Date: Tue, 22 Nov 2016 18:19:05 +0100
From: trevor_s@mail.com
Subject: Boymaid Chapter 1

	I'd never cleaned in the nude for this gentleman before. He was a
new client. After I arrived and undressed, and after he gave me the
once-over with his paw-like hands, he showed me his "honey-do" list. I was
amazed by its brevity:
	-dishes
	-vacuum
	-toilet
	Shit, I thought. I'll get these things done, give him his
complimentary blowjob and be out of here in an hour. (The normal deal was,
up to three hours cleaning in nude for $50, including one blowjob.
Additional services, such as giving massages, rimming, a second BJ or
bottoming for a guy, might double or even triple the rate.)
	As I washed his sinkful of dishes my client stood behind me
caressing and squeezing my ass, fingering my hole and reaching under and
fondling my little balls. I didn't mind. TouchingÑgroping evenÑwas
included in the price. Most of my clients were older, guys 50 and up, and
who in that category wouldn't want to put their hands on a college boy's
slender, hairless body? This guy was typical: middle-aged, big-bellied,
very hairy. He wore a pair of baggy shorts. Over the past couple of years
of doing this job, I'd come to appreciate men with big bellies. At first a
turn-off, I now enjoyed kissing their taut, encased fat on my way down to
pleasuring them with my mouth. It was the same with unclean penises. The
smell of stale urine used to make me gag. But now I enjoyed it, preferred
it even. Something about knowing I was experiencing not just the taste of
their sperm, but their pee as well. The full essence and outflow of their
penises, in other words. Or perhaps it was owing to all the toilets I'd
cleaned over the past two years, working for Boymaid. Stale piss and shit
smells no longer bothered me. They'd become as normal and natural to my
nostrils as the mildly scented women's deodorant I applied to my shaved
armpits every morning.
	The livingroom rug was nothing. I was done vacuuming it in, quite
literally, five minutes. My balls had finally relaxed and in their
distended state swung back and forth in opposite rhythm to the Hoover. My
balls may not be large but I'm blessed with low-hangers. My client sure got
a swaying eyeful. On to the toilet.
	I'd seen worse but not by much. As you entered the double-wide's
lone bathroom, the washstand was on your right, then the toilet then a
shower stall. The floor was tile. The toilet? Filthy. It looked like it
hadn't been cleaned in months. Even worse was the surrounding floor,
discolored by all the layer-upon-layer of pee stains. I got down on my
knees. I went to work.
	Surprisingly my client left me alone. I'd expected him to squeeze
my ass or reach underneath and fondle my balls againÉbut that would've
meant kneeling down at my level and perhaps that was too much for my obese
host. I heard a cellphone ring at one point followed by his deep, laconic
voice. It sounded like he was talking to a relative. His mother? Hey Mom!
Guess what I have in my bathroom right now? A naked boy scrubbing my
toilet!
	I was just finishing up when he made his return. I glanced around
and discovered he'd lost his shorts. He had huge balls but a smallish, limp
willy. Impotent? He was carrying his phone, but not for long. He set it
down on the side of the washstand.
	"It's looking pretty good," he said of his now-pristine toilet.
"But you've still got a lot of work to do."
	Work to do? Your toilet looks like it was just installed out the
box by an appliance store, I knelt there thinking. What work? Was he
referring to the blowjob I owed him? The hard work it would probably take
to get an erection out of that puny thing?
	He walked past me, to the far side of the toilet and set his
feet. Somewhat wide apart. He leaned forward slightly. I couldn't see his
front but it appeared, from behind his saggy ass, that his right hand had
taken hold of his cock. I heard the sound before I saw its cause: the
splatter of his urine stream on the stretch of tile floor in front of where
he stood, outside the shower stall. I knelt there in disbelief. The guy's
peeing on his own floor!
	"I been savin' this up all morning. I didn't even pee when I got up
this mornin'," he added, with a one-note laugh.
	And now I understood why he'd wanted me over so early this
morning. He was holding it in. His bladder was about to burst!
	He must've peed a half-gallon. No, literally. The arcing yellow
stream lasted a good 90 seconds before slowing to a dribble. Almost the
entirety of the floor forward of him was a shallow pool. Jesus! It was a
minor flood!
	I maintained my astonished kneel as he turned 180 degrees. I
watched a lone drop of residual urine fall from penis's tip. Had he been a
tad closer I might have caught its fall in my mouth. I've been peed on
before and I actually like the taste and smell of fresh piss. The guys
who'd peed on me had all been drinking beer. Light beer. I loved its pale
yellow color and mild, tangy taste. This guy's was a darker yellow and gave
off a stronger odor. Not unpleasant, just different. Like a strong ale
compared to a low-carb lager.
	My client, meanwhile, had bent over and put his paws on his chubby
knees. He made a faceÑgrimaced. After a grunt, he said, his voice having
risen an octave: "Now I got something else for you."
	Unlike him unexpectedly urinating on his own floor, this next phase
came as no surprise. Though I still watched in a state of disbelief as the
first giant turd departed his ass and splashed in the urine pool below.
Another slightly smaller one followed. Then another, a shit pile forming on
the wet floor. Looser stool followed. Then, after a final grunt, a lone
firm circular turd, or piece of turd, fell to the floor. My client rose
up. Yanked some toilet paper off the roll, wiped himself and tossed the
soiled wad behind him in the piss and shit mess.
	Forget the nuances of his urine smell. That was now overwhelmed by
the shit stench filling my nostrils. It was fetid but...all the same,
somewhat sweet-smelling. Almost a note of chocolate to it. Hershey's bars?
Is that why the guy was so big?
	My client had straightened. He was looking down at me now. Which
led me to look down at myself. I was getting an erection. He smiled.
	"You like piss and shit, huh? Watching a guy take a dump? I knew
it."
	I swallowed. I was speechless.
	He walked past me, washed his hands in the sink, dried them,
flipped on the exhaust fan and picked up his phone. I can only say in
retrospect that, amazingly enough, the thought of fleeing the bathroom,
pulling on my clothes and rushing out the door never
onceÑonceÑcrossed my mind. I would have been fully within my rights.
The deal, the gig was: housecleaning in the nude followed by a blowjob.
There was nothing in the unwritten contract about a Boymaid being required
to wade into a client's body waste and attempt to clean it up. But I
remained there in the stench, still on my knees.
	"It'sÉIt's OK," I finally stuttered. "I'll clean it up. I-I'll
just need more--"
	"Fuck yes you will. But before you clean it up you'll wallow in
it."
	Wallow? He was laughing, softly. "Like a pig in shit." He gestured
me forward. "Get to it, boy. Little pig. Go!"
	Something about his commanding toneÉbrought back to me memories
of all the dominant men I'd known in my life. As a teen and even as a
pre-teen. Military men. Officers. Men who relieved the stresses of war on
"sweet little boys." Men like my late dad and his Scotch-swilling
compatriots. And needless to say I was a sub. Who else, at age 18, would
take a job working for Max at Boymaid? Who but a sub is willing to be
groped in the nude, manhandled, made to clean house? Who but a sub
willingly drops to his knees to give blowjobs?
	"Yessir," I heard myself say.
	"On your belly first," he commanded.
       Slowly, hesitantly, I walked forward on my hands and knees. Soon
enough my hands were in the pee-pool, at its outer edge. The pile of shit
was just below my face, my nose, at this point. I crept further forward
into the shallow pool. Somewhat reluctantly, and again very slowly, I
lowered my body. And as chest met floor I felt my client's shit mash
outward under my weight. Once I was completely prone he said:
       "Move around in it. Swim in it."
       Swim? The pool was, like, an eighth of inch deep! Nevertheless my
body wagged and I made a kind of swimming motion.
       "Lick it. Lick the tile."
       My face was forward of his flattened shit. I licked his cooling
urine. Tasted it. Again, the odor, the flavor was stronger than any I'd
ever experienced. Heavy. A strong brew.
       "Now roll over," he commanded.
       And as I obeyed I took the opportunity to glance down at myself. My
hairless body. The dark brown smears and clots of shit on my chest and
belly. Some of it falling to my genitals and thighs as I rotated.
       "Lie on your back, piggy-boy. Wiggle in it."
       I wiggled. And as I did so he took pics of my piss-wet and
shit-smeared front. Either pics or video I couldn't tell.
       Video, I decided as, still holding his phone out at arm's reach, and
walking back a step, he said: "OK, get up now. Turn around. Slowly! A full
circle. Now step in it. My shit. I want to see it between your pretty
toes," he said, lowering his phone and presumably zooming in.
       It was true. I had pretty feet. Pretty feet and long, slender
legs. They were my best selling point. On the Boymaid website, that is. A
girly-boy from the waist down. If only I'd had tits! Even peaky little
A-cups like my mom!
       Now my client's shit oozed up between my toes. It was getting under
my painted nails. How would I ever get it out! It could take days, weeks!
       My client let out an unexpected gasp. His way of climaxing? He'd
lowered his phone, show apparently over. He said, bully-gesturing toward
the stall, "OK, clean yourself up good. I'll bring supplies. Then clean
this fucking mess up you made!"
       I made? It was his piss and shit! I was just theÉwilling victim
made to crawl into his open toilet! And wallow thereÉ
       Emerging from the shower meant, of course, wading back into the
shitstorm. Sleeved rolls of paper towels were piled in the bathroom
doorway. As was industrial cleaning solution and a jug of bleach. He'd also
lit a stick of incense, to mask the smell. Good luck.
       I used, fully, three rolls of paper towels mopping up the piss and
wiping up my client's shit smears. The worst part was the white grouting
between tiles. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Then resorted to bleach. The Clorox
made my eyes water and left me short of breath. Frankly I preferred the
smell and substance of shit fresh from a man's ass.
       I worked at it diligently until the bathroom floor was clean,
spotless and sanitized. It took me over an hour and by the time I was done,
and climbed back in the shower for another washing off, my poor knees were
red and raw. I invited my client in for an inspection but he seemed
disinterested. He was far more intent on showing me the video of myself
he'd uploaded to a website called, appropriately enough, "humantoilet."
       Christ, I thought. You can see my face! My slender body, front and
back, is smeared with human shit! I shuddered. I dressed. I left.

       This is how Max, of Boymaid fame, reacted to my call. Let me first
explain that we boys are required to call in and report as soon as our gig
is over. This is so Max can monitor time spent with clients and, more
importantly, confirm that his "boys" have emerged from their jobs safe and
sound. "There's a lot of crazies out there," as Max likes to say during the
vetting process.
       "WHAT?"
       I told him again. About my client's piss and shit.
       "Jesus fucking Christ! How much did you charge him?"
       "Um, wellÉ"
       This is how it worked with Boymaid. A prospective client called
in. Said he wanted a cleaning boy. Max took his credit card info and
debited for $50. That was Boymaid's cut. The rest was up to us. There were
guidelines, of course. As mentioned previously, an additional $50 bought
you up to three hours of cleaning by a nude boy, plus complimentary
blowjob.
       "Fifty," I finally allowed.
       "You shitting me?" Max exclaimed, no pun intended. "Fuck, dude, you
shoulda charged him a hundred-fifty. Easy. Hundred twentyfive anyway. Clean
up his shit? I'm red-flagging this dude right now. He ever calls back, I'm
charging him a hundred up front. YouÉ? Well, you or whoever can charge
what you want. But I'd charge his ass a hundred-fifty."
       "He won't pay it," I protested, feebly. My body still stank of human
shit. Didn't it? I showered once back in the dorm, using that rose-scented
body wash mom had sent me. But couldn't you still smell it on me? The shit?
"He lives in a double-wide."
       "I don't give a fuck if he lives in his car. We clean toilets at
Boymaid," my exasperated boss explained, "we don't wallow in `me!"
       Wallow? How the fuck did he know?
       My dormmate, and lover, Timmy, walked in just as my call to Max was
ending. He tossed his backpack into a cluttered chair. I was already
working for Boymaid when Timmy and I hooked up. Now he turned the
occasional trick as well.
       "How'd your gig go?" he wanted to know.
       I shrugged. Didn't let on. Explaining the whole thing to Max had
been torture enough. "OhÉthe usual."
       Timmy sniffed the air. Frowned.
       "You just take a shit?"