| Description: |
In a forgotten corner of my basement, I sit on my portable toilet, that sturdy folding throne that has seen better days. The gas mask, with its fogged-up filters and its smell of old rubber, covers my face like a second skin, protecting me from the apocalyptic fumes I imagine floating in the air. Downstairs, instead of a conventional toilet, I've placed a stainless steel bowl.
With a sigh muffled by the fogged-up visor, I free my body. First, the warm, steady stream of urine, splashing against the metal with a musical clink, filling the bowl like a miniature flooded river. Then, the climax arrives: a breathtaking shit, epic in its scale, a fecal monument that accumulates in perfect layers, firm and voluminous, as if my gut had been planning this masterpiece for days. The aroma, filtered through the mask, becomes a distant echo, but I know that without it, it would be an olfactory disaster.
I stand up, admiring my creation: a feeding trough brimming with organic chaos, a testament to absolute freedom. Who needs porcelain when you have this?
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