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A Perfect Toilet (PREVIEW)
Author: Closet Fetishist

Synopsis: A young man suddenly finds himself at his mother's mercy when she decides to constrain him into an easy chair and train him as her toilet.

6,643 words


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...

“You can’t get up, sweetie?” She asks obliviously.

“No! It’s...I don’t...” I stammer as my eyes drift upward and notice a very worn, brown fabric. It’s the easy chair, I quickly realize. I’m...I seem like I’m in the chair. But that’s ridiculous, how could I be? This has to be a dream.

“Aww...is my boy coming to a realization?” Mom asks me, I can see her face now, with an odd smile plastering her lips.

“I’m dreaming?” I lips quiver.

Mom laughs in a way I’d never heard before, it cuts through me deeper and deeper as it continues cruelly. It’s like she’s laughing at my most personal self. I look at her in stunned shock, she’s almost unrecognizable even though, physically, she looks exactly the same as she did the last time I saw her yesterday. That was yesterday, right?

“No silly,” mom tries to speak through her sharp laughter. “I’m sorry but it’s just so silly to think of a cushion ‘dreaming’ or even ‘getting up’ for that matter,” she answers with punctualized air quotes.

I stare at her blankly in utter confusion, unable to process any of that.
“Oh dear, I’ve broken your poor little brain,” she belittles me.

My eyes tear up, I can barely squeak out, “Mom...what?”

She bends down, closer to my face and runs two fingers soothingly along my cheek as she softly shushes me like a crying baby. “It’s okay sweetheart, this is for your own good.”

“What do you mean? What is this?” I anxiously ask.

Mom stands back up with a satisfied sigh and she turns her back to me, I can see her slight muffin top hang over her blue jeans, her tight shirt just barely reaching the tops of her belt loops. I hear a sound like a gurgling stomach and I watch as the seat of mom’s jeans seems to get closer and closer to my face.

“I’m going to make you my toilet slave,” she says flatly, as if it was the most common phrase a person could say. I could not even process the idea before her denim fabric scrapes against my face.

Then, complete quiet. With only the muted sound of mom’s pants grating against my face, her weight pressing down painfully on my nose and forehead. It feels like an eternity but it is probably less than a moment, it probably is not even a perceivable increment of time and yet it feels like an entire lifetime in this fraction of a second before...

...


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