Rylan had only been in the little town for two days.
It was one of those forgotten places tucked into the hills of southern Europe—narrow stone streets, shuttered windows, a handful of cafés that closed early and a single public square with a fountain that never seemed to work. He and his buddies had come for the cheap wine and the quiet. They had laughed and joked loudly in the bar about how nothing ever happened here.
The last thing Rylan clearly remembered was the alley behind the bar. A hand over his mouth, the sharp smell of something chemical, the sudden weight of bodies pinning him down. When he woke up, the world was sideways and wrong.
His body was sealed behind the thick tiled wall of the men’s room. Only his head stuck out through a rough-cut hole near the floor, just beneath the lowest urinal. The edges of the opening had been padded with something soft so his skin wouldn’t tear, but the fit was tight—tight enough that his shoulders pressed hard against the concrete on the other side. He couldn’t pull back. He couldn’t turn. He could only face upward, the back of his head pressed to the cold, speckled floor, staring at the underside of the porcelain bowl.
A thick gray plastic pipe had been forced between his lips and shoved deep into his throat. It was the drainpipe from the urinal above. The end of it sat heavy on his tongue, stretching his jaw open, making swallowing almost impossible. Every time he tried to gag or shift, the pipe scraped the back of his throat and held him still. His eyes watered. His nose flared. He couldn’t close his mouth. He couldn’t speak.
Above him, the urinal waited.
Someone had already used it once while he was still half-conscious. The warm, bitter flood had poured straight down the pipe and into his mouth. He had choked, swallowed, choked again. The taste lingered—salty, sharp, unmistakably human. Now the green plastic screen at the bottom of the bowl sat like a little goal, waiting for the next player.
Footsteps echoed on the tiles.
A local man—middle-aged, heavyset, speaking in the rough regional dialect—unzipped without ceremony. He didn’t even look down at first. Just aimed and let go. The stream hit the back of the urinal with a soft hiss, then funneled straight into the pipe. Rylan’s throat worked helplessly as the hot piss filled his mouth and forced its way down. He swallowed because there was nowhere else for it to go. When the man finished, he spat once into the bowl for good measure. The thick glob slid down the pipe and landed on Rylan’s tongue.
The man finally glanced down. He smiled.
“Welcome to town,” he said in accented English. “You’re ours now.”
More men came throughout the day. Some used the urinal casually, like Rylan wasn’t even there. Others took their time. They laughed, talked over him, aimed deliberately so the stream would splash against the pipe and force more into his throat. A few spit. One older man leaned down, looked Rylan in the eyes, and slowly let a long string of saliva drip from his lips into the bowl. Rylan had no choice but to take it.
Behind the wall, his body was locked in place. Heavy straps crossed his chest and hips. His wrists were cuffed to the floor by his side. His ankles were spread and bolted to the floor. He couldn’t thrash. He couldn’t escape. The only movement left to him was the helpless working of his throat as the town used him the way it used any other fixture in the public bathroom.
By nightfall the taste in his mouth was permanent—piss, spit, the faint metallic tang of the pipe itself. His jaw ached. His throat burned. Tears had dried on his temples.
And the urinal above him was never empty for long.
The next morning door to the men’s room swung open with a heavy creak.
Two young men were shoved inside—Rylan’s travel buddies, still in the clothes they’d been wearing the night before. Their wrists were zip-tied in front of them. A pair of thick-shouldered locals followed them in, along with an older man in a faded suit who carried a thick, worn ledger under one arm.
Rylan’s eyes widened when he saw them. He tried to make a sound around the pipe filling his throat, but only a wet, choked gurgle came out. His head was still locked in place beneath the urinal, head pressed to the speckled floor, the gray plastic pipe shoved so deep he could barely swallow.
One of the buddies—Marcus—froze. “Jesus Christ… Rylan?”
The other, Theo, took a step forward before a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him.
The man in the suit opened the ledger and held it up so both of them could see. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting dense and formal, stamped with old municipal seals. He spoke in careful, accented English.
“According to the old town charter—still binding—any outsider who violates the quiet of this place may be claimed for public use. Your friend was taken under that law. He belongs to the town now. His body is sealed. His head serves the urinal. This is permanent.”
He flipped a page and pointed to a short paragraph written in both the local dialect and English.
“Any companions who protest, interfere, or attempt rescue may be added in the same manner. There are two more urinals on this wall that have not yet been fitted.”
The room went silent except for the soft drip of residual liquid still sliding down the pipe into Rylan’s open mouth.
Marcus’s face had gone pale. Theo’s jaw was tight, eyes darting between Rylan’s helpless face and the men blocking the door.
The older man closed the ledger with a soft thump.
“You have a choice. You may use your friend—as every man in this town has the right to do—and then you will be allowed to leave. Your journey continues. Or you can make trouble. In that case, you stay. Permanently. Just like him.”
One of the locals gestured toward the urinal above Rylan’s head, the green soccer-goal screen still sitting at the bottom of the bowl.
“He is already trained to take whatever is given. Piss. Spit. Whatever you put in him. He cannot refuse.”
Marcus looked down at Rylan. Their eyes met. Rylan’s were wet, desperate, silently pleading. The pipe forced his mouth into a permanent open shape. A thin trail of earlier use still glistened at the corner of his lips.
Theo spoke first, voice low and rough. “We’re not… we’re not doing that.”
The older man’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded once toward the two empty urinals farther down the wall. The locals shifted their weight, ready.
Marcus swallowed hard. He looked at Theo, then back at Rylan. The silence stretched.
Finally Marcus stepped forward.
His hands were still zip-tied, but he managed to unzip. He didn’t look at Rylan’s face as he aimed into the bowl. The stream hit the porcelain, then funneled straight down the pipe. Rylan’s throat worked visibly as the warm flood filled his mouth and forced its way down. He made a small, broken sound around the plastic, but he swallowed. He had no other choice.
When Marcus finished, he stepped back without a word.
Theo stared at him, stunned. Then, slowly, he did the same. His expression was harder, almost angry, but he still aimed into the urinal and let go. The second stream poured into Rylan’s throat. Rylan’s eyes squeezed shut. His body behind the wall gave a single helpless twitch against the straps that held him.
When it was over, both young men stood in silence, breathing hard.
The man in the suit gave a short, satisfied nod. The zip-ties were cut. The locals stepped aside.
“You may leave,” the older man said. “Do not come back. Your friend remains. He belongs to us.”
Marcus glanced one last time at Rylan’s face—flushed, wet-eyed, mouth still stretched wide around the pipe. Then he turned and walked out. Theo followed without looking back.
The door closed behind Marcus and Theo. Their footsteps faded down the hallway, then were gone.
Rylan was left alone again beneath the urinal, the taste of his two closest friends still fresh on his tongue, the town’s claim on him now complete and unchallenged.
Silence settled over the tiled room.
The man in the faded suit stepped closer and crouched so that his face was close to Rylan’s. He rested the heavy ledger on one knee. Behind him, two of the locals began preparing tools—thick epoxy, metal plates, a power drill, and a final set of heavy bolts.
“You understand what has happened,” the suited man said quietly. His accent was thicker up close. “The old law is still the law here. Outsiders who disturb the peace of this town may be claimed. Your friends were given the chance to walk away. They chose to use you and leave. That choice is final. They will not return for you. No one will.”
He opened the ledger one last time and held the relevant page so Rylan could see the dense, official script and the old municipal seals.
“You are now town property. Your body stays sealed behind this wall. Your head remains here, under this urinal, for as long as the building stands. The pipe in your throat will never be removed. Every man who uses this bathroom will use you. Piss. Spit. Whatever they decide to put into the bowl. You will swallow it. You have no other function.”
Rylan’s eyes were wide and wet. A soft, broken sound tried to escape around the thick plastic pipe forced deep into his throat. The suited man watched the failed attempt without expression.
“This is permanent,” he continued. “There is no release date. No appeal. No rescue. You belong to the town now. That is the end of the matter.”
He closed the ledger and stood.
The two locals moved in. One of them braced Rylan’s head firmly against the floor while the other worked quickly and efficiently. Thick industrial epoxy was packed tightly around the edges of the hole where Rylan’s neck met the wall, locking his head in place so he could not shift even a centimeter. Metal plates were screwed into the concrete on both sides of his neck, clamping him down. Heavy bolts were driven through the plates and into the floor itself, pinning him completely.
The pipe was given one final, deliberate shove deeper into his throat until the end of it sat heavy against the back of his tongue. A special epoxy was poured around the base of the pipe where it entered his mouth, sealing it in place forever.
When they finished, the suited man looked down one last time.
“You are the drain now,” he said simply. “That is all you will ever be.”
The men gathered their tools and left. The light was switched off. The door was locked from the outside.
Rylan remained exactly as they had left him—naked body strapped and sealed behind the wall, head locked to the cold speckled floor, mouth permanently stretched around the gray plastic pipe that fed directly from the urinal above.
In the days and years that followed, the men of the town used him without thought or ceremony. Some pissed casually. Some took their time. Some spat. Some laughed. The pipe never stopped delivering whatever was poured into it.
Rylan’s friends never came back.
The town never released him.
He remained the urinal drain—silent, helpless, and permanent.
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