Writer's Clog Contract Written by Septia. I clacked away at the keyboard, eyes glossing over the words to see sigils and signs blend together in a haze of black, white and gray. There was a flutter of excitement in my chest as the knots were tying together, the structure coming to a close. One last tap, and... it was done. “Phew.” Anchored back to reality, the exhaustion of writing for hours on end washed over me. -Gbbrllgsh- I felt another pressure further anchor me, this one deeper in my body. I rose from the couch with one hand massaging my gut. Heading towards the bathroom… then I stopped. “Wouldn't want to clog the drain.” I mumbled, and turned down to the basement. ~ 1 ~ Deep in the house, there sat an unmarked door. This lead into my 'second' bathroom. The room lacked sink, mirrors, and windows. All that was there was the wide porcelain throne. I opened the lid, turning around to sit. “H-hey, y-you are back,” came a voice from the toilet. A spry face of a spunky man shackled to the walls of the modified toilet bowl. He stared up at me expectantly. I continued sitting, my plump hind planted onto the seat and billowing over the polymer rim in a weighty thud. -Thhbbwwmp- “Hey yourself, Dass. Got done with another bastard of a commission, and I got an equally lengthy dung snake nesting up my ass.” My hind smothered into he seat, muffling his response as I gyrated my hips back comfortable. I pried my knees apart with a jiggle through my hips, peeking down at his perturbed face. “S-so you are just here to take a dump?” “That's what toilets are for. It isn't glamorous, but they get daily ass.” “You don't come here nearly daily,” he cried out from below, I sighed and rubbed my temple. “And I c-can't stay here forever, you know? I booked this vacation, so I could meet you. Eventually I'll have to, get home.” I wiggled my cheeks, grunting as gas percolated out my ass in a flutter of miasma. -Pppwrrbbbprprpth- The reek of onions pickled in pork grease wafted down, primarily confined to the bowl. “You took that vacation to be my toilet, we drafted up the contract, you signed it, you got in here willingly,” I peeked down between my legs, “And you are not exactly in a position to bargain.” “Phha aphaa, I was j-just supposed to stay here until my commission was finished.” “And? It isn't finished yet.” “Well… have you at least, started on it?” “Mmm… sorta… That's not really stuff I wanna mull over while I am on the can. Just get back in character, I need you to be my toilet foremost right now,” I grunted out as another plume of fumes fanned out of my rippling cheeks -Bbffrrpth- dousing him in the stench to vanguard the oncoming sludge. “Mgmr, mmg…” At this point he simmered down. After all, this wasn't my idea. The pressure plied my rump apart, cleaving my cheeks under the weight of my expanding pucker, gradually my brim peeled back over the slab, dragging over the filth-clotted surface with a crackle of de-boning a fish -Chhrrk-Gllrsh-. “Mmgmrg…” I grunted to myself, wiggling in place as the soda can thick bale wound out from my distending pucker. “Mmooof, feels like I've been lugging around a couple of bricks up my fanny,” I mumbled under my breath as my glutes twitched in the strain of delivering this batch. The payload of dung creeping down to my toilet. Dass trembled below. I could feel the steam radiating out from the surface of the muck; an aura of must and my bodyheat baked into it from forging through my bowels. I pinched my cheeks together -Chhrrlpth-, then let them spread wide in a long sigh. My pucker yawning open over the mire of gunk and delivering the parcel of packaged bowel fudge straight to Dass's awaiting maw. The tower of filth anchored down onto his face -Cllh-Thhmmb-plsh-. “MFmgh, Gwhuugh-.” I heard him struggling, drowned out under my sigh of vacating a good half kilo of sludge from my back-end. His mouth clogged in the onslaught of my all organic, homemade gingerbread batter. My dung and gingerbread dough had a few key similarities: Their texture, their colour, the pursed fissures sprawling across them, and the taste – as long as you pinched your nose. But the smell drove any further similarities apart: my filth delivered on a rich cultivated aroma of moldy bowel munster cheese, shrouded in a haze of char fried chanterelles. It was served up with enough greasy sweat to rival a fast food joint's kitchen. “Mmfmfpsh pha… it reeks all the way up here,” I lamented as I shook my ass, another clump of the chunky manure dough -Chhrrllpth- sloughing free and slapping my toilet aid in the face. “Guess that's the downside of using a human-based outhouse system, rather than a water-based one,” I mumbled to myself in contemplation, nostrils flaring up as I took in the scent and shuddered from my cheeks all the way down my spine. “Mmfs, aw I can smell the brine though… I've been eating too much fefferoni pepper…,” I said in a plea for pity, sloughing back against the toilet edge while I dispensed kilos worth of muck down his throat in bloated butt sausages. “But I don't care… those things are the bomb. Even if it means I have to fmfms,” I grunted, “drop a depth charge in the bathroom, I would chug that spicy, brine straight out of the jar…” I polished up my lips with my tongue at the thought, patting my deflating belly. “Hear that? Might be an idea, if I chugged enough it could pickle my dung, preserve the sanctity of my fat loads for you to thoroughly delight in, how about it mfm, my little fan?” I let out a sigh, even as he had his cheeks congested with my constipation. I slumped back, scratching and along my gut as it eased out the congealed slop that had festered in my hind, forgetting to listen for a follow up from Dass as the girth of the sludge tickled my fancy. My panting confined to this one room, and the sight of my fresh colon chocolate – a view confined to the gaze of toilets – were bestowed upon the diligent toilet aid below. He might have choked a few times between chugging the curving, fat load serpentining out of my hatch. I wouldn't know. I only kept my ears open for any, substantial, issues that could occur. And so far… Dass had proved himself a model toilet… -Spplfhrhpt- A flutter of vapours and sludge billowed out through my hind and cluttered over his face below. The mucky rippled with the kneading grind of dunking your head in a pool of brie. What muck he couldn't stomach, formed into a clay facemask. I wrapped my hand with a few layers of toilet paper and scrubbed my crack clean, absent-mindedly crumpling up the paper and dropping it on his muck stained face, still working to guzzle down that gingerbread bale. “Gllgaah, ghuuak,” he grovelled and shuddered, working his way through the filth. I sighed. “You know, when you said you wanted to be my toilet, I anticipated you could handle a bit of pepper to my dung. My ass doesn't serve it up mild.” “Guhaha hoaach,” he coughed, swallowing to clear his throat -Gllgspgh- “Pah… I-I get it. T-thank you for t-today. But, please…?” “Yeah, I'll get to your story,” I said and dropped the lid back -Thwcp- trapping him with the lingering miasma of briny dairy and wilting onions. ~ 2 ~ “Pha…” I huffed out, seating myself back on the couch, I brought up my structuring software, docking off the work I had done for the day and navigating over to the queue. With some satisfaction I checked off the current story. Then, I noticed saw Dass's name. Seems he was next in the queue. I tossed a glance at my calendar. When was his vacation up now again? The twelfth? Or was it twenty-first…? I shrugged, highlighted his name, and dragged it straight to the bottom of my the queue, anchoring it in place. “I'll get to it,” I repeated to myself, scrolled back up. Out of sight, out of mind.