"Damn, kids. Use too much paper," the janitor mutters and he carries you down the hall. They way he wield you you can't be very heavy. Your perspective is limited to the floor, and to as much of the hallway as you can see as you swing back and forth with the janitor's stride. You feel as if your entire body is your penis, and it is obviously wooden, and being firmly grasped by janitor's calloused hands. You obviously aren't a mop or broom, since you are shorter swinging from the janitor's hand. You feel different, more solid. You see a door open, and the floor changes from wood and carpet to white tile. It must be the bathroom. You hope you're not going to have to clean the floors in here.
As the janitor raises you to his shoulder, your view reveals he is facing an open toilet stall. The toilet is over flowing. When you reach his shoulder, you can see yourself in the mirror. You want to scream, your face is the inside of a plunger. The janitor flips you and you descend head first into the toilet. The smell hits you first. Them, the cold water, soggy toilet paper, and something else you'd rather not think about. In and out, up and down, and the whole the time the janitor is riding his hands up and down your phallus. You want to cum, but you're solid wood. Finally, the blockage clears, and clear water washes over you. You are relieved.
Maybe when you're back in the closet you will become human again, you think. But you're dripping wet, so the janitor sets you on the back of the stool to dry. Hours pass.
Various young men use the commode throughout the day. But all you can do is hear them, since your face is downward on the porcelain. You feel the stool rock. You hear their groans and plops, and then the roaring flush. The door clangs open. Then shut again and it repeats.
Finally, when you despair at ever being rescued, a hand grips you...