Bimbo and fuckpig arrange themselves for Daddy’s arrival home from work. Bimbo has spent the day working out, tanning, and starving herself while preparing a delicious and painfully aromatic roast for Daddy. Fuckpig has spent today, like every day, on her knees, trying her best to clean the house without the use of her forelegs.
If Daddy is in a good mood when he comes home, events will go something like this: Fuckpig will kneel, eyes down, while Bimbo relieves Daddy of his coat and briefcase. Daddy will smile and say something like, “That’s a good whore,” which will make Bimbo swell with pride and fuckpig cower in shame. Daddy might demand that Bimbo stills for inspection. He will loop his thumbs around the teensy straps of her shiny shirt and circumnavigate her ridiculous fake tits.
“How’s your back, Bimbocakes?” He’ll ask sweetly. Bimbo knows that Daddy expects honesty, so she’ll admit the combination of the latest augmentation and the 7” heels is wreaking havoc on her muscles: she is almost constantly sore and finding it more and more difficult to get comfortable. Daddy will smile sympathetically and smack her ass hard enough to make her wince. “But?” he will prompt.
“But my pain is meaningless, Daddy. Your happiness is all I care about.”
Daddy will hum approvingly and shove two cruel fingers up her underprepared cunt. “So tight,” he’ll compliment her, “Someone’s been doing her kegels.”
A flush of joy will blossom over Bimbo’s face. “Every day, Daddy.”
“That’s my girl.” He will affirm before sliding those same two fingers between the overinflated cockpads on her face. She will suck at them eagerly. “Now go finish up. I expect dinner in a half hour.”
Bimbo will scurry off as best she can on her stilletos, sculpted ass swaying pleasantly.
Daddy’s attention will shift to the creature before him who is willing itself invisible. Daddy won’t speak, but his lip will twitch slightly in disgust. He will free his cock, and wind a strong hand in fuckpig’s limp hair, yanking her face up towards him. She will pre-emptively spread her jaw, and soon his steady stream of piss will start. She knows better than to swallow. Daddy likes to fill her like a glass, sometimes likes her to hold it there for full minutes as her facial muscles protest the stretch and stillness. He likes to talk to her when her mouth is full, when she’ll know he has no interest in hearing her replies.
“How do you live with yourself?” He’ll ponder. His tone of voice won’t even be vicious, just conversational, easy. “Is this what you had planned? Being an owned floor mop, toilet brush and urinal?” He’ll laugh and flick her head, watching her eyes flare in fear as she tries not to spill a drop. “Actually, it probably is. This is probably exactly what you imagined as you frigged furiously at your seeping, ugly gash every night. What a lonely, nasty thing you were. What is wrong with you, I wonder. How did you get to be so incomplete? Hmm?” He’ll pause thoughtfully, looking intently at her. The intensity will pass. “Swallow.” He’ll demand simply.
She’ll quickly obey, still confounded at her inability to adjust to the nauseating taste, smell and feel of urine as it lines her esophagus. It is inescapable, now. She rarely goes more than 8 or 9 hours without receiving his piss one way or another. He’s been musing lately about filling her water dish with it as well, since already adds his piss to the food in her trough. The threat makes her sick with dread.
She still can’t suppress the flicker of disgust that will skim over her features as he shakes he last drops of urine onto her exposed tongue. This will anger Daddy and he’ll demand that she part her legs. Her haunch muscles straining, she will obey, parting her thighs and exposing the permanently vacant slop hole formerly known as her cunt.
“Fuckpig, fuckpig, fuckpig.” Daddy will shake his head, backhanding her sharply across the face. “What are we going to do with you? After all this time, you still hold to some pathetic notion that you are too good for my piss.” His hand will fly across her other cheek and she will grunt softly. He will run the toe of his shoe along her drooling slit, lecturing her further, “But you are not. In fact, you are not too good for anything. That is the definition of fuckpig. A grotesque aberration of a woman with a leaky wound between its legs and a body built for abuse.” He will pull his foot back far enough to gather the strength necessary to kick her solidly, holding her steady with a hand in her hair.
“You’ve seen Bimob,” He will continue, landing blow after blow on her aching gash lips. “You know what a real woman looks like. And god knows I’ve made you examine your disgusting hog flesh enough times to know that you don’t exactly compare. Bimbos make their owners’ lives easier. Bimbos are eager, and entertaining and they deserve Daddy’s cock. But fuckpigs…” Daddy will sigh, “Fuckpigs are a fucking chore. Constant need for attention and correction. Horrible to look at. Always fucking sniffling and feeling sorry for themselves.” Fuckpig will be openly weeping now, squealing and trying to close her legs against the brutal assault, but Daddy will remain unfazed, his foot striking its now-bruised target ruthlessly.
Eventually, if fuckpig is lucky, the smells of the pot roast will infiltrate the air around them and Daddy will lose interest in her, throwing her to the ground with a few last kicks to her bloated stomach and heavy tits.
“And now you’ve gone and made a mess of my shoe,” Daddy will tell her. He will take them off and drop them carelessly on her head, “Be a good pig and tidy that up.” He will wiggle his socked toes in between her puffy cunt lips and laugh as she bucks on them despite the ache. “You disgust me.” He will tell her simply, before shaking his head and leaving for the dining room.
Fuckpig’s stomach will growl helplessly and she’ll get to work licking her hole slop off Daddy’s shoes, so thankful that Daddy was in a good mood.