****** Manolo Becomes a Shit by Arablover ******
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Manolo Becomes a Shit


Manolo was angry because I had eaten his buddy's shit. He had come to think of
me as his private toilet. His alone. Disturbingly, his upset wasn't the one-day
phenomena I expected. He was not only jealous, but his pride had been offended,
too. When he came up from Ponce the next weekend he said little. Far from his
usual informal manner, he was cold, even forbidding. Easy access to his body
was withdrawn. I knew I was not free to tease his dick with my tongue while he
tried to watch TV or bite his backside when he went by. I doubt he would have
stayed at my place if he had a place of his own.

As usual after he arrived, I brought a beer to him in the living room. He was
sitting on the couch watching the news. But he had not undressed.

I was about to be seated next to him, but he said, "Sit there," indicating the
spot on the floor next to his leg. Having been numbed by his attitude up till
then, his order caused my dick to twitch for the first time since he arrived.
He stared at the TV absorbed in his dudgeon, without any attention to me. It
was as if he were alone. After a time, he sighed and pulled off his shoes and
socks. "What need have I of you if I must do these things myself."

Wha? Just ask, pal, I thought. Suddenly Manolo was treating me as if I were
some incompetent servant. This was going to take some getting used to. My
feelings were mixed: I was ticked off that he was still angry with me but I was
also anxious not to make him any more put off than he was.

"I'm sorry, Manolo," I said looking up at him. "If you want I'll be happy to do
that."

More angry silence. Another sigh, through his nose this time. A snort, really.

"Must I tell you to lick my feet?"

I got myself in front of him and got my tongue all over his sweaty feet.
Usually, I would lick his feet to wake him in the morning. But only if he was
lying on his back and I couldn't suck his asshole instead. It was rare for me
to love his feet in the afternoon. Usually, at this point, I'd have been under
him for a while, probably munching on hot shit, and fresh from that luscious
Rican chute.

I guess he hadn't washed for a day or two before coming up to New York. There
was jam between his toes. That was okay. I wanted anything I could get from my
young brown stud.

Later, just as he had the previous week, he shit in the toilet rather than my
mouth. Kneeling next to him, my eyes must have been full of question and
wonder. Was he going to use toilet paper again to wipe off? Temporarily he
softened toward me. "Si, my blondie, you can lick me clean," he said as he
stood up. My heart leapt and I dove for his crack rubbing my face all inside
his mucky crack. I alternated between the licking his hole and sucking on it in
the hope there might still be something more in his rectum. There was not. When
he was clean I pulled away, not wanting to aggravate him by overstaying in
those full, hard, hairy Rican buns. There I knelt with my already shit-stained
face awaiting his further instructions. Truly, he had awakened in me a hopeless
craving to suck ass, be a shit slave for him or, in fact, any young dark young
man. It was the last part that had him so pissed at me.

Manolo told me to scoop up his shit from the toilet bowl and follow him back to
the living room. He had me sit by the cold fireplace. He sat on the couch
facing me. He took out his fat, brown dick (which he had yet to stick in my
mouth that day) and began to whack.

"Go, Jimmy" he said. I pushed my face into the wet mush, sucking the soft bulk
down my throat until I hit something hard (a piece of potato, I was sure) which
I had to chew. I could imagine him sitting at the dinner table in P.R with
Cielita the night before and swallowing that piece of potato without chewing it
enough, not even thinking he was leaving something for me to do when he would
squeeze it out the other end. Gulping his food wasn't for my benefit, yet
sharing with him the digestion of this piece of potato that had come out his
ass, of completing in me what had begun in him, gave me a feeling of wholeness
with Manolo, of serenity, of gratitude to him.

Because his new "masterly" attitude toward me had me off guard, I hesitated to
whack my dick with the last of his shit without his permission. Besides, soon
it wasn't necessary. I came without touching my rock hard dick.

After he had come, he came to me to wipe off his hands on my hair. I opened my
mouth for his piss. In the past, the fact that he was pissing in my mouth or
having me suck shit out of ass was accompanied by his moans and passionate
shouts, a power surge to his ego that he was doing these things to another
human being. Today, he was cold. His uninterest made me feel as though I really
was just a toilet bowl for him.

He used my hair to wipe his pissy dick. After Manolo put away his salami, he
left the apartment, going where he didn't say. When he returned he wasn't
alone.

I lay on the living room floor while Manolo and his friends drank beer and
played cards in the kitchen. He told me to "just lay there" with my mouth open.
Ridiculous. My jaw would have gotten tired. I opened my mouth when I heard
someone coming. Apparently, I was to be the pisshole for all his buddies. Which
was fine with me. A different man every few minutes, some slender and young or
stocky or circumcised or uncircumcised, all good enough to worship. But all
they did was stand with their feet at either side of my head and piss their
delicious rain into my grateful mouth. Didn't anyone want his ass sucked; take
a nice brown dump in the white shiteater's faggot mouth? Sometimes the pisser
was Manolo but his manner was as detached as any of the others. This
indifference was starting to get a little old.

After I don't know how long, I heard one of the guys call: "Yimmy, come out
here."

I got up and went to the kitchen. For a moment I didn't even notice Manolo
sitting among the guys. In any event, it was one of his friends who made a
sweeping gesture toward the john. I went in. Wow! The pot had eight or nine of
these guys turds in it.

"We have a bet on you," the man said. "How fast it will take you to eat all the
shits we saved up for you."

There was a chorus of "Go, go, go!"

I braced my hands on the side of the bowl and heard a stopwatch click on as I
stuck my head in the bowl without further urging. I devoured the dumps as fast
as I could. I had been starving for shit. At first I could distinguish between
the tastes. Some shit was bitter, one tasted like bowel-aged beef, all the shit
was delicious to me because it came from virile men. As my stomach filled I
could not help slowing down. I heard someone urging me to "hurry, hurry" and at
last I had to use my hands to scoop up the remaining crap and push it into my
mouth. As I got the last of it down, the stopwatch clicked again. The timer
yelled the number of minutes in Spanish. There was a cry of anguish from one
who had obviously just missed the time. I looked at the assembled group. A
short, squat member of the group smilingly scooped up the money from the table
to a chorus of boos from his compadres. From Manolo's impassive expression I
couldn't tell whether he had had a bet down or not.

I didn't like the new Manolo. I didn't care whether I saw him again or not. The
last time I saw him was about a month later. For a few Saturdays, he hadn't
even shown up. When, finally, he did come by I told him I had company and that
I couldn't see him. He seemed almost indifferent, certainly not surprised or
angry. He said he would leave his bag with me while he went to see a girl he
knew about putting him up. (I wondered how poor Cielita was faring these days
back in Ponce?) I took in his bag but after he left, I put it outside the door
so he wouldn't have to knock when he came back.

When I went out later that day the bag was gone. I hadn't even heard him come
back.


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