Jim and I grew up together. We’d been friends since elementary school. My mother started looking after him over lunch hour and after school until his mother got home from work, and that closeness stuck. We played outside, hung out, spent nights at each other’s houses on weekends. By the time we finished high school we still got along easily, even if our interests had diverged—he was deep into sports, I was more focused on classes.
After graduation we both got into the same college. Roomsharing made sense. We already knew each other’s habits and didn’t want to risk a random roommate situation. I had my own private reasons for wanting the arrangement. I was gay, and I’d been attracted to Jim for a long time. I liked the solid, confident way he carried himself, the way his body filled out from years of athletics, the way his jeans sat on him. Once we were living together as adults I finally had daily access to the things that had only been fantasies before.
Jim played football and baseball. He left sweaty practice gear, jockstraps, socks, and underwear in a pile. When he was out I would take them, press them to my face, breathe in the sharp smell of sweat and crotch, and jerk off. Sometimes after he’d used the bathroom I would go in right after him. The air would still be thick and rank. I’d kneel by the toilet, inhale, and stroke myself, imagining him still sitting there. On a few occasions there were drops of piss on the seat. I licked them clean while I came on the floor. I never found an unflushed load, but the idea of it stayed in my head constantly.
We were both nineteen that first semester. Jim started falling behind in English. He cared more about practice and games than essays. One evening, two weeks before the end of the term, he came into our room looking desperate.
“I need your help,” he said. “I’m going to fail that English course. If I do, I’m off the football team next semester.”
I offered to proofread whatever he’d written. He admitted he hadn’t even started the required reading, let alone the paper that was due the next day.
He looked at me for a long moment, then said quietly, “I know about you.”
My stomach dropped.
“I know what you do when I’m not here. I’ve seen you with my clothes. The jocks, the underwear. I’ve watched you go into the bathroom after me and stay in there. I know you’ve been doing it since we moved in.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I figured it out pretty fast,” he continued. “You’re gay, you’re into me, and you’re into the smell of me—sweat, piss, shit, all of it. I didn’t know how to handle it at first. I’m not into guys. But… it turned me on knowing how obsessed you are. It’s flattering in a fucked-up way.”
Silence hung between us.
“So here’s the deal,” Jim said. “Write the paper for me. In return I’ll give you what you’ve been jerking off about. I’ll piss in your mouth. I’ll sit on your face. I’ll shit on you or in your mouth if that’s what you want.”
I stared at him. My cock was already hard.
He stood up, stepped in front of me, and turned so his ass was in my face. The jeans were tight. He pushed out a long, loud fart. The smell hit me immediately. He reached back, put a hand on my head, and pulled my face against him. I didn’t resist. I breathed it in while my cock strained in my pants. He undid his belt, shoved his jeans and underwear down, and bent over. I pressed my nose into the crack of his ass just as another fart forced its way out. The stench was thick and hot. I dropped to my knees, pushed my tongue against his hole, and tasted sweat and the faint bitterness of shit. I pulled my own cock out and stroked it hard.
He turned around. His cock hung in front of my face. He nodded. I took it into my mouth. Soft skin, the taste of skin and residual piss. He told me he was going to piss and then let it go. Hot streams filled my mouth. I swallowed every drop while he watched. When the last spurts finished, his cock started to harden. I sucked it properly, letting him fuck my throat until it was fully stiff.
He pushed me onto my back on the floor, stripped the rest of our clothes off, and knelt between my legs. “You ever been fucked?”
I shook my head. He spit into his hand a few times, slicked his cock, and pressed the head against my hole. It burned. I tried to open up. He kept steady pressure until the head popped inside. The stretch was intense. He waited a few seconds, then pushed deeper in one long thrust until he was buried. I groaned. He started fucking me in steady strokes. After a few minutes the pain shifted into something that felt good. I pushed back to meet him. He fucked me for a long time, talking dirty the whole way—“tight fucking hole,” “taking my cock”—until he pulled out.
He straddled my chest and pushed the head of his cock against my lips. There was brown smear on it. “Clean it,” he said. I opened and let him push into my mouth. I tasted my own ass and the residue of his. When he was satisfied he moved farther up and sat on my face. His hole was wet. He told me to open my mouth and pushed out another fart directly onto my tongue. The taste was sharp and filthy.
“You still writing that paper?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He stood up, smiling. I asked about the shit. He sat back in the chair, feet on the coffee table, and told me to beg for it. I crawled across the floor on my face the way he ordered, knelt, looked up, and asked properly—calling him sir, begging him to use my mouth as his toilet for as long as we lived together, promising to do any other homework he needed. He made me repeat it until he was satisfied.
Then he told me to lie on my back. He squatted over my face. I wrapped my lips around his hole and stroked my cock while he grunted and pushed. A thick, solid log forced past my lips, scraping my teeth. The taste was heavy and bitter and exactly what I had wanted for months. I chewed and swallowed as more came. When he finished he made me lick him clean. He sat back on my chest, jerked off, and came across my face while I shot all over my own stomach and his back.
He stood up, looked down at the mess on me, and said, “Clean yourself up.” Then he went to shower.
I lay there with his shit and cum on my face, already thinking about the rest of the semester—and the years after that—knowing I was his toilet now, and that I would stay that way for as long as he wanted.
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