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You had dreamed of this for so long, the ultimate degradation. When the opportunity finally came to be permanently plumbed into a yacht's septic tank, you didn't hesitate. You thought it was the peak of your toilet slave fantasy. Now, five months later, you know the truth. The fantasy is gone, replaced by the grim reality of survival. Your entire existence revolves around that valve above your head. The sharp hunger pangs are your only clock, signaling it's time to open the flow and swallow another mouthful of thick, warm sewage. It is never consistent. Sometimes it's a torrent of acrid, watery piss that makes your stomach cramp and burn. Other times, it's a thick, chunky slurry that clogs in your throat, a heavy mix of semi-digested food waste and dense, foul-smelling shit that forces you to chew just to swallow it down. You've learned to brace for the solid lumps, the fibrous chunks that scrape against your tongue and teeth before you can choke them back. There is no such thing as a "clean" drink; every mouthful is a revolting gamble between thin, bitter liquid and gag-inducing solids.