I felt like a groupie being taken backstage. “Let’s get into the backseat. It’s too dark to see in,” he told me.

He laid a blanket over the backseat. I felt the need to make some obligatory small talk. It wouldn’t be necessary. He leaned over and kissed me. I was used to kissing women, where I led. But this was new. Feeling a man’s scruff. Smelling his aftershave.

Being the receiver felt natural: sucking on his tongue and letting it probe my mouth. My breathing slowed, becoming deeper and more rhythmic, the natural mating sign of a submissive in heat. He put his hand lightly around my throat, letting it linger, signaling it was about his dominance, not rough sex. I instinctively spread my legs for him, at which point, he massaged my caged cock, causing it to ooze pre-cum like nectar.

He leaned back for a moment. In the silent car, there was a distinct “click…click…click” from his zipper. I could sense him unbuckling his belt in the darkness. Without a word, he directed the back of my head onto his lap. I searched for it in the shadows with my mouth until my lips locked on and I instinctively sucked.

He positioned me so I was on all fours in the backseat, bobbing my head, with my ass in the air. “There you go, faggot,” he said soothingly, “Just get used to that cock and relax.” I grew accustomed to his taste and more gradually, the smell of his crotch. The only time I had smelled this scent before was in workout shorts, which I never found erotic.

He then lifted my head up, putting a popper vial in front of my nose. A small sniff. I was eager for this infamous popper pixie dust. At first, my head throbbed with no sensual feeling. I was bummed. He was rubbing the back of my hair now. I closed my eyes, thinking poppers were just more internet hype. Scott’s rhythmic rubbing on my hair made me imagine a dog being rewarded for good behavior. It made me smile

“How do you feel?” he asked. I opened my eyes.

“It’s different than I expected. Your hand feels reaallllly good on my head though.”

“Like you’re being petted?”

“Yeah,” I said smiling, surprised he guessed that, arching my back and stretching my neck upward at the sensation.

“Because you ARE being petted. You’re a pet piggy. Aren’t you?”

I laughed, dumbfounded. He was right. The poppers had hit — another satisfied customer. My inhibitions fell from me, like a bath towel falling from my white virgin ass before walking into a sleazy sauna. His cock suddenly looked wonderful and appetizing. Even the mustiness of his crotch — which at first I tried to ignore— I wanted to inhale now. “I’m your pet pig, Daddy.” I slurped on his cock.

“Yeaaaaaah, like that, piggy,” he said with a long draw, “I know you’re a special pig. Tonight, I’m going to put you on the Popper Express. It will go fast but trust me, you will love it.” I nodded affirmatively, face down in his crotch.

“Okay, lift your head up. Take two long hits and hold them.” The vial was at my nose. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiffff. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiffff. I wondered how more hits could possibly feel any better. I exhaled, letting the warm, rosy mental fog embraced me.

“Mmmmmmmm…Daddy….I just want to be one of your faggot pigs.” The words just rolled off my tongue so lazily now. I was unable to control my thoughts or words. “I feel like a groupie saying this but I’ve jerked off to you so much.”

“Because you are my groupie. The dirtiest groupie.” He pulled his pants down his hips. I kissed his thighs, then sucked on one of his balls, nuzzling my face in his scrotum. My nose pointed towards his taint, now enjoying the mustiness, wanting to probe deeper. “You want more of my smell?” I nodded.

He pushed my head down, so my nose was almost touching his taint now. He raised one leg and flexed his abdomen. I moaned louder, not able to believe what was about to happen. His hand kept my head stationary. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfff. His fart was immediate and potent. There was no one or two-second delay to dread the smell, or a vague first whiff before the smell really hits. Straight into my nose.

“Deep breaths, faggot, pretend it’s special poppers. Breathe deep.” I inhaled deeply to show my willingness to obey. But the smell was overwhelming.

“There you go. Only real toilet faggots want to smell another man’s farts.

Being called a toilet — for the first time in my life — made me moan uncontrollably. Deep, long-suppressed moans on his wet ball sack. My caged-up faggot cock spurted pre-cum. When the smell subsided, he lifted my head up again.

Vial at nostril. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiffff. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiffff. He propped me back up. He played with my nipples, making me feel like a backseat whore. I giggled softly, out of my mind at what just happened. He leaned forward, kissing my neck then biting it, giving me chills.

He worked his way up to my ear, and sucked on the lobe. We were close enough to feel each other breathe. He finally whispered, “I bet you have tasted your own shit before, haven’t you?” I was in quiet shock. He could spot a pig a mile off, or maybe smell the faggot pheromones. I didn’t want to answer, but I knew that he knew.

“I have a little, Daddy,” I confessed, softly. He slowly massaged my crotch, my caged cock feeling so small now in his hand.

He licked my earlobe again, pausing, then spoke again in a guttural whisper, “Hmmmmmm…have you tasted your shit in the last week?” I shivered. I didn’t want to answer. But he had x-ray vision into my desires. There was no playing coy at this point. “I did, Daddy,” quietly confessing again, wanting to look away.

“Tell Daddy why.” Perhaps he wanted me to say that I was a shitpig or a toilet whore. But I gave the most honest answer to any question I have ever been asked. At this point, why not?

“Because I wanted to practice for you, Daddy.”

He leaned back a little, then looked at me silently for a moment, perhaps taken back. I was worried I turned him off. “So eager to please, piggy, suck on your fingers,” he moane

I gave my index and middle fingers a blow job, holding eye contact with him. He directed my hand down between his legs to his warm, moist hole. He kept them there at his asslips. I was breathing heavily, wanting whatever was in him. He pushed my fingers inside. “Move them around. Get them nice and dirty.” I moaned, moving my fingers around counter-clockwise, wishing it was my tongue. He withdrew my fingers.

“Look at them.” I could only vaguely see the outline of my fingers in the dark. But I could feel a gritty texture on them. “Down the hatch, faggot.”

I sucked my fingers. So bitter and pungent. “There you go”, he encouraged, “lick them clean.” He held the popper vial up to my nose again. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiifff. The taste transformed into bitter, earthy tiramisu. I sucked my fingers clean until there was no more taste, then showed them to him proudly, ready for another serving. “Good faggot.” He turned his muscular body around in the car, so now his ass was facing me. Even in the shadows, his ass was so beautiful and masculine.

“Put your fingers back in my ass and get your treat.” I felt for his warm hole in the dark. I pushed my index and middle finger in until I felt the tip of a warm shit. “Keep them there,” he said, then he gave a long, low grunt. His hole clenched tightly around the hilt of my fingers. He pushed, then a solid warmth steadily enveloped my fingers.

Pulling my hand back, my index and middle fingers were now indistinguishable, just one large dark brown mass. He turned around and put the popper bottle back to my nose. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiif.

“Hold it. Let the poppers do their thing before you do yours, faggot.

Through the floating stars in my vision, one thought became clear: I wanted this man’s shit going down my throat tonight. Nothing else mattered. He held my wrist firmly and directed my shitty fingers to my mouth. “Lick the tip, like it’s a cock.” I grinned mischievously, then curled my tongue, using the tip of it to scoop off some shit.

“Practice on that dirty cock for Daddy.” He directed my fingers deep into my mouth. Now I could taste the entire bulky mass. My eyes watered. “Keep going, faggot. You’re a natural at this.” I couldn’t bring myself to swallow. I wanted to do it for him, more than anything on earth. But my throat seized up. It was too much. He could sense that.

“The first swallow is the hardest. Embrace it. It’s your new job, piggy.” My eyes welled up. “Moaw poppas, pease”, I tried to plead, the words muffled in my full mouth. “No,” he replied curtly, “Swallow.”

I braced myself mentally, then swallowed, sending a large glob down my throat. “There you go piggy. Each time you swallow, your manhood dies a little more. Now swallow again.” I scraped more off my fingers with my tongue and teeth. I looked at his silhouette in the dark, braced myself, then forced the remaining glob down into my stomach.

“Perfect, faggot. Clean the rest off.” I dutifully complied, then showed off my empty mouth, hoping he could see it. I was breathing heavily.

A genuine smile grew across his face. “I have an idea. Let’s liven the mood. You need some lipstick. Maybe some kitten whiskers as well.” I laughed, perplexed. Scott’s hand disappeared between his legs. I smiled, not making the connection between his words and actions. His finger emerged, smearing shit across my lips. My tongue instinctively wanted to lick it. Then he made distinct lines across each of my cheeks for kitten whiskers. I closed my eyes, and contently waited like I was receiving a makeover. He smeared a final brown dot on the tip of my nose for my little kitty nose.

“Perfect!” he laughed, “Now apply your new lipstick.” I complied, smearing the shit with my lips.

He wiped his finger off on my jeans. I didn’t care. I felt the vial at my nose again. Sniiiiiiiiiiiif. I was gone. I couldn’t talk. He knew that. It’s like he took my inhibitions, opened the car door, and dropped them outside on the curb. It was his plan, and I loved it.

Mentally, I now saw myself as his Scat Diva — a high maintenance scat whore who needed her special brown makeup consisting of Daddy’s shit. No other makeup — and no other shit — would suffice.

“Now, close your eyes, and pout your lips together, like a porn star.” I puckered my lips. They felt so plump and ripe, tasted so bitter. I grinned and bit my lower lip, signaling I was game for whatever Daddy wanted.

“I want to get a picture of you,” he said, “I’ll blur your face.” Through my eyelids, I sensed the flash go off, like an old Paparazzi camera. A warm vision throbbed through my head.

I was now Scat Diva, a bubbly, idealized toilet version of myself with luscious brown lips. I was at a classic Hollywood movie premier. But it was MY movie, in which I was the star, where I would be deep-throating Daddy’s thick shit on the big screen. The waify actresses mingling on the red carpet — like all the boring women in my life — were now repulsed. I didn’t care. They offered nothing, compared to my Daddy.

“Blow me a kiss, faggot,” I obliged, blowing a wonderful brown-lipped kiss to the world. The camera flashed. Why did I ever worry about discretion? Scat Diva loved posing for the cameras, why shouldn’t I? I wanted her shit aesthetic.

“Now open your mouth and show me your brown tongue.” I stuck it out for everyone to see. The camera flashed again. 

The lusty-eyed actors at the premier noticed my brown tongue, my legendary calling card. They adjusted their hardening cocks in their pants, each wanting to feed me in a bathroom stall. Perhaps Daddy would make them all get in a long line, charging $5 to each.

“How are you feeling?” I opened my eyes and I was now back in the dark car. It was quiet.

“Good,” I giggled, “Oh my God, this is so wild.”

“Yeah, it is,” Scott said, “Do you want to get reeaally wild for me?” My head was spinning, but I had the clarity to ask, “I mean, haven’t I already, Daddy?

“I think you have some juice left in you,” he replied, rubbing his cock. “I’m game.

“Pull your pants down and turn around with your ass to me. You’re going to get dirty in those jeans tonight.” I unbuckled them, showing him my bottom. He spit on one finger and worked it into my relaxed hole. I was overcome with lust. 

“Can you just please fuck me, Daddy? I just want your cum in my ass. Please.”

“Not tonight. You didn’t reach out to me for that. You can get that from any dude on Grindr.” I pouted, wanting to plead until I got my way, but he was right. Popper vial back to my nose. Sniiiiiiiiiiiif. I could feel him pressing something against my asshole. “I’m putting a few marshmallows in you.”

That’s so funny, I thought, who carries marshmallows in their car? “Daddy, hmmm…whatever you want. I’m your special faggot. I just want to be wild for you.”

“Oh, you’re going to get wild, all right.

That’s one marshmallow. Two, Three. Now pull up your jeans and get back to my dick.” He rearranged our bodies so I was back on all fours, my head bobbing on his crotch again.

“Now listen,” he directed, “In a minute or so, the marshmallows will make you shit like you’ve never shit before. But it’s not permanent, so you’ll be fine. I want you to hold it in as long as you can. And don’t take your mouth off my cock.” He put his hand on my head, holding it there firmly.

“You’re going to be the dirtiest shit faggot in my entire stable, aren’t you?” I nodded again. “Because it’s who you are. We’re eventually going to make movies together, aren’t we?” I could see the vivid image of me, eagerly working my tongue into his hole. My eyes would widen in the camera as his thick brown gift emerged into my o-shaped mouth. I nodded that, yes, we would be making movies together.

A wet fart came out of me unexpectedly. “Don’t stop,” he said, “That’s just your faggot hole queefing. It’s just getting warmed up and juicy. Hold it in.” He rubbed my bottom reassuringly.

I could feel a building pressure to queef again. I kept sucking. “Oh yeah, faggot, just suck that cock and hold those marshmallows in. Soon this will be our favorite game we play together.” Another louder, wetter queef. This time I felt a squirt into my briefs. 

“Just keep sucking,” he said comforting me, “You’ve got dark jeans on, so nobody will see. Lift up your head for a second.” Sniiiiiiiiiiiiif. Sniiiiiiiiifff. Back to sucking, in my cozy dreamland, probing his cockhead for pre-cum.

Another wet fart. They were coming at a faster pace. To me, it was now like a silly game. Fuck it, I thought, let my faggot hole queef one more time, just like Daddy said. I have nothing to hide. No one can judge me if I just accept I’m a faggot toilet for the rest of my life, 24/7.

I proudly let my faggot hole queef, wanting it to sound extra wet and juicy for Daddy. My bottom was jolted by a torrential surge of warm shit filling my briefs. I instinctively tried to get up. Daddy held me stationary. I clenched my asshole. It didn’t matter: the tidal surge filled my briefs in successive warm waves. I moaned out of shock and pleasure, not knowing how to act.

“Just stay there faggot, and ride it out. This is why you’re here. This is who you are. Keep sucking.”

Scott lightly pressed on the growing warm bulge in the seat of my jeans. He lifted my head, allowing me to come up for a breath of poppers. Sniiiiiiiiiiiif. Sniiiiiiiiiiiif. Any guilt about shitting myself in front of him was gone.

My popper-relaxed hole opened up and oozed more warmth, spreading across my ass, down my taint, and onto my caged cock. It just kept coming. I alternated between moaning in pleasure, and grunting to empty my bowels. Scott rhythmically pressed on my ass, causing the warm tide to ebb and flow all over my backside. I grinded my ass against his hand.

“Oh yes, Daddy. That feels so good, better than jerking off. It feels better than pussy.”

“That’s because you’re a kinky little shit faggot. You won’t even need that cock anymore.”

“Oh yes, Daddy, you’re right,” I panted desperately, “I don’t need my faggot cock. I just want your cock, your shit, and anything else you want to give to me.”

He lifted my head off of his lap. “Turn around, I want to get a picture of your ass.”

I carefully turned around, wanting to avoid making a mess in his car. I arched my back and perched my butt in the air for him. Multiple flashes lit up the car. I wanted to twerk for him, hoping he would ask me to.

“God, you’re a true shit whore. The first date and you’re eating my shit and crapping all over yourself in my backseat. What an easy date.”

I laughed with a smidge of guilt. “I know, Daddy, but you do that to me.

He pressed on my jeans, sending me into warm ecstasy again. “Ooohhhhhhhhhhh.” My asshole was now so relaxed — with so much shit in my briefs — it felt like shit was flowing back into me with each firm press, like I was being fucked by this thick brown tide. I writhed on his firm hand, biting my lower lip.

“So here’s the plan. Lucky for you, I can play one weekend from now. Do you want more of this?”

“Of course, Daddy,” I smiled, nodding obediently, trying to focus on his words but craving more pleasure in my bottom. I didn’t care if I had any other plans that weekend: they were officially canceled.

“Good, so tonight, we’ll wrap up soon. I’ll drive you back to your car. You will go home and stay like this for a few hours. No brushing your teeth. Don’t even wipe off your face. Send me a photo as proof.”

“I will, Daddy.”

“More importantly, you have to keep your cock locked-up until we play again, I want a photo of you dripping precum from your cage every day, three times a day. Morning, noon, and night. If I think you jerked your faggot cock even once, we won’t play again.”

“Hmmmmm…that will be so hard but yes, I would love that,” I said, still rubbing my jeans against his firm hand.

“Good faggot.” He patted my bottom. Pop. Pop. Pop. My mouth dropped open with an ear-to-ear smile, “Oh, Daddy!”

As Daddy drove me back to the car, I stayed in the backseat, on all fours, to avoid a mess. I felt like I was in a dog kennel. He pulled up to my car, leaned into the back, and handed me a thick towel. “So your car seat doesn’t get ruined.” I smiled. “I can’t wait to play again.”

“Oh, we’re going to have a lot of fun. No cumming though,” he added, “Blow me a kiss.” I obliged with my brown lips. “See you later,” I said trying to hold back my giddiness. “You too.”

I crawled out of the backseat door. I felt like a dazed streetwalker emerging from the most mind-blowing, fucked-up trick of her life. Sitting down in my own car, the warmth spread over my ass and onto the side of my legs. I rubbed my caged faggot cock through my jeans. I could see my brown whiskers and kitty nose in the rearview mirror.

My eyes closed wanting to rub myself off into ecstasy, but I remembered: no cumming. I started the ignition and drove home, smirking at how easy of a date I was.