By: Seeanemone54
Tom sat on the worn, gray sofa in his small one-room apartment, staring at his phone screen. It was the same look he'd had on so many other days: a bored scrolling through the endless expanse of social media, without finding anything that truly captured his attention. He paused occasionally to reply to a message or click through a few stories, but his mind was elsewhere. The disappointing conversation he'd had that morning at the employment office still echoed in his head.
The advisor's words reverberated in Tom's mind, just as they had over the past few weeks. It was the same tone, the same resignation. "The automotive industry is in crisis. Engineers are being laid off at all the major corporations. Jobs are scarce, especially for recent graduates like you."
Tom could practically see the emptiness in the advisor's eyes as he said it. The expressions on people's faces in those moments were seared into his memory, that mixture of pity and indifference. As if he were responsible for it all.
"Have you considered working temporarily in a garage?" the consultant had suggested. "There you could at least gain some experience and maybe..."
Tom interrupted him almost reflexively.
"I didn't get a master's degree in automotive engineering just to tinker with cars as a lowly mechanic," he'd replied, the words a mixture of frustration and pride. He knew he wasn't the type for such compromises. Even if it was hard for him to admit. A garage wasn't where he envisioned his future.
He wanted more, much more. The idea of ending up in one of the city's large workshops, turning wrenches until his hands were rough and the work a monotonous routine, simply didn't fit his self-image. Tom had always envisioned himself working in a cutting-edge development department, tinkering with engineers on the vehicles of the future, not in an oil-stained room where the daily grind consisted solely of repairs. And the more he thought about it, the more the prospect of working in a garage seemed like a defeat.
There was no compromise. Either he found a job in the automotive industry that matched his qualifications, or he would simply be left behind.
Yet it had all started so promisingly.
Even as a child, Tom was fascinated by cars. At twelve, he had stood under the hood of an old car for the first time; the boisterous clicking and rattling of the tools had been music to his ears. It was the beginning of a passion that had never left him. When his grades in science at high school steadily improved, his path was clear: automotive engineering was his next career move.
After graduating, Tom moved to the vibrant city to study at a prestigious university. His student apartment was small and unassuming, but it was the first step toward the future he had dreamed of. However, the dream of working in the automotive industry now seemed further away than ever. Times had changed. Where once the illustrious reputation of German cars had conquered the world, the shadow of crisis now loomed. The major manufacturers were struggling with the transition to electric vehicles, jobs were shrinking, and the new technologies that had once seemed so promising left a void in Tom's heart.
He had spent so many years preparing for this moment, for life after graduation, for the moment when he would find himself in an engineering office, finally doing what he loved.
But now he'd been stuck in this small one-room apartment for almost six months, his studies long since completed, yet the longed-for next step hadn't materialized. The apartment walls seemed to close in on him, and with each day he spent on the couch, his despair grew. The job he'd dreamed of wasn't just a distant dream anymore; it now seemed unattainable. The rent, which he would soon no longer be able to afford, weighed heavily on his shoulders, but that was the least of his problems compared to the emptiness spreading within him.
Frustration had become a constant companion. He withdrew more and more, becoming less and less the committed young man he once was. Instead of focusing on visions of the future and success, he now occupied himself mainly with his PlayStation, which he wouldn't put down for days. Even the instant noodles he cooked every day became a symbol of what he had become—a life that was little more than an endless cycle. When he wasn't glued to his game console, he was either masturbating for hours to images online or scrolling through Instagram, observing the lives of others whose careers and dreams were in motion while his own slowly faded into insignificance.
Videos of dogs, bizarre memes, travel photos from exotic countries he could never afford, and posts from friends whose lives seemed to be on the move, while he himself remained stuck in an endless loop.
Tom gave a thumbs down and refreshed his feed. The familiar reload, a brief flicker on the screen. A new colored ring appeared at the top.
Alina Nour had posted a new story.
His Instagram crush.
She was one of the few influencers he followed. He usually couldn't stand all that lifestyle stuff, those perfect images of glamorous lives playing out on TikTok and Instagram.
It was always the same: smiling faces in front of expensive cars, overpriced designer clothes, and the feeling that each of them was somehow further along in life than he was.
But with Alina, it was different.
With her 1.2 million followers on Instagram and almost three times as many on TikTok, she was undoubtedly one of the big names in the influencer scene. She had this sweet, understated aura about her, not one of those typical social media beauties with a perfectly styled, "I've-got-everything-under-control" attitude. Alina was different. She wasn't a supermodel icon posing in expensive designer clothes, but rather someone you could identify with—or at least that's what Tom thought; after all, he didn't know her personally.
She was petite, barely 5'3", totally his type, the kind of woman who always captured his attention. A cute, firm bottom, a beautiful waist-to-hip ratio, and despite her simple, almost unassuming manner, she possessed a natural charisma that most other influencers lacked.
She didn't just present herself as perfect, but as her reality, which wasn't always made up of glossy, flawless images.
Tom paused for a moment. As if his body had reacted faster than his mind.
The small circle with her profile picture suddenly seemed disproportionately prominent, as if it were taking up the entire screen. He knew how silly that was; she didn't know him, would never know him. And yet, there was that brief tug in his chest, that little spark of interest that momentarily interrupted his monotonous daily routine. Perhaps it was simply his body's now-developed automatic response to being aroused by the sight of her. Tom had often masturbated to her pictures.
He clicked on the story.
Alina Nour stood in a bright, almost sterile-looking hallway. White walls, smooth floor, nothing personal, nothing decorative, as if the room itself were brand new, waiting to be filled with life. The light filtered softly down from above, making everything seem a little unreal, almost like a stage set.
Alina raised her left hand and pointed at it with the finger of her other hand. Something metallic gleamed on her ring finger. For a brief moment, Tom thought of an engagement ring, the next unattainable milestone in life that others seemed to reach effortlessly.
Then the gesture changed.
Alina's eyes widened, she playfully clapped her hand over her mouth, and grinned broadly.
The movement was exaggerated, almost childlike, but that's precisely what made it so typical of these short clips. Then she slowly turned her hand, letting the metal flash in the light, and only now did one realize it wasn't a ring.
It was a keyring.
Attached to it: several keys, still clean, without any signs of wear. New keys.
Her gaze drifted to the camera, as if to say, Yes, really. Then she took a few steps back, revealing the entire empty hallway. Only now did it become apparent that several cables hung loosely from the ceiling, their ends haphazardly connected to simple lightbulbs. They dangled gently, casting a warm, unfinished light on the white walls, making it clear that this place was still a work in progress, not yet a home, but a beginning.
She turned once, took two small dance steps, a brief, imperfect move—nothing grand, nothing choreographed. Without transition, Tom landed back on the Instagram home screen. The feed waited, as if nothing had happened. The story was over.
Tom held his phone for another moment, without scrolling, without tapping anything. The screen glowed, but his gaze passed through it, as if nothing were there anymore. The story was over, but something inside him had shifted.
The desire that had just briefly flared up within him was now gone.
It was simply gone. In it‘s place, something else began to spread within him. Something harsh, unsettling, unpleasant.
Anger.
He felt his jaw clench. Not even really at her. But at everything this clip symbolized. At this effortless progress. At the ease with which some people seemed to simply unlock new doors, while he himself had been running into the same locked wall for months.
His mind began to race, faster, more aggressively. Thoughts swirled. The system that supposedly rewarded merit. A society that preached success while simultaneously slamming doors shut. All the promises of education, of a future, of security, and then this empty space where he now stood.
He thought about the years he had invested. Nights spent studying, exam stress, internships, the master's degree he had worked so hard for, always with the goal of building something for himself someday. And then there was this girl. A few dances in front of the camera, a few edited clips, a few smiles, a bit of staging—and suddenly, keys to a house. What exactly did that contribute to society? Where was the value, the achievement, the substance? In his eyes, it was nothing more than hot air, packaged for clicks and advertising deals.
It felt unfair. Utterly unfair. And it was precisely this disproportion that made him even angrier.
———————————————————
The hallway looked transformed, but not quite finished. The major steps had been taken: The furniture was in place, the wardrobe was hanging, and simple light fixtures had already been mounted on the walls, giving the room structure and warmth. Individual cables still hung from the ceiling, holding simple lightbulbs—temporary, functional. It definitely felt like home, just one that was still in the making.
Alina's boyfriend was already dressed at the door, wearing a thick winter jacket, hat, and carrying gloves. The small sled lay beside him. Alina knelt in front of her son and carefully zipped up his jacket, gently stroking the sleeve as she did so.
"There you go, my darling," she said softly, "you're going sledding with Daddy now. Lots of snow, lots of fun."
The little boy looked at her, his lower lip slightly turned out.
"Mommy," he said quietly, almost pleadingly.
Alina paused for a moment. Then her boyfriend came closer, crouched down, and smiled at the boy.
"Hey," he said calmly, "Mommy needs a little time for herself today. So we're going to have a real adventure day in the snow, okay? And then we're going to Grandma's."
He scooped her son up in his arms, and the boy snuggled against him, his eyes still searching for Alina.
She smiled, even though it was clear how tired she was. The last few weeks had taken their toll on her face: the move, the setting up, the constant organizing, and being a mom, which never stopped.
At the door, her boyfriend leaned towards her and gave her a quick kiss. Nothing dramatic, just something natural and familiar.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He simply nodded. "Rest."
Then they were gone. The door closed, and the hallway fell silent.
Alina went upstairs, leaving the hallway behind, and quietly closed the bathroom door behind her. The room was large and flooded with light, even on this gray winter day. White tiles, light surfaces, and warm beige accents added a soft touch. Everything seemed tidy, calm, almost like a promise of respite.
Her gaze lingered on the bathtub. Freestanding, spacious, her absolute favorite. It had been one of the reasons she'd always told herself that all the stress was worth it.
Alina turned on the tap. The water began to flow softly into the tub, a steady sound that filled the room. Then she went to the sink, rested her hands on the edge, and looked in the mirror.
Her expression was tired. Her hair was quickly tied back, her face was bare of makeup, her eyes slightly red.
She looked as if she had just gotten up, and somehow it felt that way too, even though the day had long since begun. For weeks she had been carrying this feeling around with her: burned out, empty, as if she were just going through the motions.
"Pull yourself together," she thought automatically. Not harshly, more out of habit. There was no real alternative. Moving, appointments, responsibilities, being a mom—everything kept going, no matter how she felt.
She took a deep breath, letting her gaze linger on her reflection for a moment while the water continued to run in the background. Then she closed her eyes briefly. Just a few hours of rest. That was all she needed right now.
As soon as she reached the top of the sink, her body made itself known quietly but firmly. The coffee from breakfast was taking effect, a familiar signal that made her pause for a moment. Alina grimaced slightly and briefly considered whether she should go downstairs again. She wanted to get into the tub undisturbed, without her peace being disturbed by unpleasant smells.
Then her gaze drifted to the new toilet. Modern, unfamiliar, almost a bit futuristic. She remembered all the functions the plumber had explained to her, and that she hadn't actually seen any of them in action yet.
'Why not now,' she thought.
She let her shoulders drop. It was her house, her bathroom, her moment. No reason to make things even more complicated for herself.
———————————————————
It was dark. Tom was panicking, his heart pounding against his ribs, every breath too loud, as if the sound itself would betray him. He had just heard movement somewhere outside, soft footsteps in the hallway, then they grew louder as someone entered the room.
He was trapped, in a room that was far too small, too cramped, too… wrong. His body felt constricted; every attempt to move was thwarted by the sensation of cold concrete all over his skin, which only fueled his fear.
Tom had hoped it was all just a bad dream he'd eventually wake up from, but he couldn't deny it any longer. He was trapped in a toilet. He could feel the cold walls against his body, the smooth surface of the toilet seat above him, the weight of the darkness like a solid blanket.
When Tom awoke yesterday, everything was blank. Only when he opened his eyes did he recognize the outline of a white ring directly above him. Enclosed within it stood a man—clearly a handyman—his gaze fixed intently as he worked on a screw below.
Tom wanted to get his bearings, to figure out exactly what was happening, but his head wouldn't budge an inch. His entire body was unresponsive—no arms, no legs, just a dull, paralyzing nothingness.
Apparently, the handyman had noticed Tom's gasping for breath. Tom heard his voice above him. Clear, calm, almost friendly:
"Hey, buddy... don't worry, I'm done."
But the tone didn't bring him any peace. On the contrary, he felt even stranger, more panicked. As the handyman slowly disappeared from his sight, Tom desperately tried to make sense of where he was and what was happening to him.
Tom's breathing quickened again, each inhale and exhale seeming too loud, too raw, as if the darkness itself were amplifying every sound. He wanted to scream, to move, to do something, but nothing worked. Only his heart, pounding wildly against his chest, confirmed that he was still alive.
After several agonizingly long minutes, Tom suddenly heard footsteps again. This time it wasn't just the familiar voice of the handyman, but also a second, female voice that made his heart race even faster.
“…and you simply adjust the position using the touch panel,” the technician explained matter-of-factly, while Tom still couldn't see who was standing next to him. “And thanks to the efficient use of former human bodily functions, everything is completely odorless—entirely for your comfort.”
Tom heard the two of them enter the bathroom. His panic mounted as he tried to process what had just been said. Who was this second person? And how could the technician speak so casually about something he himself was experiencing with panic?
The technician slowly reappeared in his field of vision, focused on his work, while the other person remained behind him, still invisible, but their presence intensified Tom's anxiety.
“The adhesive needs about an hour to fully cure,” the technician said routinely. “Then you can use your toilet as usual.”
At that same moment, the second person stepped into his field of vision. Tom's heart leaped, racing even faster, and he almost gasped for breath.
Then the second person stepped into the light. It was Alina Nour.
This couldn't be happening. There she was—Alina Nour, his Instagram crush, the one he'd been pining for for so long, now real and right in front of him. She was wearing light jeans and a white sweater, a simple outfit for lounging at home. His mind stumbled, desperately searching for logic, for an explanation,
but everything seemed absurd, impossible.
Slowly, he tried to make sense of the handyman's words. "Toilet... use... glue..." What did that mean? Was this a joke? A nightmare that had now become reality? His head was racing, every attempt to think clearly failed.
He dared to look around. The white ring that framed his view, confining him—and then her gaze, looking down at him, satisfied, certain. Reality hit him with full force: He was stuck in a toilet.
Panic swallowed everything else. Despair, disbelief, a paralyzing feeling of helplessness washed over him. His heart pounded, his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. He couldn't believe it, and yet there was no escape, no way out.
When he'd recently watched her vlog of moving in, where she excitedly strode through her new bathroom, Tom had never dreamed that just a week later he'd be part of that very room himself. But here he was, and she was now scrutinizing him. Tom dared to raise his eyes pleadingly, searching for a spark of sympathy, for any sign of support that might help him. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. His heart leaped. She smiled, but it wasn't a warm, human smile.
"It really does look amazing."
It was a matter-of-fact, almost smug expression, like someone reviewing work, approving a project. Tom sensed that she didn't perceive him as a person, but only as part of the whole, as an element of what the handyman had created. The realization hit him harder than anything before: there was no ally here, no lifeline, only the merciless reality of his imprisonment.
Panic and disbelief merged as he grasped the full extent of his fate. He was invisible to her as a person, visible only as a component of her bathroom.
In the background, Tom heard the handyman speak again. "So, I'm pretty much finished. I'll just pack everything up now."
Alina turned to leave, and Tom heard every word as if through a filter of panic. She smiled slightly and said, "Finally, a room is almost finished. I'm really happy."
Then he heard the door click shut behind her. For Tom, only the silence remained, the soft rustling of the toolbox being lifted outside, and the oppressive awareness that he was now firmly inside a toilet, part of this room, while the world outside went on.
Back in the present, Tom heard someone enter the bathroom, then suddenly the sound of running water. It sounded like the bathtub on the other side of the room was filling up. Tom was frightened.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
He wondered how all this could have happened.
'They must have made a mistake at the office,' Tom thought at first. It was impossible that his social credit score could actually be negative. He was a valuable member of society; after all, he had a university degree.
Only criminals and parasites were condemned to be treated this way, to be repurposed as human toilets. All people who were a burden on the system and the public and contributed nothing to the common good. In short, simply useless people.
Useless.
That word immediately burrowed into his mind, catapulting him back to his last appointment at the employment office. The official had warned him: if he didn't take on an assigned job soon, he would sooner or later be deemed "of no social use."
Tom had stormed out of the office, offended. Back then, he'd thought it was absurd. Now, trapped in the bathroom, the reality was far more terrifying than anything he'd ever imagined.
Every movement outside made him flinch. His heart was racing, and he felt fear palpable, from the top of his head to his stomach.
Last night, as she was getting ready for bed, he'd been used for the first time. As he listened to her brushing her teeth, Tom frantically tried to figure out how to get her attention, completely without a voice. Maybe she could adjust something on the touch panel; maybe then he could make himself understood again.
This had to be some huge misunderstanding. He wasn't a failure. He didn't belong here.
If he could just explain it to her, she would help him, Tom was sure of it. He only knew Alina from social media, but he knew she was a good person. Someone who would never knowingly torment someone who didn't deserve it.
When he heard the water in the sink stop running and then footsteps approaching, Tom tensed up inside. He would only have to convince her to listen with his facial expression. That was all he had.
But when the toilet seat lifted and the warm, pleasant light of the brand-new bathroom enveloped him, he didn't see Alina's face. Instead, he was looking directly at her bottom, covered by green and white striped pajama bottoms. There was no reason for her to look into her toilet.
This wasn't how he had imagined this moment.
What happened next would be the most humiliating experience of Tom's entire life. He was being used as a toilet.
After removing her trousers and underwear, Alina lowered her bare bottom towards Tom. Only then did he realize how helpless he actually was. Something in the sick contraption he was trapped in was forcing his mouth wide open. At the same time, something else beneath him was moving him forward so that his now receptive throat rested cleanly, barely an inch, below her vagina.
If someone had told Tom he would one day feel the warmth of her body, he would surely have been pleased, but the reality now filled him with sheer panic.
And before he could even fully grasp what was happening, Alina above him began to relieve herself in her new toilet.
Tom didn't want to think about yesterday's events. The ordeal had been too humiliating, too disgusting. One thing, however, he knew with absolute certainty: none of this could be allowed to happen again.
Suddenly, a blinding light pierced the darkness around him. It dazzled Tom, made him flinch, and hammered in his eyes. He was back in the here and now. The lid slowly lifted above him.
The light burned in his eyes, and for a moment everything was just blinding white. Then he began to realize that the moment he had dreaded most had finally arrived.
Once Tom's eyes adjusted to the light, his gaze immediately fell on Alina. She was still wearing the same pajama bottoms and white nightshirt from the night before, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.
Alina moved calmly through the bathroom as if she were completely alone. Her gaze was vacant with tiredness, her shoulders slightly slumped, as if still carrying the weight of the night.
Tom hoped, almost prayed, that this time she would look at him. But nothing in her behavior suggested it. Instead, all he could do was observe her from his limited perspective. Calmly, she pulled off her pajama bottoms, lifting one leg first to slip the fabric over her foot, then the other. The movement seemed routine, absentminded, as if she were completely absorbed in herself and the dawning morning.
Meanwhile, the bathtub was already half full, much faster than Alina was used to in her previous apartment. The water rose quietly around the edge, a gentle murmur filling the room, while she barely registered it.
With each passing second, a burning impatience spread through Tom, an unpleasant tug deep in his chest.
He felt overlooked, almost insignificant, trapped in his low position, unable to make himself heard. Everything within him yearned to capture her attention. A glance, a movement, any sign that he existed.
But instead, Alina turned her attention to her panties and removed them as well, completely absorbed in her morning. She kicked them off, kicking them off her trousers, which were already lying on the floor.
Alina was now standing in the middle of the bathroom, completely naked from the waist down, and Tom could see her entire profile from the hips up. Her bottom certainly wasn't the largest, but it was shapely and would most likely have turned Tom on if he weren't currently fighting off panic.
For a brief moment, she turned slightly toward the toilet. Tom immediately realized this was his only chance to get her attention. With every expression he could muster, he opened his eyes wide and tried to catch Alina's eye.
And sure enough, she suddenly lowered her head.
Tom felt his heart sink; he had her attention.
But even as he wondered why her expression remained so calm, he realized: she wasn't looking at him, but at the floor in front of her.
Then she bent down briefly. When she straightened up again, Tom saw that she had simply picked up her panties, which had twisted when she took them off. With a casual movement, she untangled it, then turned her back to him and finally let it fall back to the floor—to where her pants already lay.
She glanced briefly over her shoulder and then took a half step, directly toward him, until she stopped right in front of him.
At that moment, Tom knew his plan had failed. And he also knew what was coming next.
Looking up at her bare bottom, at her motionless back, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. In his mind, he had already begun to plead, even before her buttocks had lowered onto the toilet bowl.
Tom's entire world was now occupied by the pale buttocks of the influencer he usually admired so much.
Now he even had a clear view of her beautiful pussy and her cute little asshole.
But instead of enjoying it, fear stifled every budding lustful thought. As if in slow motion, her bottom lowered until it came to rest directly above Tom's imprisoned face, on the toilet seat.
Tom was filled with panic. The ordeal he had endured the previous day was seared into his memory, leaving him deeply traumatized.
The first time he had been used as a toilet. She had simply urinated in his mouth, as if he weren't human. She had used him like any ordinary toilet.
For the first time in his life, Tom reflected on the sick world he lived in. While he himself had used human toilets several times, even though he didn't have one at home, he had never seriously considered how terrible it must be for the person trapped inside the toilet bowl. In the past ten to fifteen years, human toilets had become so ingrained in mainstream society that hardly anyone gave them a second thought—let alone questioned the system.
And even if a fleeting sense of guilt had ever surfaced, it would have been quickly silenced. Only criminals, degenerates, or so-called social parasites suffered this fate—people who were already considered worthless. The narrative was convenient and ubiquitous: anyone who ended up in the toilet must have deserved it. This allowed people to carry on living without looking too closely, without taking responsibility, and above all, without questioning their own role in this system.
Even Tom had believed this narrative until then, which is why he couldn't understand how he himself had ended up in such a situation.
He had studied, learned something that brought real progress to society, new technology, new opportunities—and yet he now found himself trapped in the toilet bowl of an influencer who earned her money by promoting useless cosmetics, appearing at events, or simply presenting her trivial everyday life online. The injustice of this situation burned into his face:
Here he lay, with his knowledge and intelligence, facing the underside of another human being who was about to relieve himself, while others were celebrated for mere superficialities.
His face was less than two inches from Alina's buttocks, her body heat filling the space around Tom, as his mouth began to open like a mechanical flap.
Despite desperate attempts to resist, his mouth tore open on its own, as if his jaw muscles had developed a life of their own; he was no longer in control of his own body.
What he had always found so refreshing about her, unlike other influencers, was that she occasionally showed herself without makeup, in baggy, comfy clothes, or right after waking up, without any regard for social media perfection. And now he was experiencing exactly that live, without filters, without posing, raw and unfiltered.
Frightened by the impending act, Tom glanced down at her pussy, the juicy lips neatly closed into a slit.
The light stubble and the soft scent of feminine musk revealed the reality in which even a public figure operated, even if many didn't want to acknowledge it.
The device holding him in place propelled him a little closer to his user, until he was so close he could feel his own breath bouncing off her underside.
Tom could now only see the tender flesh of her buttocks, his nose resting millimeters from Alina's anus. The deep, salty, earthy scent of her sweaty asshole made Tom gag with his very first breath.
Desperately, he breathed through his mouth to escape the stench, but suddenly he felt a liquid running over his tongue.
Tom immediately understood what was happening as his brain processed the taste and he opened his eyes wide. This was nothing like what he had drunk last night.
His morning urine was thick and cloudy, a dark, pungent yellow mixture that resembled stale broth more than water. Now forced to breathe through his nose, a sharp, ammonia-like stench, heavy and acrid, as if the fluid had been fermenting all night, overpowered the smell of her anus.
The hiss of her urine stream drowned out the sound of the filling bathtub in the small space around Tom's head. Desperately, he tried to pull his tongue away from the flow, but no matter where he pulled it back or twisted it, the fluid continued to hit him relentlessly, mercilessly and without any possibility of escape.
Tom's body rebelled with all its might against the disgust. His throat constricted spasmodically, gag reflexes shot up uncontrollably, as if every muscle desperately tried to ward off what he was experiencing and protect him from it, all in vain.
The apparatus around him was too perfectly designed.
And the torment seemed endless; the powerful stream continued to flow relentlessly from between her labia, directly into Tom's mouth. As if that weren't enough, a short, dry sound suddenly rang out, somewhere between a muffled "pff" and a soft, vibrating "prft," accompanied by a rapid exhalation of air. Before Tom could even register what was happening, he felt a warm gust of wind directly against his nose, damp and stale. The shock made him instinctively inhale, and the stench hit him with full force—hot, putrid, and acrid, as if rotten air had poured directly into his lungs. A nauseating mixture of acid, decay, and something acrid burned his nose and throat. Sheer terror shot through him; his body instantly convulsed, his breath caught in his throat, and nausea and sheer horror overwhelmed him as he desperately tried to expel the air, which felt as if it were poisoning him from within.
For a brief moment, his panic gave way to pure rage, blind, helpless fury that she had just farted right in his nose.
But it lasted barely longer than a heartbeat. Before he could even grasp it, it was swept away by the next wave of horror, by naked panic that swallowed every movement and left no room for anger.
Alina enjoyed the silence in the house for a moment. No footsteps, no shouting, no background noise from toys or videos. Only the soft sound of the water continuing to fill the tub.
In her mind, however, there was anything but peace.
Thoughts raced by, chaotic, loud. The shooting schedule for next week, the reel that still needed editing, the collaboration she urgently needed to respond to. Had she posted yesterday? Was the algorithm liking her right now or penalizing her again? Then the thought of her son: was he dressed warmly enough, was he having fun, had she given him enough attention this morning? Guilt mingled with to-do lists, with reminders of unread messages and appointments she should have confirmed long ago.
It was always the same. Even in moments when she was supposed to be alone, she never truly was. There was always someone who wanted something from her: followers, brands, her child, expectations—her own and everyone else's. She often felt like an open browser window with too many tabs, none of which could be closed.
She closed her eyes briefly and pressed her lips together.
Not now, she thought. Not all at once. Not here.
Her gaze drifted slowly around the room and settled on the bathtub. The water was already high, the surface gently rippling, a soft, steady gurgling filled the room. It was a soothing sound, almost hypnotic. Warm. Waiting.
Alina took a deep breath. Again. And then again.
For a few hours, she told herself, she didn't have to be anyone. No mother watching over her. No content machine constantly churning out new material. No face for a camera. Just her. Warmth. Silence.
She imagined herself stepping into the tub, the water around her, heavy and protective. She pictured herself placing her iPad on the shelf, starting an episode of her favorite show—nothing demanding, nothing to think about. Just something familiar, something she already knew. Control. Peace.
A small, almost guilty smile flickered across her face.
She just wanted to switch off for a few hours, to simply let go. Everything else could wait: the responsibilities, the expectations, the world.
But now—now this moment belonged to her.
While Alina relaxed above him, Tom's body was a single, tense reflex, every muscle strained. He was driven. By panic, by the incessant awareness of being helpless, trapped in a situation with no escape.
The morning urine, accumulated overnight, gradually left Alina's bladder as the tension in her body eased. It was a purely physical process, routine and unspectacular, a necessary moment of release after hours of holding it in.
For hours, waste products had accumulated, filtered from her blood, concentrated, and rendered useless to her system. They had to be expelled because their presence would be harmful—a silent, automatic protective mechanism that maintained her internal circulation and made room for Alina's morning coffee.
For Tom, this process had a different meaning. What was a necessary release for her body became, for him, a final humiliation. He had nothing left of his own. Everything that would reach him in the future had already passed through another body, already been used, and then excreted.
The thought burned itself into his mind: His existence had been reduced to what others no longer needed. He was no longer a person with his own needs, but merely the final step in a cycle that was no longer afforded any dignity.
The last drops of her urine succumbed to gravity and reached Tom's still wide-open throat. Then Tom moved further back until he had a clear view of Alina's back. Slowly, she raised her arms above her head, interlaced her fingers, and stretched extensively, as if trying to banish the fatigue from every single muscle. Her movement was calm and natural; Tom could easily imagine her yawning in relaxation while he suffered beneath her.
Suddenly, another loud noise erupted from the bowl. A wet, juicy fart escaped Alina, sounding loud and sticky, then slowly faded into a soft hiss.
Tom immediately felt the warm air rush into his mouth, damp and stale, with an unpleasant metallic aftertaste that made him wince.
His severed vocal cords prevented him from making a sound; otherwise, he would have screamed as his gaze fell. Directly above his mouth, her sweaty anus throbbed, bulging outward as if trying to devour him. Panic gripped him with icy force; every fiber of his being tensed, yet there was no escape. With all his strength, he tried to hurl the body away, trembling with fear and instinct. His jaw wouldn't close, no muscle obeyed him anymore, as if his own body had conspired against him. Every breath burned as panic relentlessly raced through him.
His thoughts raced wildly through his mind, not a single coherent thought taking hold. Please… Alina… please… he heard himself, a voice that sounded both his own and yet foreign, pleading, desperate.
Please… You're a good person… I'm your fan… Every heartbeat pounded against his chest as the words echoed inside him like a desperate plea.
Nevertheless, he forced the words down his throat as if she could hear them, muttering every apology, every placating phrase he could think of. He knew perfectly well it was pointless—that she could never hear his thoughts—and yet panic compelled him to try.
Then he heard the smacking sound of thick, moist dough moving slowly, accompanied by another, softly hissing fart. Tom couldn't see what she was pushing out of her ass; her anus was already too far inside his mouth for the narrow angle of view.
When he finally realized that Alina was already defecating in his mouth, all hope of escape vanished completely.
‘Oh God…’
A disgusting, almost living odor crept into his nostrils, sweetish yet putrid, triggering an unstoppable gag reflex. He tried desperately to fight it, in vain, while something compelled him to take deep breaths, which only intensified the stench, forcing it onto the mucous membranes of his nose.
Even before her feces touched his tongue, he felt the oppressive heat in his mouth, moist and sticky, like a living entity spreading inexorably.
A paralyzing tremor gripped him as the doughy strand slid into his mouth like a slippery, living snake. When it finally pressed against his tongue for the first time, every single taste bud seemed to sound the alarm simultaneously. Sweet and putrid at the same time, with a moist, slimy consistency that clung stickily to Tom's tongue.
The mass, barely the thickness of a thumb, writhed reluctantly in his mouth, sliding over his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth, and slowly, inexorably forcing its way down his throat. Every swallow was a struggle: the smooth, moist surface pushed on as if it were filling his insides, his stomach, while his body fought against it in a panicked struggle, yet was simultaneously powerless to do anything. A revolting resistance, a burning pressure, and the paralyzing trembling made him realize that there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Each involuntary breath carried the acrid odor to his nostrils, and his body reacted instantly: a cold shiver ran through him, reflexes went haywire as if trying to shake off the disgust, while the turd continued to slide down his throat, relentlessly, filling every millimeter. Panic, disgust, and a physical burning sensation merged into a single, paralyzing feeling against which he was powerless.
And all of this unfolded as he looked up at Alina, who sat calmly above him on the toilet, as if the world around her was silent and he was in the midst of a storm of panic, heat, and utter disgust.
Slowly, Tom's body found a reluctant rhythm, as if surrendering to the movement of the shit that flowed from her ass like soft-serve ice cream. Every reflex of his swallowing mechanism kicked in automatically, his throat working unconsciously to propel the moist mass into his stomach, while his mind remained trapped in horrified panic, powerless to control what was happening.
Inside him, only one desperate plea remained: Mercy. Please, make it stop.
After nearly a minute, the turd finally ended with a humiliating, airy fart that catapulted the last bit directly into Tom's mouth.
His body swallowed automatically, the sound still echoing in his ears, and he knew there would be no one to witness his agony, yet he was exposed every moment, trapped in the unstoppable, disgusting reality that had now fully unfolded in his mouth.
As a mixture of disgust, shame, and stunned resignation coursed through him, Alina shifted her weight onto her left buttock. With bitter tears in his eyes, he watched as her right hand, armed with moist toilet paper, appeared and calmly wiped her cleft clean.
She took her time, using a second and third sheet to remove the last traces of her excrement from her anus, and Tom could see up close how thorough she was.
Finally, she stood up, and Alex stared up at her bottom with bitter resignation from deep within the bowl. Tears streamed down his face, and he howled like a frightened puppy, overwhelmed by the power that stood above him, unable to resist or escape.
Alina rose from the toilet and turned casually to close the toilet lid. Then she pulled her sleep shirt over her head and let it fall carelessly to the floor. With slow, deliberate steps, she approached the bathtub, the water now high enough to fill the entire basin.
She let her hand glide over the shelf and searched for the perfect bath additive, sniffed the bottles briefly, and chose a mild fragrance with lavender and a hint of warm vanilla. With a small smile, she poured in the water, and a delicate foam began to spread.
Then she carefully stepped into the tub.
A relaxed sigh escaped her as the warm water enveloped her skin, feeling heavy and protective, as if it were shielding her from all her worries. She slowly sank back, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and neck, her muscles gradually relax.
Alina closed her eyes and let the stillness and warmth wash over her. The gentle lapping of the water, the scent of the bath salts, the heavy stillness around her – all of it made her take a deep breath. For a moment, only she existed, her body, the water, and a peaceful, protected breath that washed away all the burdens of the past few hours.