An Erotic Juggalo Odyssey Ep. 01

DISCLAIMER

: This story is in no way endorsed by or affiliated with the Insane Clown Posse or Psychopathic Records. It is NOT implied that ICP or any real persons mentioned in this story are depicted accurately or condone the behaviors portrayed. It also does not attempt to define or exemplify the Juggalo lifestyle. There are Juggalos of all races, all classes, all genders, and all sexual orientations, and this story is only meant to reflect a small, fictional group within that larger whole.

Recap

:

Liz is a topless dancer who met Bruce at a strip club. While giving him a lap dance, Bruce offered her steeply discounted VIP tickets to the

Gathering of the Juggalos

. When Liz went to his house for a first date and to pick up the tickets, Bruce seemingly changed the terms of the deal. What started out as a beautiful night has turned into a nightmare, and now Liz finds herself performing degrading acts to earn the tickets...

EPISODE 1: HOT TICKET

Chapter 5: Litter Box

BRUCE CARROLL'S HOUSE

(Definitely NOT Shangri-La!!)

HENDERSON, NEVADA

"What do you mean 'third' ticket?" Liz asked as she propped herself up on her elbows. "I've already got that one. I paid cash for it."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry but that was not the deal."

"What are you talking about? I gave you $600."

"Correct, but that's when we learned you didn't have the entire amount for the tickets I offered."

"You said I could earn the rest." She was sitting up now, knees pulled into her chest, obscuring the view of her more sensitive parts.

"I said you could earn the tickets, and that is what you have been doing. We made a new deal for them. You are to 'perform' for me to earn each one." He shrugged his shoulders and walked toward the bar. "I don't want your $600 anymore. That deal is off."

"That's not what you said."

"It is the second agreement we made:

perform for them

. But if you wish to stop now and collect your winnings that is perfectly fine. You've secured two tickets, and those are yours to keep. Your money is still sitting safely on the bar over here. Be sure to collect that before you leave." He pulled out a beer and popped the cap. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you," he added dismissively.

"I came here for three tickets," she snapped.

"I know. And I was hoping terribly that you would get them all, but you see, that is not a decision for me to make. This whole evening is in

your

hands; I am merely a spectator." He took a long drink of beer, almost draining the bottle in a single swallow, before sitting it down gently on the bar. "You must choose whether you wish to press on or cut and go.."

She stared at the corner pocket in front of her, clenching her teeth and seething with disgust. She abruptly swung her legs over the rail and dropped from the table onto the floor. She slowly began to walk to Bruce at the bar, making no effort to cover herself any longer.

"I think I'd rather simply pay for the last ticket and be on my way," she said in a quiet and calm voice. "How would that be?"

He frowned, but Liz sensed it was insincere. He was putting on a show for her now.

"I am sorry, but I cannot accept that," he said softly while shaking his head. He opened his mouth again, as if to add something pithy, but thought better of it. Instead he asked, "Would you like another beer?"

"I want to use the toilet."

"Yes, of course. That would be fine. In fact that's along the line of thought I'm thinking for your finale," Bruce mused.

Liz let out a groan and turned away from him; she could see where this was headed. One more performance, and it was to be a

wet

one. He wanted to watch her piss. She didn't believe he had a urine fetish, not for one second. This was still all about humiliation. He was positioning to assert control and domination over one of her most basic bodily functions with this last 'performance' request.

In her opinion, things regarding the toilet were meant to be solitary and functional and should never be mingled with sensual play. It was a mundane yet private event. He wanted to witness one of the most basic and intimate of her daily routines.

It was true that back at the trailer Liz would more often than not leave the door open while pissing. It was done out of sheer laziness and no one minded. Matt did the same thing, and she assumed most guys did. When a number two was involved, the rules changed and the door was most definitely shut -- to avoid stinking up the place -- but otherwise her and Matt both left the door open for almost everything else. It was kind of cozy that way.

During their time living together, Matt and Mayra freely walked in on Liz on the toilet countless times and while they might give her a glance so as not to trip over her legs, that was about how much attention was given in total. It was not a spectator sport. It wasn't an erotic thing, and it wasn't a gross-out thing. It was a simple and easily ignored part of life.

This situation was different. Bruce wanted to intrude. Not glance or simply be there to put on face-paint or brush his teeth in the background, he wanted to be there to watch. He wanted to see what she did and how she did it. He wanted to dissect her bathroom habits, her private routines that he had no business knowing anything about. More than that, he wanted her skin to crawl as he injected himself into this absolutely personal space of hers. He probably hoped that she would remember this every time she sat down on another toilet. This one would probably make him cum his pants.

But he was wrong. Liz wouldn't show her true feelings but, in all honesty, she didn't really care.

It's me pissing. It's no different from me breathing. It's something that has to be done, so fuck him! Let him watch as much as he likes. I only wish I had to shit so I'd have something to throw at him afterwards...

She smiled, and then quickly buried it before turning back around and asking for another beer.

"Of course," Bruce said, and he popped the top off a Fishbrau before handing it to her.

She drank half the bottle before it finally left her lips.

"Let's go," she blurted, sitting the bottle on the bar, "or I'll end up pissing here on the floor." She turned, looking for where the bathroom might be, but Bruce offered no guidance. Instead he picked up Liz's half empty beer and downed the rest.

"I don't want you to use the toilet," he said when he finished. "I have something else. Follow me."

"I'm not going to pee on you."

"Of course not. I promised you no physical contact between us, and that includes fluids."

* * *

They walked down a long hallway, decorated with pictures of Bruce posing with semi-famous, pseudo-celebrities like Frank Stallone, Duane 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' Chapman, and Gary Dell'abate.

"I'm not peeing on any of your friends either," Liz stated matter-of-factly.

"You won't be pissing on anyone." He stopped in front of a door about halfway to the end of the hall and opened it.

It was a simple laundry room with a funny smell. It was what Liz would expect a laundry room in that house to look like: clean and sterile. There were baskets half full of color sorted clothes on the floor next to the door, a high efficiency washer and dryer combo against the back wall, two foldable racks with towels and silk boxers strewn over them drying near the one side wall, and a hot water heater and water softener against the other.

"I'm peeing in here?" she asked.

"Over there."

Bruce pointed at a small litter box sitting on the floor between the heater and the softener. It was clean, mostly, as in there wasn't anything sticking out, but there were some obvious clumpy areas.

"You want me to pee in a cat box?"

"That's correct. You can squat right against it or you can do it standing up -- whatever works -- but you need to give a full pissing in there." She wrinkled her nose and he must have noticed because he chuckled and quickly added, "Don't worry, the cat won't mind sharing it with your pussy."

She rolled her eyes. "And then I'm done? I pee and that's it, the third ticket?"

Bruce finished the beer in his hand and tossed the bottle into the trashcan next to the washer.

He stretched his shoulders back deep then put his hands on his hips and spoke: "I'm afraid there is just one more little wrinkle that I haven't mentioned."

Liz let out an exasperated sigh and then bit the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from saying something she would regret. She was sick of this bullshit 'performing' and wanted it over.

"What?" she asked.

"Well, it's not even really worth mentioning, but I need to record it as well."

"No way."

He pulled out his smart phone and swiped across the bottom of the screen with his thumb. "Just on my phone."

"That's too far. I'm done. I think I'll stop right now, take my two tickets, take the money, and leave."

"You're free to go. Again, it is entirely up to you. You are running the show here."

"I'm willing to piss for you," Liz said. "I'll piss in that demeaning box and pretend I'm your fucking cat to get you off if that's the sick shit you're into. I don't want to, but I will. But you're not going to record it. You don't get to share this bullshit with the entire fucking planet."

His chest expanded with air, and then he let it out with a sharp whistle. After a pause, he said, "You're right; I'm not sharing it with the planet. Let me assure you that it will be for my own

private

pleasure. It will stay with me and me only. I will watch it but I will not be sharing it with anyone, even my closest friends. It's not going on to the Facebook or the Internet or anything like that. I like to think of it as simply my keepsake from the evening. You'll have plenty of souvenirs from the festival, so it's only fair that I have one for providing you with the tickets."

"You'll have memories," she offered curtly.

"I want something more."

"No." She crossed her arms over her bare chest, squishing her breasts up against her forearms and waiting for a response. Was it over?

Bruce took another deep breath and nodded. He said, "Okay. I'll offer you a reassurance that it will remain private. I'll talk throughout the whole thing so my voice will be on there, too. I'll say whatever you'd like. My name, my address, my social security number, whatever. You can even turn the camera on me when you're done. I can't be associated with a video like this. I've got a reputation that I have to uphold for my career, so it will be kept

very

private."

Liz knew she was bluffing about leaving and going back with just two tickets, so she bit the bullet. "Fine. Say your name. Over and over. Repeat it until the phone is back in your pocket and you can record."

"Deal."

* * *

"Bruce Carroll -- Entrepreneur ... Bruce Carroll -- Entrepreneur ... Bruce Carroll -- Entreprenuer..."

He spoke in a droning monotone that Liz found almost comical. She was positioned over the litter box, a foot on either side with her knees slightly bent, but her concentration faltered.

He sounds just like his business card

, she thought, and she couldn't shake the idea from her head. She was afraid she'd smile, or even laugh, and she definitely didn't want to give him that satisfaction so she pinched the back of her thigh with her thumb and forefinger as she readjusted her stance. The sharp bite helped a little, and she closed her eyes and shifted her focus to her bladder.

She pushed, and nothing happened. The tension in her abdomen increased and she felt like she was about to burst, but nothing came out.

Stage fright?

she thought.

Please, not now. I just want to finish.

She tried to block out his voice and imagined herself at the Gathering, squatting over a piss soaked porta-potty in the scorching July heat. The smell would overtake her. She'd also want to hurry because the line outside would be long and full of impatient Juggalos waiting to unload the gallons of Faygo and beer they'd been drinking all day in the hot sun. She pretended Bruce's voice was a ninja talking to his homies about how great the lineup was this year and how he couldn't wait for the Juggalette Beauty Pageant. "Wanna see me them titties," he would exclaim. His buddies eagerly agreed and they started chanting, "ICP! ICP! ICP!"

It did the trick. Suddenly, it was as if a dam burst and piss came gushing forth in a great, golden flood from her slit.

Her thick stream splashed wildly into the litter, bubbling as it hit, and quickly darkened the surface of the sand outward towards the sides of the box. The clumps that were there before crumbled and collapsed in on themselves as they darkened as well, now soaked and rejoining the larger whole in a sousing rush.

Smaller streaks of wetness ran down the insides of Liz's legs as her stream occasionally wavered to one side or the other, splashing momentarily against her inner thighs, wetting herself. As these rivulets made their way to the floor, small puddles began to form around her heels, so she awkwardly moved her feet wider apart until one of her knees was pressed up against the side of the water heater.

Spread wide and pissing freely, she opened her eyes and looked at Bruce. Still videoing, his one hand gripped his phone so tightly that his knuckles were bright white. His other hand had disappeared into his pants. He continued his monotonic chant with his sights locked on her pissing pussy. She closed her eyes again and pushed harder.

After what felt like an eternity of pissing, she felt relief as her stream started to weaken. Her bladder was almost empty, and the piss no longer followed her casual aim into the litter box. Instead, it cascaded exclusively down her legs as the power behind it petered out. It showered her thighs and slicked her calves before soaking the arches of her feet and the floor beneath them. She didn't care, and it seemed that Bruce didn't either.

When the stream stopped completely, she shook her hips from side to side in an impromptu bid to flick the last drops of piss from her pussy because she didn't have any toilet paper.

Drip dry

, is what she called it when in similar situations without toilet paper at concert venues. After she finished shaking off what she could, she put her hands on her hips and stood up straight.

"Are we done?" she said loudly.

Bruce lifted his gaze and slid the phone back into his pocket. He casually pulled his other hand out of his pants and hid it behind his back. He grinned sheepishly and said, "That was beautiful."

Liz extended her hand and asked, "Can I get a towel?"

* * *

STILL BRUCE'S HOUSE

(NOT Shangri-La!!)

HENDERSON, NEVADA

Liz locked herself in one of Bruce's guest bathrooms while she waited for a taxi to come and pick her up. Bruce had phoned one for her, and they expected it to be there shortly. He boasted that he would kindly pay for it himself as he thought it was only proper that he should make sure she got home safely. He said he would have taken her himself, but she smelled too much like piss now for him to allow her into his brand new BMW.

She leaned against the door, feeling slightly sick to her stomach and just wanting to get home, shower, and forget the night had ever happened.

On the sink in front of her sat the bag with the three VIP tickets and the three wristbands, with the VIP parking pass and the laminated map and the vouchers and all the good stuff. Also in the bag was the $600 Liz and her friends had scrounged together to pay for them. It was hers now, too.

She earned it -- there was no denying that. Staring at her winnings made her feel a little better, but not as much as she had hoped. She questioned whether the price she paid had been too high.

If she looked at the evening as a battle, which is the way she looked at a lot of life, she conceded that this one was a battle she had lost. She had kept her cool, she had clearly consented each step of the way, and she was leaving with what she came for --

plus $600

, she reminded herself -- but Bruce was the undisputed winner. He had been in command. He controlled the battlefield. He made the power moves. She had slowly retreated the entire evening, unable to make any meaningful stand, unable to mount any real offensive.

She found this to be a tough pill to swallow. It had a bitter taste that she was not that familiar with because she usually controlled the battlefield in her life. At work, for instance, she was the supreme commander. The sleazy guys (and sometimes girls) that came to the club to watch her dance were beneath her. They may have made demeaning remarks or gross demands, but in the end she always maintained the upper hand. She named the price. She set the parameters in advance. She went home with the cash. She never came close to humiliation.

But tonight she had been humiliated. Part of her seethed in anger that she had eaten Bruce's shit the entire time, and not once had she fed it back to him. The imbalance of it all drove her mad with rage.

And then there was the strange part of her that discovered she kind of liked it. She rarely found herself at someone else's mercy because it was usually a hurtful place to be -- a dangerous place to be -- but her extended brush with it this evening had opened up a side of herself she was not familiar with. She knew that as the evening moved along, the times when she was most uncomfortable were also the times she was most turned on. She wanted to deny it, but she knew it was true. She savored the degradation. She was wettest when she was most exposed. She came at the most inopportune time...

Liz pushed the confusing thoughts from her mind and concentrated on her anger, on what was most obvious: she needed vengeance. She needed to do something to make herself feel less powerless, to feel that she had taken some sort of revenge against him, even if it was only minor. She looked around the bathroom -- maybe she could break something. Maybe she could steal something. No matter how small, how insignificant, she had to act or else she would beat herself up for days knowing how she had let him get the upper hand over her so completely.

She opened the cabinets under the sink and found nothing but hand towels and rolls of toilet paper. Behind the mirror was soap and small tubes of hotel body lotion.

Nothing

, she cursed to herself.

She thought about trashing the bathroom, that would assuage her feelings, but that would also be too obvious. Bruce wasn't the type of guy who would let her get away with anything like that. He was the type to call the cops as soon as he heard the mirror break. She needed subtlety.

Her stomach gurgled and she leaned against the wall.

Where is this cab?

She looked at the toilet, thinking she might have to make use of it before she left, but then a better idea hit her. She eyed the back of the toilet and remembered a prank Matt had done once to a guy they both hated in high school.

"It's called an upper decker," Matt had said when he explained it, and they laughed and laughed at the imagined response that the guy or his mother would have when one of them flushed the toilet later and couldn't figure out why the water was brown and smelled like sewage. Would they call a plumber? The water company? Would they ever imagine a turd had been dropped in the tank of the toilet? Could anybody be so ridiculously immature or insane to do something like that? Matt could.

Liz could. Liz

would

.

Heavy with resolve, she carefully lifted the porcelain cover off the back of the toilet, exposing the inner workings -- a black bulb on a lever connected to the handle by a tiny chain, all in a reservoir of water that would replace the bowl water when flushed. After she silently sat the lid on the fluffy carpet in front of the sink, she hiked up her dress and slid her panties to the floor, kicking them to the side.