Amish Aunt & Twin Nieces Turn Nephew Into Their Scat Toilet Slave

The summer heat sat on the Miller farm like a wet wool blanket. Corn stood tall and whispering. The outhouse behind the barn smelled of lime and older things. Eli had been sent from the neighboring district to help his aunt through harvest. He was twenty-one, broad in the shoulders from barn work, still wearing the plain black trousers and suspenders of a baptized man. He did not yet know what the women of this house had decided he was for.

Aunt Flo met him at the pump. She was a widow, thick-hipped, her prayer covering slightly askew from the humidity. Beside her stood the twins—Emma and Fannie—identical except Emma’s mouth was quicker to smirk and Fannie’s eyes stayed lower, watching. Both twenty. Both already looking at Eli the way a body looks at a bench it intends to sit on.

“You will sleep in the lean-to off the kitchen,” Flo said. “Nights are short. Days are long. You will do as you are told.”

He nodded. That was the Amish way.

The first evening they fed him at the long table. After the silent prayer Flo set a tin cup in front of him that was not water. Warm. Salty. He froze.

“Drink,” Emma said softly. “It is from us. All of it.”

Fannie’s cheeks were pink. She had already hiked her skirt in the pantry and squatted over the cup while her sister held it. Eli’s throat worked. He drank because three pairs of eyes were on him and because some buried part of him had already stiffened in his trousers. The taste was sharp, intimate, unmistakably woman. He swallowed until the cup was empty. Flo nodded once, as if a calf had taken its first bottle.

That night they began his training.

They took him to the wash house. No lamps. Only moonlight through the high window. Flo unfastened his trousers with the same calm she used to unhitch a horse. Emma and Fannie stripped to their shifts, then pulled those off too. Bare feet on worn boards. The smell of their bodies—sweat, cunny, the day’s work—filled the small room.

“On your back,” Flo said.

Eli lay down. The twins straddled his chest first, one after the other, smearing their wet slits across his mouth and nose so he had to breathe them. Emma ground down harder. “Lick. Proper. We are not shy girls in the singing.”

He licked. Fannie followed, quieter, but she held his hair and used his tongue like a rag. When they were slick enough they moved. Flo sat on his face last. She was heavier, her ass spreading warm and damp over his mouth and eyes. She pissed without warning—a sudden hot flood that filled his mouth and ran into his ears. He choked, swallowed, sputtered. Flo did not lift. “Hold it. That is your water now.”

He held what he could. The rest soaked the floorboards and his hair.

They kept him there until his jaw ached. Then Emma squatted over his chest and pushed. The first log was firm, dark, still warm from her. It landed on his sternum with a soft weight. Fannie added hers beside it, softer, smearing as she bore down. Flo watched, one hand between her own legs.

“This is how a nephew earns his keep on this farm,” Flo said. “You will eat what we give you. You will wear what we leave. You will thank us.”

Eli’s cock stood rigid against his belly, leaking. Shame burned hotter than the heat. He opened his mouth when Emma scooped a portion with two fingers and fed him. Bitter, earthy, unmistakably hers. He swallowed because they told him to and because his body had already decided it wanted more. Fannie fed him next, slower, watching his throat work. Flo saved the last for his tongue directly, smearing, making him clean her fingers after.

They left him on the floor with their mess cooling on his skin and the taste thick in his mouth. “Sleep,” Flo said. “Tomorrow you work the fields. Tomorrow night you serve again.”

He worked. He served.

By the third night the lean-to had a bucket and a folded quilt that smelled of them. They no longer bothered with pretense of reluctance on their side. Eli’s reluctance had become something else—tight, trembling, dripping. When Fannie sat on his face in the barn loft at noon, skirts hiked, he drank her piss greedily while flies buzzed and the horses stamped below. Emma stood watch, then took her turn, grinding until she came on his tongue and immediately pushed a small, hot load onto his chest for later.

They began using him as furniture.

Flo would call him into the kitchen while she peeled potatoes. He knelt. She lifted her skirt, sat on his face, and conducted household talk with the twins while she pissed in slow pulses he had to swallow. Sometimes she shat while still talking—small, controlled drops he was required to catch and consume before they hit the floor. Emma laughed once and said it looked like communion. Flo did not laugh. She just pressed down harder.

The twins invented games. They tied his wrists to the bedposts with clothesline and took turns facesitting until his nose was mashed and his tongue raw. They fed him from their asses in the field behind the corn, making him crawl after them on all fours, mouth open, while they walked ahead and dropped for him like animals. Summer sweat mixed with everything. The smell clung to his beard, his clothes, the inside of his nostrils. He stopped noticing the ordinary farm smells. He only noticed them.

One Sunday after service they kept him home. Flo said he was fevered. The twins undressed him completely and oiled his hole with lard. Emma fucked him first with two fingers while Fannie sat on his face and shat a long, soft coil across his lips and chin. He came untouched, twitching, while they praised him in the same voices they used for a well-broken horse. Flo took him last, sitting her full weight on his chest, reaching back to guide his cock into her cunt while she used his mouth as her toilet. She came with a low grunt and left him glazed.

They started leaving marks that were not bruises. A smear behind his ear. A smear inside his collar. They made him walk into town for nails with their taste still in his throat. No one in the district knew. The secret lived in the heat and the outhouse and the way the three women looked at him when the men were in the fields.

By the second week Eli no longer waited to be told. When he heard the back door, he went to his knees. When Emma snapped her fingers he opened his mouth. When Fannie needed to go he presented his face or his chest or the bowl they had given him to carry. Flo trained him to hold their piss in his mouth until she nodded, then swallow on command. She trained him to thank each of them by name after every feeding.

“Thank you, Aunt Flo.” “Thank you, Emma.” “Thank you, Fannie.”

His voice stayed quiet. His cock stayed hard.

They used him together more often. Two asses on him at once—one on his mouth, one on his cock, the third directing. They smeared him like a canvas and made him lick himself clean afterward. They made him eat from the floor when they missed. They made him sleep with a plug of their combined mess in his mouth some nights so he would wake already tasting them.

The farm kept producing. Corn. Hay. Milk. And Eli, on his back or his knees, receiving what the women of the house no longer bothered to take to the outhouse.

Late August the twins woke him before dawn. They were naked under their aprons. Flo was already sitting in the kitchen chair with her skirt up. Eli crawled the ten feet and put his mouth where it belonged. Flo pissed a long morning stream. He drank. Emma squatted beside the chair and added hers into the same mouth. Fannie waited her turn, stroking his hair like he was a good animal.

When they were empty they fed him the rest—warm, soft, plentiful from the night’s supper. He ate until his belly felt heavy. They kissed his filthy mouth after, one by one, and told him he was theirs for the season and after if he proved useful.

Eli swallowed the last of it, rested his forehead against Flo’s thigh, and said the only words left that mattered on that farm.

“Yes, Aunt. Yes, cousins. I am yours.”

They kept him.

Summer lasted as long as they wanted it to.