Chapter 8: The Lifestyle

My weekend stay with Jim and Maria was eye-opening to say the least.

Watching Maria in her role as full-time slave gave me insights to the “lifestyle” as they call it. And I got a taste of it too, helping her with some of her weekend chores: laundry, cleaning, yardwork. I got to clean the toilets, a task I enjoyed.

Maria prepared and served all the meals - I helped with cleanup - and she was not allowed to eat until we were finished. Then she had to eat all the food left on our plates before adding any other leftovers available. But she didn’t have to eat on the floor like I did. She was allowed to stand at the kitchen counter as if eating was part of cleaning the dishes, which I guess it was.

The reason I had to eat from a plate on the floor is that Jim said I wasn’t allowed on the furniture. “You’re not housetrained, so it isn’t safe,” he said. I did have a few “accidents,” peeing on the floor and on myself, but I was never reprimanded, just made to lick up as much as I could before Maria was made to wipe up the rest.

I was supposed to pee in the wading pool which remained in the living room all day Saturday. Jim and Maria both added their piss to it several times until, after dinner, Jim said it was bath time. He had mentioned that he was taking me out “to the club” that evening; apparently Maria was staying home.

I got pretty excited in the bath. I stepped into the pool and lay down on my back in the cool, smelly piss. My cock immediately became hard and began spouting piss in the air that rained down on my chest, hot and stimulating by comparison ... Jim smiled indulgently as I grabbed my cock and adjusted the trajectory so that I could catch some in my mouth.

At his direction, Maria used a soft sponge to wash me all over with piss, paying special attention to my hair, underarms, and crotch. Then I stood on the towel and she gently patted me dry, leaving me smelling even more strongly of piss than after our last bath.

Allowing me to wear only my jeans (no underwear) and my collar and leash, Jim drove me in his Corvette with a stack of towels under my ass to protect the leather seat. We parked in an unpaved lot in the industrial part of town next to a warehouse-style building with a small sign over the single entrance that said “Queue” in rainbow colors.

“No talking and no eye contact with anyone. You’re a toilet, nothing more, got it?” Jim admonished me after turning off the car.

“Yes, sir,” I nodded.

I had managed to stay dry on our 20-minute drive, but by the time I had climbed out of the low-riding vehicle, I could feel myself starting to leak and, although it was too dark to see it, I felt the piss running down my leg and soaking the front of my jeans. As Jim led me by my leash into the doorway of the club, my dick was getting hard. I had heard of the Queue, the only local night spot catering to the “Queer Community.” It had held no interest for me, but things had changed now and I was excited by the humiliation I expected for having wet myself as well as the anticipation: was I going to be used as a toilet?

A large, muscular woman was standing in the doorway. I assumed she was the bouncer; she looked tough enough. Except for her pretty, beautifully made up face and hair, there was nothing soft or feminine about her. “Good evening, Sergeant,” she said familiarly. “Got a new slave?” She grinned at me predatorily before wrinkling her nose and adding, “Phew! Smells like a latrine.”

“Hey, Selma. Yeah, this is my new toilet. I’m installing it in the bathroom for the evening.” I blushed and my cock twitched at his answer. Turning to me, he said, “Get out of those pants,” and to Selma, “Is there some place I can leave these clothes? Maybe a trash bag?” By the time I had stripped off my wet, clinging jeans, Selma had procured a black plastic bin liner that we left near the door with my smelly pants inside.

There were maybe twenty or thirty people in the main bar-room, many of them seemingly in costume. The room was fairly well lighted and I could see a lot of leather and exaggerated western and military-style garb as well as noting that I was not the only one on a leash. Several others were naked - both men and women - and one man was on all fours with a tail coming out of his naked ass. He stopped and sniffed me as his owner was walking past us. He then lifted a leg and peed on my calf, wetting my foot warmly as well.

Jim laughed and patted the “dog” on the head before continuing, leading me toward the back of the room into a more dimly lit hallway, We passed a row of cubicles, three-sided stalls open to the hallway. “Glory holes,” Jim informed me. All but one were empty; there was a man standing facing the back wall of one stall. We walked to the end of the hall and entered through the door marked “Toilets”.

It was a large room, tiled in light grey, brightly lit by florescent ceiling fixtures, with a row of sinks to the left of the door and a whole wall of mirrors at that end of the room, seemingly doubling the space. Opposite the sinks was a row of urinals and there were four toilet stalls to the right. One stall was occupied; from the sound of it, probably by a couple fucking.

Jim led me to a shallow pit between the urinals and the stalls, where a fourth urinal should have been situated. It was rectangular, the same width as the urinals and had a drain in the bottom. I stepped into it; there was just enough room to sit, and Jim then handcuffed me to the pipe that ran along the wall behind me.

“Have fun! I’ll be back to check on you later,” he said, leaving me alone except for the furtive grunts and moans that wafted from a toilet stall to my left. I was excited, thrilled not only at the prospect of lots of piss to come, but also by the degradation; it made me feel almost giddy with lust to be dehumanized like this, to be used as an object for bodily relief, especially with cocks involved. The fact that I was helpless and completely vulnerable added a dash of fear to my mental state that only made me more eager for abuse. My cock was a hard rod jutting vertically from my lap, reaching almost to my navel. It was rather cool there in the bathroom, but the sounds of the rutting couple and the distinct odor of stale urine in the air kept me in a heated state, anticipating the warmth of fresh piss.

A few minutes later, after what sounded like some kind of climactic event next door, two men emerged from the stall and stood, apparently admiring me, while they adjusted their clothes. “Ooh, look, Daddy!” the smaller one falsettoed. He was clearly an adult male, but he was dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl in a plaid skirt and white blouse. “I need to pee. Can I pee on him?”

“Sure. Pee in his mouth.” The other guy looked older and wore a blazer and tie above his tight, faded jeans.

“Oh, thank you, Daddy!” said the schoolgirl. He stepped up close and lifted his skirt, revealing a slim, circumcised cock of about three inches in its soft length. Aiming it at my wide-open mouth, he let go, hitting my chest, dead center on my sternum, before his stream strengthened and he adjusted it to land on target, splashing on my tongue and filling my mouth rapidly with sour, salty waste. I swallowed hungrily and repeatedly until he was done.

Then his partner stepped up. He had opened his jeans and lowered them. His cock, uncut and much thicker, was in his hand and he proceeded to shower me from head to toe, starting with a forceful blast right in the face. I was only able to catch a little in my mouth to enjoy its rank flavor, but I reveled in the warm, tingling shower as he hosed me down, ending by blasting my erect cock with his spray, almost making me cum. As his stream ended, mine began; my piss just fountained up through my erection, tingling erotically.