Date: Tue, 8 Dec 2015 18:11:58 -0500
From: Shelm Hayem <s.hayemere@gmail.com>
Subject: Grease Bin (Part 1)

GREASE BIN (1) by Shelm
s.hayemere@gmail.com
Boy, urination/scat, solo, pain/desperation

Work of fantasy. Don't encourage you repeat, though feedback is always
welcome. Young and old perverts should exchange stories and patronize the
hub!

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

X O X O

I noticed as a kid I felt safe in the warmth of old bathrooms. Unkept rest
stops and campgrounds were the best for me.

I'd hide in a stall, letting some clay mountain of human shit perfume my
body. The seat would be greasy, or sometimes carry hair.

I remember one time. It felt slick under my little legs, which I had to
spread real wide. There was no water and hardly any paper. Piss pot to the
side, its own jug.

I felt so strangely attracted to it, the mass beneath me. I wanted it back
inside me. I wanted to touch it. That heap was a gift I was left to play
with. I wondered how it'd feel slipping between my fingers and stuck to the
inside of my legs.

It was quiet outside. I thought I was in the clear.

Hands on either wall, the dank rushed up through my legs like hands on my
skin when I steeped into the shit hole. I kept my knees hooked over the
seat, pushing hard on my asshole while it hovered down into the chamber.

At first, it was hard. Solid, I felt the tip of the scat heap poke me
directly in my shitter. Whorish little shivers started rolling through
me. I was nine. Wild kid.

My toes curled. I slipped in more. It cracked and opened fresh moisture
under me. New levels of odor started filling my pores. I felt claimed by an
absent crowd of men who didn't care I was frolicking in their shit like
some prepubescent dog.

Then I fell. Really fell.

I'd still pay to see another dumb 12-year-old get curious and stick himself
in a dry toilet. Seriously. What a stupid fucker.

My knees hit my chin. I bit my tongue. Was there blood? I couldn't get
up. My shoulders immediately ached and the walls were out of reach. There
was no cistern on the toilet, which extended high off the ground.

In the middle of Maine Depot Trails, there I squirmed, cupped like an egg
in old feces. Breathing got harder. The smell of crap turned acidic in my
tight chest.

I was so fucking hard.

Every time I tried to lunge out, my cock would grind on the wet, resinous
inner wall of the bowl. It didn't take long before I was light headed. I
could feel the filth making new skin on my back. The way it curved toward
you at the bottom had me facing up.

Little edges started cutting my shoulders, tickling my spine. Working in
the blackness. Painting me down.

My grainy seat was cushioned below the ass with that sticky mound. Did they
change it, or just leave it to soil?

My breathing had become nothing more than little heaves and slutty
yelps. Part of me was excited. Part of me feared suffocation. I smeared
through the fine grind in ecstasy, all of a sudden feeling close to orgasm.

My throat was swelling. A hard knot crawled up from my gut to my chest. I
was actually choking. That little pucker pushed and pushed on its smelly
seat. I came like the damaged goods I was. The knot in my throat undid
itself, two thick strands of spit escaping me.

I felt sweaty. A little colder.

Then I heard clapping.

"What a fucking mess."

I couldn't see any eyes below the stall. Then I heard him again,

"Look up, you fucking faggot."