****** Scuz Scene by Yellow Dog ******
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Scuz Scene


The guy was named Bruno, if you can believe that. I met him at the Cauldron a
number of times, and never without, at least once during the evening, finding
myself on my knees before him, gasping and choking at the immense quantities of
piss he could unleash. Sometimes casual, as if he didn't care where it landed:
throat, face, hair, clothes, wherever. Or else intense, watching me swallow,
forcing the spurting cock deeper and deeper into my throat, daring me to choke
or gag. Sometimes friendly, like he expected to switch off afterwards (and we
sometimes did). Sometimes commanding and humiliating, whipping it out under the
bright lights, with a crowd around, and watching coolly as I sunk to my knees
to worship and accept his urine. Sometimes he would get to me soon after I
arrived, still dry and sober: he would spray just a splash on the front of my
fly, and then soaking the front on my levis, then opening them to soak the
jockstrap beneath.

Since the Cauldron closed, I had seen him a couple of times at a bar, but never
spoke to him. But this time we were at the Eagle, it was a Sunday beer bust, I
had had several, and I was quite uninhibited. I forget my opening gambit, but I
was soon complaining about how the S & M scene had "dried up". He said he knew
what I meant, and before too much more conversation had gone on, he had me
backed up against a wall, and was looking intently into my face as he
clandestinely transferred the head of his cock from inside his pants to inside
mine.

The knowledge that I could not make any move that might call attention to us
(and get us 86'ed) deeply intensified the feeling of his warm piss soaking my
crotch and both legs of my jeans, eventually puddling in my tall boots. I don't
like to imagine what the guys must have thought of me, tagging after this hunky
man with my jeans suspiciously bluer than when I came in. Well, who cares. He
eventually left with me, didn't he?

We walked to his flat in the Mission district, stopping once in an alley for
him to relieve himself in me. I had to piss too, and I told him so. He told me
to whip it out, and I did. As I began gushing, he leaned down and took an
enormous mouthful out of the stream. He swallowed it, almost ritualistically,
then he took another. Then, simultaneously, he clamped his lips on mine,
releasing the hot piss to flow down my own throat, and stuffed my pissing prick
back into my damp bluejeans. He was halfway down the block before I was fit to
leave the alley.

When we got to his place, we went straight to the basement, which was pretty
funky, and then to a small toilet room in the back of the basement, which was
REALLY funky!

He asked me if I was into a heavy trip, and I started babbling about Yessir,
and how could I serve my master, and how I was his slave and his worshipper and
how he could use me as a fuckhole, and a punching bag, as a toilet...

He stopped me there. He had me strip, and stripped himself, completely naked as
I had never, oddly, seen him before. His body was perfectly proportioned, and
his chest wide and hairy. I nuzzled up to him, licking under his armpits and
nicking at his tits with my teeth.

He started talking softly to me, about me being his toilet, his ass-licking
slave, his shiteater. I kept mumbling assent, while sucking on his big thick
cock. He said he hadn't had a good toilet slave for a while, and he had really
been aching for a good hot tongue up his ass while he dumped a load. He told me
that every day for a week now he had been coming down here to jerk himself off
while he took a shit, and fantasize as he beat off about some guy down there
under him while he took it. My tongue was stretching under his balls now, tying
to reach his ass between his legs. He asked me if I believed him, and I grunted
yessir, as I moved around to swallow his cock again. He said he was going to
prove it to me anyway, and slowly lifted the toilet seat lid. I think I nearly
fainted from the smell, but I stayed where I was. He was staring down at my
face, and I was staring past him into the bowl, where incontrovertable proof of
at last half a dozen shit&beat-off sessions was moldering. Perhaps the thought
occurred to me that this guy might be really loony, having planned a scene like
this all week like that. Still, I went along with his craziness.

I kept up the rhythm on his cock, I was his slave, he was my master, that was
my master's shit, I was to worship my master, I was to obey my master, I was to
serve my master, I was to smell my master's shit. He gently pushed my head
toward the bowl, asking me what I could smell, petting me for responding that
it was my master's shit that I was smelling.

He gave me permission to touch it, to put my hand into the master's former
toilet, which was permitted only because I was now the master's toilet. He
instructed me step by step, half-commanding, half-inviting me to lift out a
piece of my master's shit, to feel it, to squeeze it, to play with it, and
eventually, to beat off with it.

Mesmerized, I obeyed, and found myself holding the soft mass up against my
cock, and gently, then firmly, sliding it along its length, rubbing it over the
surface, smearing it over my balls, fucking that day-old shit with all my
concentration.

I drove him crazy. He was beating himself off like a lunatic, watching me
degrade myself with his excrement. Suddenly he stopped himself, as if too close
to coming, and told me to relax. I let my hand dangle at my side, afraid to
touch anything else. He bent towards me, telling me what a good toilet slave I
was, how disgustingly perverted and sick I was, and so on. I said nothing this
whole time except yessir. Even when he asked me if I was ready for it.

He turned slowly, and I found myself leaning back, shifting my weight to offer
my face at a more convenient angle for his ass. The asshole was puckered and
distended slightly, and as I watched it opened further, and the tip of my
master's turd appeared. I waited for his instructions, and he did not forget
them.

I was ordered to touch it with my tongue, to admire the taste of it, to lick it
gently, to use my tongue all around it. A piece perhaps half an inch long fell
off, into my mouth. He breathed a yeah-sigh, and asked me if I had taken it. I
replied clumsily, my mouth trying not to touch it as I spoke. He asked me
again, forcing me to speak, my teeth and tongue working on the small shitpiece,
making it fall apart in my mouth, filling my mouth with the bitter, pungent,
sickly sweetness.

As if a kindness to his toilet, he turned just long enough to fill my mouth
with his piss. Still I waited for his command, until I was truly grateful to be
permitted to swallow.

He turned back again, and there were no more long delays. His ass pressed back,
the back of my head was against the wall, my tongue eased into the opening
hole, and a cigar-length torpedo of shit oozed out, sliding the length of my
tongue and, even before I could think of gagging on it, down my throat. I was a
real toilet now, and we both knew it. He was still talking, still beating off,
still describing without shame the exact duties expected of his shit-eating
slave. I continued to listen, to respond, to beat off.

He moved away and stood opposite me. With the hand that wasn't on his cock, he
reached into the toilet bowl. I stayed there on my knees, and closed my eyes as
he began to splash the filthy water onto me. Again and again he dipped and
splashed the stinking liquid down my chest. Dribbles of cum and pieces of shit
covered me from hair to crotch. He ordered me to get lower, and soon I was on
my back, legs up against the opposite wall, head directly against the bowl. His
hand swept up the fetid mixture of old piss and shit, over the edge of the
bowl, pouring down like a sewer outfall onto my upturned face. His harsh voice
ordered me again and again to open my mouth wider, to swallow, to accept. My
mind a brown and yellow fog, I obeyed.

When the level in the bowl was too low for further splashing, he stood erect
again. I wiped an arm across my face and opened my eyes, to see him towering
over me, whipping his cock and grinning in evil pleasure.

He lifted a bare foot, stained and dripping, to my face. I licked the sole of
it obediently. With the toes he forced my mouth open wider, and I ran my tongue
between the toes. Incredibly, the smell and taste of his foot was still
perceivable through the stench all around us. Slowly he lowered the foot beside
my head, and crouched backwards over the toilet, his cock dangling over the
bowl, his ass, of course, over my face.

A final enormous turd emerged, slowly, dangling ominously and then finally
dropping, with a sick plopping sound, into my gaping mouth. I filled my mouth,
bunching up at the back of my tongue, bulging my cheeks and waving a full inch
beyond my lips, under my panting nose.

He stood again, and gazed down at his toilet slave in utter rapture, his hand a
blur on his cock, vague gutterul utterances spraying with his spittle. I knew
he was going to cum, and his timing matched mine to the instant. The arch of
his cum rained onto my face, his body twitching and spasming, his breath
heaving, his whole body emptying itself. At exactly the same time, my own
violent orgasm spurted and curved upward, some landing on my own face, and some
even reaching into the toilet itself.

He left the bathroom almost immediately, and I was grateful to be left alone to
restore a bit of my sanity, and incidentally to make some attempt to remind my
mouth that it was a mouth, not an asshole. It was some time before it entirely
remembered. But by that time I had left his flat, with vague promises to see
him at the Eagle the following week.

I didn't see him there then, of course the man was an utter lunatic, and I was
not merely criminally foolish but quite self-destructively insane for
participating in this wild fantasy scene. Of course I didn't meet him there the
following week. But perhaps I will next week.