Your owner has generously loaned you to me, and I intend to make the most of every second. I've been told you're obedient, and now we'll put that to the test. I have the perfect assignment for a creature like you: you are to be my personal, on-call toilet, available day and night. A single snap of my fingers and you will scramble to your place beneath me.
Let's be clear, this is no easy duty. My body is a factory of waste, and the output is staggering. Every morning, without fail, I need to relieve a powerful, dense load. Sometimes the urge strikes multiple times a day. The sheer volume that erupts from my ass is a force of nature, enough to overwhelm and suffocate a lesser being. Pray you survive the deluge.
I'm ready to initiate you. Open your mouth wide; my bowels are churning and this mass is ready to be born. You will feel its weight, its heat, its utter dominance. Once I've emptied myself, you will marvel at the mountain I've produced and understand how trivial your existence is. This is your only meal. Swallow every last morsel. Don't you dare look displeased—this is merely the first offering of the day. There is so much more to come.
For our next session, I make a show of wiping my boots, a mock courtesy before the storm. "I'm being considerate," I'll taunt, "but don't get used to it. A tidal wave of my shit is coming." My gut is churning from a lavish dinner, a feast you'll ultimately pay for. The pressure is building, a dense, urgent log demanding release. I can't hold it back any longer.
As I unleash it, I'll watch you struggle beneath the foul cascade. "Incredible," I'll gasp, "I'm truly choking you with my filth. Don't you die on me yet; I have many more days of use to get from you." I'm so proud of this creation I'll immediately capture a picture. I'll have to dine out like this more often, knowing you'll be here to receive the copious, morning results. Until tomorrow, toilet. Pray I don't produce an even more devastating load.
It seems your prayers were insufficient. My reserves are once again plentiful. Save your tears; I feel nothing for you. You are a receptacle, and your purpose is to be filled. Look at the swollen, tight curve of my belly—see the burden I carry for you? Now, I will be rid of it.
The quantity is immense, even more than before. You must be an inspiration to my bowels. Let's take another picture of my artistry; I am a true virtuoso of vulgarity. The fourth chapter is yours to imagine, and I assure you, it will be equally merciless.
