****** A Plumber's Tale by Dirt Pig ******
===============================================================================

A Plumber's Tale


My father was a plumber, so after years of searching for an appropriate way to
occupy my time, it seemed only right for a toilet pig in his mid-twenties to
spend a year as a plumber's apprentice. Being a good Italian boy from Brooklyn,
with a heavy borough accent, it made it easy to fit in with the other guys at
the training classes, then to get a job with a local Italian man in my
neighborhood in Jackson Heights -- the kind of guy who would only hire another
young Italian stud to follow in his footsteps. Imagine what this 50 year old
wop Daddy would have thought if he'd known I spent half of my "internship"
staring at the top of his hairy butt crack as it hung out of his pants rather
than concentrating on my fitting and welding!

My training and apprenticeship went by quickly enough, and at twenty-eight I
decided to set out in business on my own as a fully-licensed plumber. Of
course, I had decided to specialize in bathroom plumbing and spent an
unrequired number of hours in setting myself up with the appropriate uniforms,
ads, "display room", "tools" and van.

My van was a brown Ford (of course), with a big white logo of an open-seated
toilet captioned by the words, "Tony's Toilet Service" emblazoned across the
side. Naturally I featured my phone number in large block letters, and the
slogan "No Job Too Dirty" in italicized type beneath the bowl! My uniform was a
pair of brown overalls, with my name stitched in red on one pocket and the van
logo repeated on the back, but with a new copy line, "a clean bowl is my goal."

I used my union advantages as a toilet and sewer specialist to sign up for a
number of trade magazines which would tantalize the most creative pigs, and
created a "showroom" in the basement of a small warehouse storage/office space
I took in Long Island City, consisting of various unplumbed johns, antique
bathtubs, urinals and even a small model septic tank, giving each its own
environment, ranging from gleaming white tile to an abandoned shack motif.

My two uniforms just aged gracefully, never getting washed and becoming stiff
and stinking with months and months of aged grime and stains from my dripping
crotch and an old brown and yellow rag sewn on the back right hand pocket.

I really enjoyed my work, and often wondered how many other big smelly studs
who spent their days cleaning out clogged toilet pipes were into the stink and
crud as much as I was. Living the lifestyle was a lot of fun, once you realized
that people accepted what you were as a legit job and actually expected you to
be a dirty guy. I made my way across Queens and the Island, pulling my brown
van into diner parking lots and sitting in a booth with a yellow hanky tied at
the belt loop of my greasy brown coveralls, strolling through the supermarket
in shit-stained work boots, and parking my van in front of the Ramrod on a
summer Sunday afternoon to cruise the dirty stud meat available on the steaming
sidewalk. I established a pretty good business my first year, but left myself
plenty of free time to sleaze around or just good off. I enjoyed getting out of
the house and having my "home away from home," the street level, glass-walled
office space with adjoining basement toilet "showroom" just a ten minute drive
away.

A few months after going into "business" as a professional pig, I started
running blatant ads in Drummer, the NY Native and a couple of underground
raunch rags (including "The List," of course!). I ran a shot of me next to my
toilet van, looking pretty fucked up with a big gold toilet seat medallion on a
chain around my neck and, if you looked real close, a big shit stain running
across my cheek ending in a thick gob spread on my bushy moustache. I installed
a separate set of phones for the calls from the gay magazine ads, and had some
pretty hot experiences within my first few months.

One April morning, real early, my "hotline" rang. I was still languishing in
bed, and when I answered I got a deep bass workman's voice on the other end.

"Tony's Toilet Service. This is Tony," I answered in my typically anticipatory
voice.

"Yeah? Well my fuckin' john's been clogged all week long and the fuckin'
plunger won't unclog it. I've gotta take another fuckin' dump, but the thing's
so stinkin' full my balls hang in the piss as it is. One big log of mine would
put it right over the fuckin' top and all over the floor, " the voice boomed.

"Sounds like you need a pro to clean that toilet," I responded, thinking that
the flood would be pretty fun to clean, and maybe I shouldn't be in a hurry.

"Well, this stinkin' bowl will sure be a fuckin' challenge -- so when do I get
my toilet service?" he demanded.

"I can make it around 10 this morning, if that's okay?"

"Well, it's up to you, pig, but if that slop runs down the sides and all over
the floor, that's part of the job, too," he literally demanded.

I got his address, an apartment building in Middle Village, out towards the
Island. The thought had gotten me real hot, and I stroked my greasy shaft as I
wandered through my own apartment, making coffee, whiffing my ripe pits and
trying to recall the last time I'd showered -- last month sometime??? I
suddenly realized that he had called me "pig" in the middle of the
conversation. This was beginning to sound real promising...

About thirty minutes later, I was sitting on my shit-filled john reading a
catalogue of plumbing fitting and finishing my second cup of coffee when the
phone rang again. Of course I'd installed one right against the wall next to
the john, so it only got to ring once before I answered.

"You're too fuckin' late, pig," the voice boomed out. "I finished my coffee and
took a leak and the fuckin' thing sopped over the edge. Even a couple of big
logs floated over and now they're laid out all over the fuckin' raunchy floor!"

"Shit, man, I'm sorry. I'll get my ass over right away and get you all cleaned
up," I instantly volunteered, my ten inch soft Italian meat pole hardening half
its length and the had sticking into the slimy broth that filled my bowl and
stunk up my apartment.

"Fuckin' right, pig, and I haven't even dropped this morning's load yet -- get
yer ass over here now." The phone line went dead in my hand.

I threw on my greasy brown overalls, hopped in my van and made it to Middle
Village in record time. I parked my van outside his apartment building and
walked into the vestibule. B-1 said "Mahoney," so I rang the bell. The voice
from the phone came back at me, "Who the fuck is it?" to which I responded
"Toilet Service, sir." The deep voice rang out in the stone vestibule,
"downstairs" as the door was buzzed open.

B-1 appeared to be the only apartment on the basement level. I rapped on the
door and it opened to reveal a real husky dark haired Irish daddy type, big
hairy belly and massive fat pecs almost fully exposed in an aged flannel
bathrobe. A walrus moustache framed by bushy sideburns dressed a masculine face
in its late forties that hadn't seen a razor this week. He eyed me up and down
and motioned me inside, closing and double bolting the door behind me.

On the way past, he held out his hand and said, "I'm Tom," then belched deep in
his throat and laughed. He looked at my hand and its shit stained fingers and
clogged fingernails, sniffing a big load of snot back into his throat. Picking
up an ashtray off the hallway table, he spit a huge phlegm ball into the
crumbled cigar stub sitting in the small bowl. I was staring at the bowl as he
set it back on the table and offered me a beer, showing me the empty Budweiser
can in his hand.

When he came back from the kitchen with the beer I had deposited my tool bag in
the corner, unbuttoned my coveralls down to my navel to expose my thick body
fur and was staring at the ashtray, my mouth parted slightly.

"hot in here, isn't it, pig?" he asked rhetorically and peeled the bathrobe
off, following my line of sight down to the pool of liquid snot and decaying
cigar butt in the ashtray. I turned to him, staring down across his thick brown
fur covered meat pecs, across the hair coated expanse of beer belly to a pair
of jockey shorts stuffed full of fat Irish sausage. The pouch was not only
yellow, but soaking wet.

He reached down the front of his shorts with one beefy paw and squeezed the
semi-stiff salami steak, then picking up the ashtray, he turned his back to me
and walked off down the hallway. As he turned, I was greeted by a large, hard
bubble butt -- the guy's build was like a massive Irish linebacker. I followed
him into the small living room, where the curtains were drawn and the floor
strewn with magazines and papers.

He hefted himself down into the one big armchair and set the ashtray on the
ottoman in front of him, then picked up his massive calves and planted his feet
on either side of the ashtray, the dirty brown crack of his jockeys hanging out
over the edge of his chair.

"You can just sit there," he ordered, pointing to a spot on the floor directly
between his ass and the ottoman. I scrunched down into the space until I was
three-quarters laying on the floor with my face at ashtray and foot level.

To my left, his toes were caked in rich gobs of green toejam, while to my right
hung the huge piss soaked basket and a clear glimpse of heavily caked crack
cloth.

"So, pig," he began, rubbing one hand across his hairy gut, "You clean toilets
for a living, huh? You clean people's shit up, huh? You'll even clean = my
slimy fuckin' cigar butt coated in a big louie, right???"

At this point I was drooling down into my goatee, and only managed a deep pig
grunt before he nudged the ashtray towards my pouting lips. One fat, hairy toe
stuck over the edge of the shiny plate of scum as I bent my head to suck the
wad of greenish phlegm. My teeth and lips reached out to chomp onto the soaked
cigar butt as I ran my tongue back and forth across the bottom of the ashtray.
I realized I was sniffling, "snuffling" actually, and that Tom had lifted the
ashtray in one hand to up-end it in the air where I could give it a spit shine
rim job.

"Shit, you disgusting pig, you'll fucking clean anything won't you, boy? Well,
I feel another that morning load working its way down my fat dump chute and you
can just come along for the fucking ride -- and for the fucking cleanup, too,
just like I called you for." He rubbed both hands across his belly, pulled a
half-smoked cigar butt from a tin can on the end table by his armchair, fired
up the charred end and clenched it between his teeth. Tom's back arched up and
a loud, dripping fart resounded from the stinking wet cleavage before just
inches from my spittle-soaked face. The powerful haunches came lifted with the
ringing gas load and came back down hard against the floor as he lifted his
thick torso from the suck seat and plodded off across the room.

As I followed him down the long dark hallway of his basement scum flat, I could
hear him muttering to himself, "Fucking pig, just pick up the fucking phone and
he comes to clean your goddamn toilet, fucking wants to suck up any fucking
dirt you got, no matter how fucking gross and greasy it is -- shit, what a
fucking toilet hole."

I watched those massive butt cheeks round a far corner, the wet seat sagging
down between thickly hair-coated bull thighs. I stopped and took a long hit
from my popper charger hanging about my neck -- good thing I'd loaded it up
fresh from the box in the van!

I rounded the corner to another short hallway at the end of which was a nearly-
closed door with dim light shining through. Here was this stinking raunch
Daddy's toilet room, I thought. You could smell the shit as if it were a wet
pile lying on the hallway floor beneath my feet. I pushed the door slightly, my
dick hard and straining and dripping against the pantleg of my brown coveralls.
It was a very big room, tiled floor to ceiling in dingy white tiles common to
New York apartment buildings built in the 40's. On the wall near the door was a
laundry sink, three feet square and easily as deep; from my quick glance, I saw
that it was filled with dirty laundry, but no liquids. Filling the center of
the room was an old footed bathtub, raised up about a foot on concrete blocks
with a shower head mounted on the wall but the drain apparently dumping
straight out in the air beneath the cast iron bottom. The tub was positioned
perpendicular to the wall with still another three or four feet to pass beyond
its end into the far end of the room. The entire space was lit by a basement
window of frosted, grease caked glass about 6 feet off the floor. The daylight
glowed faintly through and reflected off the grimy white walls, giving the
entire stinkpot room an eerie glow.

At the far end, across from the tub, was a flushometer john -- just a bowl, no
seat (I often met big-assed guys who got rid of their seats and enjoyed the
feeling of putting their feeder butts directly on the porcelain bowl) and a
water intake pipe running from the wall, run by pressure in the building's
water system, not by a gravity tank -- pretty standard stuff. What wasn't
standard was the thick brown soup that filled the bowl to the brim and cascaded
down the sides, or the thick piles of crap that had dried on the floor amidst
small pools of liquid toilet slop, like something washed up on the beach as the
tide receded. The walls around the john, like the floor, were speckled in globs
of dried shit and the stains of brown liquid that must have been thrown, or
powerfully farted, to hit at those particular angles. Next to the john was what
appeared to be a dried dish towel that had served as Tom's toilet paper for the
past god knows how many months.

About three feet away from the john were two chairs: one a classic rim seat on
industrial 3/4" pipe legs fitted with rubber stoppers on the bottom, and the
remnants of a steel-framed beach chair, made to sit directly on the ground with
a low supporting back of heavy canvas that appeared to have been soaked in much
the same liquid as was overflowing from this heavily raunched out toilet bowl.
Next to the chair was a small plunger, much to small for the john by my trained
eye. I certainly had an idea was that was for and was looking forward to seeing
my Irish plumbing fanatic put the tools of his trade to good use.

Tom had peeled off the wet size 44 jockeys I had seen from such a close and
odorous view and had them hanging by a finger as he sat upon the rim stool. He
stared at the filthy john, not acknowledging my presence, but just shaking his
head back and forth.

"What a fucking godawful mess...I mean, I like it fucking dirty like this, but
when a man can't even take a shit in his own toilet without it getting all over
his feet, what the fuck do you do?"

With that he wandered over to the john and sat down backwards, his face against
the wall where he leaned forward onto the intake piping as if it was a bar rail
and hung his massive, hairy butt cheeks out over the bowl. His crack spread
wide, showing a deep crevice and a fat puckered hole just inches above the
flooding brown waters. He pulled his feet up under the front of the bowl,
tucking them together almost directly beneath where his butt hung over the turd
soup.

"Aw, Christ," he yelled, putting his head down on his arms as his hole
stretched open and another long powerful fart blew into the water, splashing
thick toilet juices over the front lip and down upon his calves and ankles. The
slow juicy rip of a massive shit log blew out of his hole as it opened wide to
deliver a truly meaty 8" log that was a good five inches in diameter. The
horrendous log of crud caused a small tidal wave in the bowl, slopping cups of
thick wet crud soup over the front edge and down onto his feet and into a big
puddle on the floor.

"Now, toilet boy, that's just what I called you for," he said quietly in the
foul smelling toilet room, not turning to look at me. "To clean my toilet mess,
to clean up my fucking Irish daddy toilet crud food. That's what you advertise
for, pig. I seen your ad up close, saw that shit stain on your face, knew you
had your fucking pig dog face down in some pile of stud shit. Yeah, boy, let me
feel your tongue down there doing its fucking dirty work, let me hear you slurp
that shit soup right off the fucking dirty floor, pig whore."

The whole time I'd been snorting my popper charger deeply, pulling my pole from
the last button in my coveralls and creeping slowly on my knees towards this
stud master's fat and now dripping serving hole. My face went to the floor,
where my tongue lapped noisily at the ripe, steaming pool dropped from the bowl
of my morning toilet master. The consistency was thick like applesauce, like a
big wet load of fresh diarrhea, mixed with strings of hardened shit and soft
pools that seemed like very well aged piss water. A good-sized hunk of shit log
had fallen in the torrent; not the one freshly dropped from his hole, but an
older piece that had soaked and bloated in the dank and dark of this stud's
basement playroom.

"Up hear, pig, give some service to this fucking crack hole of mine," he
bellowed. My face instantly slid up the wet front of the bowl, tracing the
curve of the porcelain throne I worshiped, my eyes peeking above the line to a
lake of pure sewage presided over by Mahoney's big round hairy hole. He set his
feet flat on the floor and pushed up on his haunches slightly, presenting his
big Irish feeder tube for my mouth to work over. I licked around the protruding
lips and dug deeply into the firm butt hole, relishing the taste of his fresh
log still clinging in the hairs and from the gaping slit of his chute. My teeth
scraped down each fat, bloated butt lip, then I sucked the swollen lips deep
into my mouth and shoved them up between my lips and gums, opening the hole
wide for my tongue to wash the sides of his voracious feeding hole. Thick wet
slicks of creamy shit containing small lumps coated the sides of his hole and
butt lips as my tongue dug through the stinking sludge and my throat worked in
an endless vacuum cycle to swallow the thick crud dripping down my tongue and
sliding past my tonsils.

"Get my crotch clean, toilet pig," he yelled, as I dug my tongue and
hardworking lips deeper into the crevice as it hung suspended over the sea of
liquid man crud. I had almost reached his balls when he suddenly sat down hard,
shoving my gasping, wide open cleaner mouth deep into the liquid turd soup he'd
been serving up in this bowl for months on end. I gasped more in shock than in
displeasure and was treated to a mouth and throat full of some of the truly
ripest aged slime I'd had in many years. I could hear him laughing as he stood
up over me and stepped away from the unflushed indoor self-made sewer to take a
seat in the broken down beach chair facing me.

"Keep cleaning, boy, but not in the bowl. Get that rim clean, use your teeth to
pry those lumps off and spit shine the whole fucking seat I set my asshole down
on. You can just think about what a good service you're fuckin' providin' me
with, cleanin' up my stud shit cause I don't clean it myself, you know. Yeah,
you can tell, can't you, and you like it that way boy. Yup, a real toilet man
like me needs a good toilet service -- that's you, pig hole."

As my face slid back down the bowl, cleaning the thick slicks of wet and dried
shit scum from the side, digging the clods of Irish stud crud from around the
bolts and in the crack by the floor, Mahoney stuck three fingers in my wet butt
crack and began fucking my ass. My face was on the floor now, and I was loving
every second of it, cleaning year's of dried piss and some nearly
unidentifiable crud that lay in thickly spread piles to one side of the john,
covered in layers of crisp dried pubic hairs and mounding up to over an inch in
height in some spots.

"You're doin' pretty damn good, suck pig. Last pig didn't get that far...fact,
that's his fuckin' puke you're workin' on now, toilet -- nope, don't fuckin'
slow down, yeah, that's it, that's a good pig boy, daddy's good pig, keep
suckin' that scum down, fucking toilet pig, eat that two year old puke scum up,
boy."

I gagged briefly as the crusty chunks hit my taste buds, then picked my head up
for a second and dove face first into the brimming toilet bowl, gulping down
several cups of the thick rancid broth of piss, shit and diarrhea filling the
foul porcelain altar at which I worshipped this stud's stench. To me, the
bowl's contents were like cold mountain water, quenching my dried mouth,
rinsing away a momentary sharp taste and filling me with a sense of warmth as I
gulped nearly a gallon of his putrid brine kept rotting in this basement toilet
room for just such a pig as myself.

I lifted my head from the trough and turned to see my scum master Tom resting
back in the decrepit beach chair, holding up one hand with three fingers coated
in my own dripping butt slosh, his fat hairy pecs rolling down onto his
powerful beer gut, his muscular thighs spread wide across his bull balls and
fat, skin headed Mick meat and feet out to either side, just dripping the fresh
and rancid scum dropped from his feeder hole and personal sewer john during his
earlier log dump. As I stared down at the ripe coating of putrid, runny crud on
his hairy, stout workman's feet, he flexed his toes, allowing big globs of the
goo to run in and mix with the remaining thick chunks of toejam, a sight that
made me drool in my wretched pig heat.

"Down on those feet, boy, and get cleaning. Yeah, pig, ain't just my toilet
you're cleaning now, it's all the shit gettin' dirty cause you didn't get in
here and clean my crud this morning when I first called. Yup, shoulda been over
here round 6 am in them dirty work clothes a yours for when I take my mornin'
dump. Oughta keep a pig like you on a service contract, like that, yeah, kid,
service contract to keep my fuckin' toilet cleaned out, even get you to keep my
fuckin' hairy butt crack cleaned out. Maybe even get you to stuff my goddamn
filthy laundry in that laundry hole mouth a yours and watch it go round and
round till all the piss and shits cleaned out of em."

All the time, I'm bent double with Tom's greasy toes in my mouth, working each
toe over and rimming my tongue back and forth between each one, licking from
the heel to the ball joint, lifting fresh slicks of wet shit juice, chewing on
small clumps of damp, sharp tasting toejam and whacking my dripping Italian boy
pole with my fist.

Tom had lit another cigar stub from a collection in an old metal ashtray on the
floor beside his chair. With the fat dark stogie clenched between his teeth, he
leaned forward and stuck two stubby fingers in my nose, rising from his chair
and pulling me with him to my feet.

"Get your pig ass in the tub, boy. Yeah, on your knees, pig, we're gonna talk
about this service contract a little more. Think we'll check out all your
toilet services and see what you can do; then when we're done today, I'll sit
down and write somethin' up with a list of cleaning I need done regularly and
we'll put a schedule together. Odd hours, and shit, you know, but before you
get your butt outta here we'll have you sign it all legal like so I can post it
on my refrigerator and know when to expect my toilet service to come over here
and clean me up."

He hauled me by my nose into the tub, where I dropped to my knees. From beneath
the tub, Tom pulled out a long length of lightweight rope and strung it from
hooks across the room so it hung about a foot above my head by the tub.

"We'll just see now how you do on the laundry side, pig. I haven't had no
fuckin' time to do any laundry for fuckin' months, so not only are my t-shirts
all fuckin' sweaty and stinkin', I ain't had clean shorts since, god, I dunno,
last fall sometime I guess."

He strolled to the laundry sink by the door and picked through the pile of
filthy, off-white underwear I'd seen briefly on my way in, returning with a
couple of pairs of jockeys and a handful of clothespins.

"Yup, no time to do the fuckin' dirty laundry, and my shorts do get filthy -
- ya know, this big old hole of mine just drips most of the fuckin' time, ain't
sure why, but I'm always scratchin' at my ass and gettin' these wet thick
stains -- only usually change my shorts when the crust's so thick it itches to
scratch my hole through 'em, or if I dump a load cause I've been fartin', which
I do a lot cause of all the Mexican shit I eat. An then, couple a months ago,
maybe six or seven, I just ran outta 'clean' shorts, so I hadda figure out
which ones had less crust than the others, ya know, but now they're all so damn
crusty, guess it's time to get em cleaned out."

Looking down at me he laughed heartily, scratching his swinging uncut meat, and
finished hanging the three pairs of completely brown stained and droopy seated
drawers directly above my head, so I could just reach up with my mouth and get
the sagging, loaded butt crack of each pair between my teeth. I started chewing
slowly while Tom watched me from the tub's edge and egged me on with specific
instructions in my cleaning.

"That's right pig, just crunch that load up first, these gotta be good and
clean and they won't get that way unless you break them big clods of turd up
first. Chew those lumps up, get that crotch fabric all wet. That's good pig,
just get it all liquid then you just suck the liquid out. Look's a little dry,
boy, huh, need a little wet stuff in it?," he asked, knowing what was coming
next.

He unclipped one pair of jockeys and, turning, dunked them in the ripe broth
that filled his stinking toilet bowl. Returning them to the laundry line, the
seat now sagged heavily, thick brown ropes of rancid shit slime running
straight down from several small holes in the seat. Instantly I opened my mouth
wide, positioning my face directly beneath the dripping crotch cloth and began
sucking and swallowing the thick gruel that ran from these grossly loaded
jockeys. Pushing my mouth higher, I grasped the entire wet load between my
teeth and began sucking with my entire mouth, feeling a thick and semi-solid
lump caught between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

"Oops, pig," Tom chucked, " looks like maybe it wasn't all wet what I got in
there, huh? Can't help it though, cause there's plenty of rotten old logs
broken up and floatin' in that bowl, and that was just a small piece of one,
not like some of them foot longs I drop in there most of the time!"

I chomped harder, breaking up the firm shit meat then suctioning it through the
tiny, dripping holes in the seat of this workman's shorts, thinking how hot
this was that this Irish shit master only owned three pairs of filthy shit
caked jockeys and how he got off on getting a pig to clean 'em out. Boy, would
I like to have run into him out on the street in these things one day!

My laundry service continued for nearly half an hour, with Tom soaking each
pair of shorts down, in one case literally packing the seat with a semi-solid
block of shit clay from the bottom of his toilet bowl, then watching me
voraciously sop up every spec of dirt, grime, piss, shit and unknown other man
filth from the heavily decayed cloth.

"Now, boy, that's pretty fuckin' clean laundry service, but I've still got one
piece of laundry you gotta clean before you get my regular business. You do
want to be my fuckin' toilet laundry on a regular basis, doncha pig?"

I could only moan and continue sucking at the putrid cotton fabric filling my
mouth, sticking my tongue out to clean the lumps of crud and public hair that
clung around my lips.

"Get on your fuckin' back under the tub, pig," he demanded suddenly. Again, his
fingers hooked my nose and literally dragged me over the side of the tub and
onto the tile floor. His spit-cleaned feet pushed me roughly under the
suspended porcelain till my face was peering through the somewhat enlarged
drain opening a few inches above my head. A few minutes later, I saw Tom peer
down into the hole, as he began talking to me:

"Ya see, toilet, I think all this paper to wipe yer ass is just a big waste a
money. Ever since I was about twenty and got my own place I've been using old
dishrags for the job. Never runs out, just gotta find a dry spot to wipe with
then I drop it right here on the floor and its there for my next ass wipe.
Betcha think this is some fuckin' tasty lookin', doncha pig?" he asked, holding
the scum caked dishtowel up to the drain hole for my inspection. Slowly it
began entering the hole as Tom continued to describe this further piece of foul
laundry degradation he was putting me through: "Yup, pig, I use this thing on
my butt hole to wipe it after I dump, no matter if its a nice clean log or if
its a big wet load of my diarrhea, which I got half the time. Those loads are
real sloppy, which is why the fuckin' things more soaked then just coated. Of
course, I use it to wipe up some of the scum round here if it gets lookin' too
green or if I see it startin' to move or somethin! Yup, just blow my nose in
it, too. Fuck! last week when I'd had to much whiskey I fuckin' tossed a load
in it, held it right up to my face and barfed a fuckin' ton right into it like
an old hobo bag full of beef stew. You already ate the part that fell on the
fuckin floor, but you ain't eatin' the part that stuck in here with the other
moldy slime I wipe in it -- oughta be real tasty. Is it tasty boy?"

By this time nearly half the towel was in my mouth, going round and round just
like a washing machine, my teeth chomping, my tongue swirling and my mouth
putting out all the saliva it could manage. I couldn't see through the hole
anymore, and I closed my eyes to enjoy the wretched flavors of grime, puke and
dried butt shit that filled my face as the byproduct slime ran in one
continuous stream down my gulping throat.

"Shit, pig, you left my tub all coated in this slimy butt drippings from the
laundry. Better drain this thing off a little."

Next thing I knew small waves of thick, wet liquid shit and piss water were
slopping into the hole around the dishrag, running off into my chomping toilet
mouth, liquifying all the crud on the towel and making a dank, rich stew in my
open hole face.

The towel was slowly pulled up and as the light appeared through the drain I
saw face peering down at me, watching with perverse delight as I choked and
gagged on the grody mixture I had created in the service of his laundry.

"Wash a little more down pig," he said consolingly, using his hands to sop more
of the liquid scum from the tub down into the drain. "That's good, real good
laundry service. Yup, I'll have to get that done probably twice a month, I'd
guess, maybe more when I've got the heavy, lumpy runs like I did last weekend."

"Now, we've just gotta make sure the big ones are no problem for ya, then I
think we can put you down under my hole for some cleaning while I write up the
details on that contract for you to sign."

I wretched two or three times, filling my mouth with regurgitated stud rot,
then swallowing again in a vain attempt to clean some part of the heavy load
from my hardworking toilet hole. Tom had disappeared for a few minutes, but my
attention suddenly returned to the drain opening as I heard a loud 'smack"
followed by three more, and my eyes caught brown streaks of crud flying across
the opening to the hole.

"You know, pig, that ain't my toilet anymore, I guess, guess what's right under
this drain hole's my toilet now and that thing filled with my shit scum is just
a holding tank for you, just your fuckin' feeding bowl. Yup, guess I'll put a
sign up saying its 'Tony's Feeding Bowl' so me and my friends who use this room
remember that this ain't the toilet, its just the way station to the toilet.
Now I've picked some of my prime logs outta that feeding bowl of yours over
there, least I think most of them are mine, though they could belong to a
couple of the guys who was here on Sunday for the game. Here's one that looks
like it soaked up a fuckofalot of water in it, see, and got all blown up like a
big dead fish or somethin'."

Across the edge of the drain hole slid the tip of a mammoth log, big around as
a salami, and all coated in a white slime with big off white chunks sticking
out all around the edge. The end was nearly flat, not clipped off out of a
tight butt hole, but torn from the weight of falling on its own -- the whole
piece must have originally been tremendous. Tom, who'd gotten in the tub along
with his playthings, watched closely at the hole as I stuck out my tongue in
anticipation of the feeding, and continued talking me through the log's descent
into the drain and straight into my groping mouth. The stench was intense, and
small ropes of liquid scum preceded the log into the hole as it tilted on edge
and began sliding straight toward my outstretched tongue. I felt it hit my
tongue just as my lips reached out to grasp the edges, and the whole hefty turd
meat stood up on end and began sliding into my throat.

"That's really a fuckin' toilet, boy, flushin' that log right down the hole.
You're just like the fuckin' ad says, you lowlife guinea shit pig. Fuckin' call
you and you come over to eat my logs, huh? Yeah, just fuckin' get you on the
phone and you're over here suckin' out my nose, beggin' with your tongue at my
butt crack for some long wet lumpy load of my stud shit. Betcha your good at a
party, toilet, eatin down big fuckin' bowls of crud from me and my stinkin'
buddies. Look at that fuckin' log going right down the toilet, right down the
fuckin putrid scum eating toilet bowl."

As I chomped and gagged, eating huge hunks of the log in single bites, Tom slid
the next one over the edge, even wider than the first and looking like it
barely held together it was so soft and creamy.

"Yeah, this one's mine, pig, I remember this log, just like a fuckin' beer can
its so goddamn big. Whatsa matter pig, can't get the whole thing in your face?
Let me help you eat that daddy shit meat you sick pig." And then the infamous
plunger appeared several inches above the drain hole, suspended right behind
the five pound log of brown butt hole crud filling most of my view. Through my
bleary eyes, I could see the plunger begin pushing against the log, felt the
pressure in the back of my mouth as the log began to disintegrate under the
force, saw the plunger come down further, the shit now conforming to the shape
of the small rubber cup as I felt the log smash against my teeth and run over
in one thick creamy coating surrounding my entire mouth, caking my lips and
oozing off into the stiff black hairs of my toilet face goatee. The plunger
shoved down hard, packing every crevice of my feeding mouth with rich, thick,
water-bloated and diarrhea slicked turd meat. I could feel it squishing between
my teeth as one solid slick moved into my throat.

"Pack the john, pack the fuckin' toilet, yeah man, whatta boy, whatta fuckin'
sick little guinea pig. Eat my shit meat, man, service my fuckin logs of daddy
grunge you pathetic little hole, boy. Yeah, gonna dump my fuckin' load for you,
dump my fuckin' load then let you suck it off the fuckin' tub bottom. Yeah,
pig, eat that load then you can go bobbin' for more, pig. Yeah, yeah, callin'
my buddy Jim this afternoon and gettin' his loaded butt hole over here so we
can feed you by hand outta his bucket a shit in the back a his truck. Yeah,
take you out in the fuckin' woods and watch you eat animal shit off the ground,
pig, take you down in the subway tracks and let you eat old logs from the
fuckin' bums, man. Yeah, yeah, pig, eat that fuckin' scum for daddy, be daddy's
toilet pig, be daddy's toilet."

The plunger pounded rapidly against my face, packing the remaining hunks of wet
log from the tub into my mouth. I heard Tom screaming and whacking his long
greasy hog as I gagged and blew shit vomit back through the drain hole, my own
rod involuntarily dumping its pent up load across the bottom of the cast-iron
feeding tub.

...to be continued...

End of story -- Dirt Pig never finished it!

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
You may also want to visit:
    * Erotic_Top_100_Story_Sites
    * Sexy_Top_100_Stories