Skinboi Training . Stage 2 /
Part 1
To be a skinhead slave is to submit to the worse indignations for one’s Master’s glory. This lesson was driven down every time Brian had a pair of brown boots locked on his feet. In the beginning, during the first cycle of six days, Brian had not done anything really repulsive. To lick somebody’s ass, especially that shaved-head cop clad in head-to-toe black leather, provides an immense pleasure for both the cop and his prisoner. The cop is hot because a tongue is trying to fuck his ass. He has just forced his prisoner to lick the horse manure off his boots. He has just cropped the prisoner’s back close to two hundred times to get there. Whipping some slave flesh always turns a skinhead Master on. The cop is a skinhead Master; he is turned on.
Brian is the skinhead Master’s slave. He is the leather-bound cop’s prisoner. That cop who, having just finished zapping him with at least thirty electric shocks to make him lick the shitty soles of his boots, began to whip his back with his riding crop. Not really hard, but the leather loop that has been hammering his shoulder blades for close to an hour distracts him from his task. Brian has a hard time renewing his reserve of saliva to be able to wash his Master’s boot soles. Indeed, Brian thinks he has found a trick: to avoid having that despicable taste of shit in his mouth, he drowns everything he finds on the sole with so much saliva that everything washes off into his goatee, then he only has to dry it up with his hairs. His lips are probably somewhat brown, but he doesn’t care. He’s doing what his Master asked him to do.
The leather cop is no dummy. With his legs spread, his heels up on the arms of his chair, he can exactly ascertain the way Brian works. He can see he does not even bother to stick his tongue inside the lugs of his soles. He can see that his Adam’s apple never moves: Brian refuses to swallow. For all these faults, Brian will soon pay, but not right away. For now, the cop is going to make Brian lose his nerve. He’s going to crop him and prevent him from switching to his other boot for two or three hours. His saliva should have run out by then.
What to do? Brian has just switched boots, and his mouth is really dry. He’d like his Master to piss down his throat, but the bastard has given it all to another skin who was walking by. The same skin who’s now licking the shaft of his right boot while Brian must start on the left sole. His tongue is so tired, he can hardly move it anymore. “That’ll serve him right!” Brian thinks. “I’m even not gonna have the strength to lick his ass with all that stuff.” The skinhead cop does definitely not care for Brian’s attitude. He signals two of his buddies who immediately put Brian on his back on the floor. One of them sits down and puts his boot on Brian’s neck. As for the cop, he pushes his boot sole against Brian’s nose. The slave, if he wants to lick his Master’s boot, must force his head backwards and crush his Adam’s apple under the other skin’s boot, which prevents him from using his saliva glands to create enough drool.
Little by little, Brian begins to detect the taste of the excrement. He begins to cough, but he’s not sure whether it’s a reflex due to the bitter taste of manure or to the saliva that drips down his throat. As soon as he began coughing, the third skin put his boot on Brian’s crotch and started to rub it. These perverts want Brian to shoot while he eats shit. Or is it that they want Brian to shoot while he licks boots? The slave doesn’t know anymore. Before long, he’ll do his best to scrub the deep sole lugs with his tongue. And when he’s finished, he’ll finally be allowed to lick the cop’s dirty ass, his Master’s dirty ass.
In any case, after this introduction to his training, Brian had to serve as toilet paper for a week. He no longer had to lick shitty boots. He had even been tied to some sort of gurney that was located in the bathroom. There, the scent of his superiors’ shit filled his nostrils around the clock. The rubber half-hood made him blind (he was not ready yet to see what would happen to him during his later brown phases), but did nothing to mask the rich and surprisingly varied smells.
Inside his rubber bag, he felt his body steeple in its own piss and its own shit, but there was nothing he could do. He had been pushed inside a hole in the wall, and only his head and chest stuck out. The skinheads shit in their toilets and then sat on Brian to be wiped. Sometimes, they sat on his chest and pulled Brian’s head with their boots so that he could reach their moist pucker. Most of them, however, were happy snapping their fingers for Brian to open his mouth and then “park” their asshole right in the center of the opening. Brian preferred this position because he didn’t need to push his tongue so far out, but he had noticed that those who did that were always the ones who had a lot of shit to clean up.
When the Master just had to let go of two little dry turds, Brian began to appreciate his work because he worshipped his Master’s pink flesh. He had the honor of touching his Master’s male body in its most intimate recess. His dick would always try to get hard under the thick rubber cover at those times.
Unfortunately, with most of his “users,” Brian had to actively scrape and swallow the nauseating sticky stuff. The taste was as varied as its smell, but ultimately, Brian was repulsed by what he was doing. His trick of using a lot of saliva worked better there because he had time to replenish his reserves between holes, but even a mouthful of saliva was not sufficient to drown out all the flavors. The first time the slave’s tongue painted his Master’s ass hairs to pull out a shit nugget, he didn’t have the reflex to clean his tongue as he went. He could have scraped it under his teeth to remove the brown paste that was accumulating, but he didn’t. The whole ten minutes or so it took him to clean his first “sticky user,” Brian, the toilet-paper slave, had irreversibly covered his tongue under a brown film that had set. The to-and-fro’s of his pink muscle between his Master’s ass and his own mouth must be rapid if Brian doesn’t want his tits to be savagely pinched. The Masters demand this because they like to feel a tongue flicker across their pucker. The also do it because they know that out in the air, the shit that is incrusted in the slave’s tongue will dry out, and it will be impossible for him to be completely rid of the taste. By the end of his six days, Brian will have grown accustomed to the taste of remnants of shit.
SKINBOI TRAINING. Stage 2 / Part 2
It’s only during his second cycle, the one with the ten-day boots, that Brian was accustomed to tasting shit in large quantities. Brian was once more equipped with a rubber hood, but the face had been cut out. The rubber layer around his neck was thick to simulate a collar, but the rest of the rubber, underneath his cheeks, over his skull and forehead, over his ears, was thin. The two skin Masters had not only padlocked the brown ten-hole boots to Brian’s feet, but they had also chained them to his balls to prevent him from standing straight. The ring that pulled on his balls was also an attachment point for the chain that came down from his handcuffs and went back up his ass crack.
The Masters put a large metal collar on Brian’s neck and used the huge chain that was hanging from it as a leash to take him along. Duck-walking, Brian went through many corridors and climbed many stairwells before getting where the skinheads were taking him–the stables.
Brian suddenly felt nauseous because he refused to believe that his cruel Masters would force him to eat horse shit. Licking it off a leather cop’s boots had been horrible enough. For sure, they wouldn’t force him to go any farther.
It turned out that such was not the skinheads’ intention. One of them disappeared for a while and came back with some sort of rubber tube with a strap in his hand. He pushed the tube inside Brian’s mouth and used the strap to tie it around his head like a gag. In fact, there were several straps, and Brian’s head was squeezed with rubber over his lips, around his nose, around his forehead, below the chin, and even on either side of his eyes in less than a minute. Next, the two skinhead Masters each took one of his arms under the pit, picked Brian up, and dropped him inside a small square tube that had been tiled, then they padlocked his chain leash to an enormous ring in the wall before closing the container with a grate.
Brian wasn’t too comfortable, but he could sit down, raise his hands up his back if his arms were cramping, and unfold a bit his legs in the same case. The only problem that Brian had was that horrible taste that began to fill his mouth. Brian recognized it from his previous brown cycle: the taste of his superiors’ shit. The gag was in fact a condom where holes of about a fifth of an inch had been punched out and that had been stuffed with fresh shit almost to the point of ripping.
What genius! What dilemma! The condom had been stuffed to such a point that it entered Brian’s throat, and he had trouble breathing. He had to shrink the size of the condom at any cost. He tried to bite it, but the rubber was harder than the one used for condoms. The tube did not break, but fresh shit began to flow into Brian’s mouth through the holes. It was as though Brian had just had a big spoon of disgusting spaghettis, but he wasn’t able to spit them out. His natural reflex allowed him to disgorge the condom, but now his mouth was full, and his saliva glands began to flow, dragging the skinhead Masters’ fresh shit into Brian’s stomach. Whether he liked it or not, Brian had literally become a shit eater for his superiors.
The condom was replaced about every other hour. In between, riders or stable boys would shit through the grate and Brian was quickly covered in shit from head to toes. In the beginning, it bothered Brian. The turds rolled down his body and generally piled up between his legs, but they left tracks all over the place. A particularly sticky turd had landed right on his nose and for the past hour, Brian had tried to shake his head to make the little shitty stalactite hanging and tickling fall off. If he had been able to, he would have blown on it, but the gag was waterproof.
Eventually, Brian acquired a new pair of “ear pendants,” a layer of “mascara,” and even a “wig.” And quite obviously, as soon as he decided to lie down on his side to be able to sleep, half of Brian’s body was submerged in the shit that had rained on him up to now.
The worst humiliation was when, because the stable boys had noticed that Brian shivered from the cold at night (the tiled tank was lit in permanence), they brought over two or three mounts to “tuck in” the slave with a very special blanket. Poor Brian didn’t realize what was happening and, in his sleep, he seemed to appreciate the sudden warmth that showered his body. The smell didn’t bother him much anymore, but it was the ensuing rain of horse piss that woke him up. Brian tried in vain to get out of the way, but the tank was too small.
Making the best of Brian’s waking, the stable boys replaced his gag with one they had prepared with their own gifts. Because it was the last “refreshment” for the evening, they unscrewed the lid over the gag by a few turns. This meant that Brian could not really spit the shit out, but, as soon as he was through swallowing what was in his mouth, he would be able to breathe in fresh air through his mouth in case his nose should clog up during the night. When he resumed his position, lying on his side, Brian had already automatically begun to suckle on the shitty cock in his mouth. With his cheek, he pushed some shit against the wall to make as big a pile as he could and use it as a pillow. Just before he entered a peaceful sleep, he noticed that the horses’ piss had not pooled at the bottom of the tank. At least, he wouldn’t drown!
Needless to say that in ten days, Brian had more than one opportunity to eat shit! Because of his gag reflex, it kept oozing into his throat, and he practically kept swallowing for sixteen or seventeen hours a day. The tank was cleaned up every other day, but for Brian the smell remained because it came from within him. Brian stank like shit even if he was clean. His body smelled like shit for others, and his mouth smelled like shit for himself. The cleaning was just a way to make him realize he was now worst than a toilet. He was a sewer. He was covered and filled with shit that had been passed a long time before, second-hand shit, horse shit, dog and pig shit, shit from anything that happened to pass through the stables. The shit used to stuff his gags was older and older. Sometimes, the turds were completely dried up and the end of the condom scratched and irritated his throat. In these cases, Brian had to salivate and wet the turd so that it could flow through the holes in the gag and settle deep down in Brian’s stomach.
And to reinforce the idea that this slave was used as a sewer, the skinhead Masters sometimes washed their motorcycles near his grate and let the soapy water run over him. Or else, they poured their used oil. Very often, Brian was forced to keep his eyes closed for a whole day because some awful liquid had poured onto his face and he wasn’t able to wipe it off. Fortunately, there was a clean up every other day!
It’s almost with joy that Brian began his third brown cycle.
After having been used as a sewer for ten days, two weeks serving as a
toilet would be comfortable in comparison. Already, it began on a
better note. He didn’t have his boots chained up to his balls as he had
in that fucking tank. He was inside a rubber sleep sack like the first
time around and spread out on a stretcher. The only difference was
that he wore no hood this time.
In the bathroom, he was not pushed through a hole in the wall. Instead, he was placed with his head against the wall beneath a toilet seat, and his dick and balls were pulled out of the sleep sack. The sensation Brian felt next was unlike anything he had felt before: one of the Masters pushed a catheter up his cock and inflated a small balloon inside his bladder to prevent the tube from getting back out. Then, the end of the tube that jutted about eight inches was inserted inside his rubber sleep sack. As soon as the Master released the valve, his piss began to flow over Brian’s legs. The bag was waterproof this time around, so Brian would be forced to float in his shit and piss.
No sooner was the setup complete that one of the skinhead Masters took his place on the throne. Brian’s mouth automatically opened to lick the Master’s pucker hole, and he couldn’t help but quickly notice that, since the seat was set rather low, the Master’s ass completely sealed his opening, and Brian could only move his tongue over and around the pucker but couldn’t lick the Master’s ass cheeks or crack.
Suddenly and without warning, Brian’s mouth was completely filled with an enormous turd pushed out like a cannonball. His cheeks bulged out, his tongue was crushed, the entrance to his trachea was threatened by the disgusting hard stinking mass. Brian was unable to suck on the shit; he was unable to shovel it with his tongue and bring it little by little down his esophagus. He only had one option: to chew it.
Should Brian ever write his memoirs as a skinhead slave in training, he would have to recognize this instant when a slave digs his teeth into a big lump of Master shit undeniably as the most difficult moment in a shiteater’s life. Immediately, he felt like puking, but the contact of his lips with his Master’s ass reminded him that it was not an option. So he tried to chew, slowly, little by little. He tried to keep his tongue flat, as far as possible from the load of shit in his mouth, but the first time around this is impossible because the load is too big. He must contract his cheeks to produce some a bit of saliva. The saliva will allow the shit to slide down to his stomach. But even this is impossible. As soon as he moves his cheeks to produce some saliva, the slave feels like the enormous lump of hard shit is about to plug his trachea, about to block his breathing. He’s on the verge of panic. The slave bites faster and faster into the turd, and it works. Some of the shit slips between his teeth and his lips. There is no more space inside his mouth. The saliva finally starts to flow, and the first turd ball his swallowed. Little by little, it may take half an hour the first time. But it’s also the last time it takes this long. The Master’s boot heel crushes the catheterized dick. . . hard. The slave opens his mouth to scream; the Master fills it with a second cannonball. The boot heel kicks his dick more and more frequently. In fifteen minutes, the turd has been swallowed. A need to puke fills the slave, but he must resist. If he pukes, he will puke up his Master’s ass and will get it all back at once anyway.
This will happen to Brian. It has happened to every skinhead slave. They take a taste of a particularly evil dump, a diarrhea maybe, and they can’t control themselves. They vomit, but the acid liquid penetrates the intestine that has been pouring shit down his mouth. The Master screams as the acid burns his bowels. The boot kicks to the slave’s balls and cock multiply. There are even a few electric shocks to the cock so hard that the slave shits himself too. He closes his lips to get closer to the asshole and begins to suck. Quickly. He must swallow his puke and the liquefied shit that is still waiting inside the Master’s intestines. Such is the fate of a skinhead’s toilet.
For his last cycle, Brian’s function will be similar, but he will be used as a portable toilet. Indeed, his Masters tie him to a frame where he rests on his back with his legs up and tied together foot sole to foot sole to make a sort of seatback. His torso and arms are brought up on either side of his head to hold it up; they’ll be used as the seat. Brian is wrapped in duct tape without a safety layer of plastic wrap that would have kept the tape from sticking to his hairs. After all, he was shaved from head to toes, so this shouldn’t be a worry.
Carefully, his body is covered from head to toes with silver tape except for a round opening that leaves his face accessible: his mouth because he’ll need to open it for any “customer,” his eyes because those using him will want to read the disgust on his face, if they bother to look that is. Very often, his Masters will come in with newspaper in hand or a portable game and won’t pay any more attention to Brian than they would to a bidet.
Once Brian is immobilized, a black rubber-covered slave comes to sit on his belly, facing his feet. His Masters tear a hole in the tape between Brian’s legs and thread a tube that goes into the rubber slave’s mouth on one end and to a funnel on the other. This slave will be a urinal, and his back will be used as the seatback for those who need Brian, the commode. The rubber slave is tied to Brian and decorated with duct tape, so that the two of them look like some sort of modern design in black and silver. Finally, one of the slaves that the skinheads have trained as a dog is tethered to the frame; his job will be to drag the portable john toward whoever whistles for it. He’ll also lick the boots of the guy on the shitter if he wants to. The three skins will be inseparable for the next twenty days, but it’s Brian who will fare the worst.
The gargantuan quantities of shit that he’ll have to swallow and that will accumulate under his ass, under his back, and between his legs, will be the only food he’ll have for the whole time. Even if he was not already used to the taste of his Masters’ shit, he would eventually have to give in or starve. He really doesn’t have much choice. A ring-gag is sometimes pushed between his teeth to keep his mouth open, but it’s not to force him to eat since he’s already accepted his job. It’s rather to “expedite” the process: in the mornings, skinheads are always in a hurry and must use Brian as fast as they can, so they void their bowels and bladder inside his wide open mouth and get the dog to clean their ass. They don’t even have time to watch Brian eat his offerings. With his head stuck between his arms, the pile of shit grows little by little on top of Brian’s face but cannot fall off. It will remain until Brian has managed to eat it all. As for the shit that slides over his forehead or chin, one of the skinheads later will bring it back into his mouth with his boot sole. Nothing is lost. Everything is processed.
Part 1
To be a skinhead slave is to submit to the worse indignations for one’s Master’s glory. This lesson was driven down every time Brian had a pair of brown boots locked on his feet. In the beginning, during the first cycle of six days, Brian had not done anything really repulsive. To lick somebody’s ass, especially that shaved-head cop clad in head-to-toe black leather, provides an immense pleasure for both the cop and his prisoner. The cop is hot because a tongue is trying to fuck his ass. He has just forced his prisoner to lick the horse manure off his boots. He has just cropped the prisoner’s back close to two hundred times to get there. Whipping some slave flesh always turns a skinhead Master on. The cop is a skinhead Master; he is turned on.
Brian is the skinhead Master’s slave. He is the leather-bound cop’s prisoner. That cop who, having just finished zapping him with at least thirty electric shocks to make him lick the shitty soles of his boots, began to whip his back with his riding crop. Not really hard, but the leather loop that has been hammering his shoulder blades for close to an hour distracts him from his task. Brian has a hard time renewing his reserve of saliva to be able to wash his Master’s boot soles. Indeed, Brian thinks he has found a trick: to avoid having that despicable taste of shit in his mouth, he drowns everything he finds on the sole with so much saliva that everything washes off into his goatee, then he only has to dry it up with his hairs. His lips are probably somewhat brown, but he doesn’t care. He’s doing what his Master asked him to do.
The leather cop is no dummy. With his legs spread, his heels up on the arms of his chair, he can exactly ascertain the way Brian works. He can see he does not even bother to stick his tongue inside the lugs of his soles. He can see that his Adam’s apple never moves: Brian refuses to swallow. For all these faults, Brian will soon pay, but not right away. For now, the cop is going to make Brian lose his nerve. He’s going to crop him and prevent him from switching to his other boot for two or three hours. His saliva should have run out by then.
What to do? Brian has just switched boots, and his mouth is really dry. He’d like his Master to piss down his throat, but the bastard has given it all to another skin who was walking by. The same skin who’s now licking the shaft of his right boot while Brian must start on the left sole. His tongue is so tired, he can hardly move it anymore. “That’ll serve him right!” Brian thinks. “I’m even not gonna have the strength to lick his ass with all that stuff.” The skinhead cop does definitely not care for Brian’s attitude. He signals two of his buddies who immediately put Brian on his back on the floor. One of them sits down and puts his boot on Brian’s neck. As for the cop, he pushes his boot sole against Brian’s nose. The slave, if he wants to lick his Master’s boot, must force his head backwards and crush his Adam’s apple under the other skin’s boot, which prevents him from using his saliva glands to create enough drool.
Little by little, Brian begins to detect the taste of the excrement. He begins to cough, but he’s not sure whether it’s a reflex due to the bitter taste of manure or to the saliva that drips down his throat. As soon as he began coughing, the third skin put his boot on Brian’s crotch and started to rub it. These perverts want Brian to shoot while he eats shit. Or is it that they want Brian to shoot while he licks boots? The slave doesn’t know anymore. Before long, he’ll do his best to scrub the deep sole lugs with his tongue. And when he’s finished, he’ll finally be allowed to lick the cop’s dirty ass, his Master’s dirty ass.
In any case, after this introduction to his training, Brian had to serve as toilet paper for a week. He no longer had to lick shitty boots. He had even been tied to some sort of gurney that was located in the bathroom. There, the scent of his superiors’ shit filled his nostrils around the clock. The rubber half-hood made him blind (he was not ready yet to see what would happen to him during his later brown phases), but did nothing to mask the rich and surprisingly varied smells.
Inside his rubber bag, he felt his body steeple in its own piss and its own shit, but there was nothing he could do. He had been pushed inside a hole in the wall, and only his head and chest stuck out. The skinheads shit in their toilets and then sat on Brian to be wiped. Sometimes, they sat on his chest and pulled Brian’s head with their boots so that he could reach their moist pucker. Most of them, however, were happy snapping their fingers for Brian to open his mouth and then “park” their asshole right in the center of the opening. Brian preferred this position because he didn’t need to push his tongue so far out, but he had noticed that those who did that were always the ones who had a lot of shit to clean up.
When the Master just had to let go of two little dry turds, Brian began to appreciate his work because he worshipped his Master’s pink flesh. He had the honor of touching his Master’s male body in its most intimate recess. His dick would always try to get hard under the thick rubber cover at those times.
Unfortunately, with most of his “users,” Brian had to actively scrape and swallow the nauseating sticky stuff. The taste was as varied as its smell, but ultimately, Brian was repulsed by what he was doing. His trick of using a lot of saliva worked better there because he had time to replenish his reserves between holes, but even a mouthful of saliva was not sufficient to drown out all the flavors. The first time the slave’s tongue painted his Master’s ass hairs to pull out a shit nugget, he didn’t have the reflex to clean his tongue as he went. He could have scraped it under his teeth to remove the brown paste that was accumulating, but he didn’t. The whole ten minutes or so it took him to clean his first “sticky user,” Brian, the toilet-paper slave, had irreversibly covered his tongue under a brown film that had set. The to-and-fro’s of his pink muscle between his Master’s ass and his own mouth must be rapid if Brian doesn’t want his tits to be savagely pinched. The Masters demand this because they like to feel a tongue flicker across their pucker. The also do it because they know that out in the air, the shit that is incrusted in the slave’s tongue will dry out, and it will be impossible for him to be completely rid of the taste. By the end of his six days, Brian will have grown accustomed to the taste of remnants of shit.
SKINBOI TRAINING. Stage 2 / Part 2
It’s only during his second cycle, the one with the ten-day boots, that Brian was accustomed to tasting shit in large quantities. Brian was once more equipped with a rubber hood, but the face had been cut out. The rubber layer around his neck was thick to simulate a collar, but the rest of the rubber, underneath his cheeks, over his skull and forehead, over his ears, was thin. The two skin Masters had not only padlocked the brown ten-hole boots to Brian’s feet, but they had also chained them to his balls to prevent him from standing straight. The ring that pulled on his balls was also an attachment point for the chain that came down from his handcuffs and went back up his ass crack.
The Masters put a large metal collar on Brian’s neck and used the huge chain that was hanging from it as a leash to take him along. Duck-walking, Brian went through many corridors and climbed many stairwells before getting where the skinheads were taking him–the stables.
Brian suddenly felt nauseous because he refused to believe that his cruel Masters would force him to eat horse shit. Licking it off a leather cop’s boots had been horrible enough. For sure, they wouldn’t force him to go any farther.
It turned out that such was not the skinheads’ intention. One of them disappeared for a while and came back with some sort of rubber tube with a strap in his hand. He pushed the tube inside Brian’s mouth and used the strap to tie it around his head like a gag. In fact, there were several straps, and Brian’s head was squeezed with rubber over his lips, around his nose, around his forehead, below the chin, and even on either side of his eyes in less than a minute. Next, the two skinhead Masters each took one of his arms under the pit, picked Brian up, and dropped him inside a small square tube that had been tiled, then they padlocked his chain leash to an enormous ring in the wall before closing the container with a grate.
Brian wasn’t too comfortable, but he could sit down, raise his hands up his back if his arms were cramping, and unfold a bit his legs in the same case. The only problem that Brian had was that horrible taste that began to fill his mouth. Brian recognized it from his previous brown cycle: the taste of his superiors’ shit. The gag was in fact a condom where holes of about a fifth of an inch had been punched out and that had been stuffed with fresh shit almost to the point of ripping.
What genius! What dilemma! The condom had been stuffed to such a point that it entered Brian’s throat, and he had trouble breathing. He had to shrink the size of the condom at any cost. He tried to bite it, but the rubber was harder than the one used for condoms. The tube did not break, but fresh shit began to flow into Brian’s mouth through the holes. It was as though Brian had just had a big spoon of disgusting spaghettis, but he wasn’t able to spit them out. His natural reflex allowed him to disgorge the condom, but now his mouth was full, and his saliva glands began to flow, dragging the skinhead Masters’ fresh shit into Brian’s stomach. Whether he liked it or not, Brian had literally become a shit eater for his superiors.
The condom was replaced about every other hour. In between, riders or stable boys would shit through the grate and Brian was quickly covered in shit from head to toes. In the beginning, it bothered Brian. The turds rolled down his body and generally piled up between his legs, but they left tracks all over the place. A particularly sticky turd had landed right on his nose and for the past hour, Brian had tried to shake his head to make the little shitty stalactite hanging and tickling fall off. If he had been able to, he would have blown on it, but the gag was waterproof.
Eventually, Brian acquired a new pair of “ear pendants,” a layer of “mascara,” and even a “wig.” And quite obviously, as soon as he decided to lie down on his side to be able to sleep, half of Brian’s body was submerged in the shit that had rained on him up to now.
The worst humiliation was when, because the stable boys had noticed that Brian shivered from the cold at night (the tiled tank was lit in permanence), they brought over two or three mounts to “tuck in” the slave with a very special blanket. Poor Brian didn’t realize what was happening and, in his sleep, he seemed to appreciate the sudden warmth that showered his body. The smell didn’t bother him much anymore, but it was the ensuing rain of horse piss that woke him up. Brian tried in vain to get out of the way, but the tank was too small.
Making the best of Brian’s waking, the stable boys replaced his gag with one they had prepared with their own gifts. Because it was the last “refreshment” for the evening, they unscrewed the lid over the gag by a few turns. This meant that Brian could not really spit the shit out, but, as soon as he was through swallowing what was in his mouth, he would be able to breathe in fresh air through his mouth in case his nose should clog up during the night. When he resumed his position, lying on his side, Brian had already automatically begun to suckle on the shitty cock in his mouth. With his cheek, he pushed some shit against the wall to make as big a pile as he could and use it as a pillow. Just before he entered a peaceful sleep, he noticed that the horses’ piss had not pooled at the bottom of the tank. At least, he wouldn’t drown!
Needless to say that in ten days, Brian had more than one opportunity to eat shit! Because of his gag reflex, it kept oozing into his throat, and he practically kept swallowing for sixteen or seventeen hours a day. The tank was cleaned up every other day, but for Brian the smell remained because it came from within him. Brian stank like shit even if he was clean. His body smelled like shit for others, and his mouth smelled like shit for himself. The cleaning was just a way to make him realize he was now worst than a toilet. He was a sewer. He was covered and filled with shit that had been passed a long time before, second-hand shit, horse shit, dog and pig shit, shit from anything that happened to pass through the stables. The shit used to stuff his gags was older and older. Sometimes, the turds were completely dried up and the end of the condom scratched and irritated his throat. In these cases, Brian had to salivate and wet the turd so that it could flow through the holes in the gag and settle deep down in Brian’s stomach.
And to reinforce the idea that this slave was used as a sewer, the skinhead Masters sometimes washed their motorcycles near his grate and let the soapy water run over him. Or else, they poured their used oil. Very often, Brian was forced to keep his eyes closed for a whole day because some awful liquid had poured onto his face and he wasn’t able to wipe it off. Fortunately, there was a clean up every other day!
SKINBOI TRAINING. Stage 2 /Part3
In the bathroom, he was not pushed through a hole in the wall. Instead, he was placed with his head against the wall beneath a toilet seat, and his dick and balls were pulled out of the sleep sack. The sensation Brian felt next was unlike anything he had felt before: one of the Masters pushed a catheter up his cock and inflated a small balloon inside his bladder to prevent the tube from getting back out. Then, the end of the tube that jutted about eight inches was inserted inside his rubber sleep sack. As soon as the Master released the valve, his piss began to flow over Brian’s legs. The bag was waterproof this time around, so Brian would be forced to float in his shit and piss.
No sooner was the setup complete that one of the skinhead Masters took his place on the throne. Brian’s mouth automatically opened to lick the Master’s pucker hole, and he couldn’t help but quickly notice that, since the seat was set rather low, the Master’s ass completely sealed his opening, and Brian could only move his tongue over and around the pucker but couldn’t lick the Master’s ass cheeks or crack.
Suddenly and without warning, Brian’s mouth was completely filled with an enormous turd pushed out like a cannonball. His cheeks bulged out, his tongue was crushed, the entrance to his trachea was threatened by the disgusting hard stinking mass. Brian was unable to suck on the shit; he was unable to shovel it with his tongue and bring it little by little down his esophagus. He only had one option: to chew it.
Should Brian ever write his memoirs as a skinhead slave in training, he would have to recognize this instant when a slave digs his teeth into a big lump of Master shit undeniably as the most difficult moment in a shiteater’s life. Immediately, he felt like puking, but the contact of his lips with his Master’s ass reminded him that it was not an option. So he tried to chew, slowly, little by little. He tried to keep his tongue flat, as far as possible from the load of shit in his mouth, but the first time around this is impossible because the load is too big. He must contract his cheeks to produce some a bit of saliva. The saliva will allow the shit to slide down to his stomach. But even this is impossible. As soon as he moves his cheeks to produce some saliva, the slave feels like the enormous lump of hard shit is about to plug his trachea, about to block his breathing. He’s on the verge of panic. The slave bites faster and faster into the turd, and it works. Some of the shit slips between his teeth and his lips. There is no more space inside his mouth. The saliva finally starts to flow, and the first turd ball his swallowed. Little by little, it may take half an hour the first time. But it’s also the last time it takes this long. The Master’s boot heel crushes the catheterized dick. . . hard. The slave opens his mouth to scream; the Master fills it with a second cannonball. The boot heel kicks his dick more and more frequently. In fifteen minutes, the turd has been swallowed. A need to puke fills the slave, but he must resist. If he pukes, he will puke up his Master’s ass and will get it all back at once anyway.
This will happen to Brian. It has happened to every skinhead slave. They take a taste of a particularly evil dump, a diarrhea maybe, and they can’t control themselves. They vomit, but the acid liquid penetrates the intestine that has been pouring shit down his mouth. The Master screams as the acid burns his bowels. The boot kicks to the slave’s balls and cock multiply. There are even a few electric shocks to the cock so hard that the slave shits himself too. He closes his lips to get closer to the asshole and begins to suck. Quickly. He must swallow his puke and the liquefied shit that is still waiting inside the Master’s intestines. Such is the fate of a skinhead’s toilet.
For his last cycle, Brian’s function will be similar, but he will be used as a portable toilet. Indeed, his Masters tie him to a frame where he rests on his back with his legs up and tied together foot sole to foot sole to make a sort of seatback. His torso and arms are brought up on either side of his head to hold it up; they’ll be used as the seat. Brian is wrapped in duct tape without a safety layer of plastic wrap that would have kept the tape from sticking to his hairs. After all, he was shaved from head to toes, so this shouldn’t be a worry.
Carefully, his body is covered from head to toes with silver tape except for a round opening that leaves his face accessible: his mouth because he’ll need to open it for any “customer,” his eyes because those using him will want to read the disgust on his face, if they bother to look that is. Very often, his Masters will come in with newspaper in hand or a portable game and won’t pay any more attention to Brian than they would to a bidet.
Once Brian is immobilized, a black rubber-covered slave comes to sit on his belly, facing his feet. His Masters tear a hole in the tape between Brian’s legs and thread a tube that goes into the rubber slave’s mouth on one end and to a funnel on the other. This slave will be a urinal, and his back will be used as the seatback for those who need Brian, the commode. The rubber slave is tied to Brian and decorated with duct tape, so that the two of them look like some sort of modern design in black and silver. Finally, one of the slaves that the skinheads have trained as a dog is tethered to the frame; his job will be to drag the portable john toward whoever whistles for it. He’ll also lick the boots of the guy on the shitter if he wants to. The three skins will be inseparable for the next twenty days, but it’s Brian who will fare the worst.
The gargantuan quantities of shit that he’ll have to swallow and that will accumulate under his ass, under his back, and between his legs, will be the only food he’ll have for the whole time. Even if he was not already used to the taste of his Masters’ shit, he would eventually have to give in or starve. He really doesn’t have much choice. A ring-gag is sometimes pushed between his teeth to keep his mouth open, but it’s not to force him to eat since he’s already accepted his job. It’s rather to “expedite” the process: in the mornings, skinheads are always in a hurry and must use Brian as fast as they can, so they void their bowels and bladder inside his wide open mouth and get the dog to clean their ass. They don’t even have time to watch Brian eat his offerings. With his head stuck between his arms, the pile of shit grows little by little on top of Brian’s face but cannot fall off. It will remain until Brian has managed to eat it all. As for the shit that slides over his forehead or chin, one of the skinheads later will bring it back into his mouth with his boot sole. Nothing is lost. Everything is processed.