He had just finished using my mouth hole, stroking the last drops of come onto my eagerly upturned face. I waited patiently on floor by the bed, knees aching, moaning slightly as I held the thick fluid on my tongue, some of it slowly sliding down my cheek as he bends to inspect me.
“What a good girl,” he whispers, grinning. “Do you want to swallow that?”
I mumble a dazed “Yes please, Owner,” around the cooling come on my tongue, around the warm fog of humiliation clouding my head. He grins again, and spits directly into my open waiting mouth. I flinch and whimper, but never so much as stir the precious load on my tongue. He laughs, spits on me again, and tells me to go ahead and swallow. I do, quietly moaning my gratitude as the congealing mixture of spit and spunk slides down my throat. I am warm, floaty, content - yet not fully satisfied.
He drops to the floor next to me, stroking my hair. “Such a disgusting, filthy whore, keeping Daddy up. Time for bed, little one,” he croons. Suddenly, knowledge of the forthcoming denial hits me and desperation clears the fog. “Please–” I start, but he’s already talking. “No more tonight, filth. No more orgasms, no piss -”
Before he can finish, an almost alien keening noise erupts from my throat. “No, please,” I choke out. The last few times we’ve played, I’ve begged him to mark me, to give me that slightly forbidden gift, to let his waste wash over me, reminding me: I am property, I am an object, I am for his use and pleasure.
“No.” His eyes bore into mine, the latter now wet with desperate tears. “It’s late, the slut needs sleep. Daddy needs sleep.” A floodgate bursts, and words tumble from my lips faster than I can process, a feral, primal need driving me. “No, no please, I need this, you said last time, please, please, I need you to mark me, to claim me, to own me. I need to feel your ownership, please may I have the privilege of your piss, please Owner, please, please, let me be your toilet, your piss can, your filth, please.”
He eyes me, bemused, while a small corner of my brain marvels at the begging requests falling from my lips.
“Look at you,” this tiny, sane corner observes. “Begging to be pissed on, begging to be showered in his waste like your life depends on it. What a filthy little girl. Begging for more degradation, begging to be used as a dumpster.”
He echoes my thoughts, a bit taken aback by the fervor in my voice. “You really have no shame, do you, filth? Begging for my piss, begging for further defilement.”
My pleading continues, reaching a fever pitch, tears running down smacked-pink cheeks while more catch in my throat. “Please, may It have this privilege, please use it, please may it have whatever Owner will give it. Anything that comes from Owner is an honor, please use it, please, it will do whatever Master wants, please…” My pathetic, rambling pleading continue until finally he stands up, grabbing my hair. “Filthy fucking whore,” he mumbles, fingers working deftly to remove the collar around my neck. My choked sobs turn into hiccups of relief, my heart pounding, suddenly giddy with the knowledge of what’s to come.
He tosses the collar to the floor and grabs my hair again. “Let’s go, slut.” He pulls me towards the bathroom, and I stumble after in relief.
He stops a few feet from the bathroom door and releases the fistful of hair, the sudden absence of pain and pressure making me lightheaded. “Crawl.” He points towards the tub, but it’s unnecessary. I am already sliding towards it on all fours, feeling the cold porcelain under me as I awkwardly clamber in. I move to my knees, automatically assuming presentation position, arms clasped behind me. He steps in after me, taunting me, the familiar mocking tone of his voice wrapping around me.
“Does the filthy whore want some piss?” He teases, stroking his cock. Again, the unchecked pleading: “Please owner, please honor it with this, please let it be your filthy girl. Anything that is given by Owner, his come, his spit, his words, his piss, is a gift, a privilege it is honored and lucky to receive.”
He impatiently interrupts me, positions himself over me. “The whore wants piss, hm?” And the finally, I feel the warm stream running over me, splashing over my chest and neck as I sob in gratitude. “Look at me,” he growls, in that tone that leaves no room disobedience. I raise my eyes and the hot stream cascades over my face. Without thinking, I open my mouth, the salty stink of his urine filling my senses as I cough and sputter, his laughter almost unheard. “Look at you,” he grins. “Disgusting, stupid little piss pig. How does that taste, whore?”
I blink tearily up at him, the last drops running down my face as they drip from my overflowing open mouth over my chin. I’ve been holding my breath, avoiding the acrid smell but I force myself to take a deep breath, embracing the smell of him surrounding me, accepting this gift, grateful to receive this part of him, desperately thankful to prove my commitment. I sit staring up at him, mouth full of hot piss as he chuckles. “Do you want to swallow that, or spit it out? Go ahead, I’ll be nice and let you spit it.” But before he’s finished his sentence, I’ve taken a moment to steady myself and in one hard swallow, his waste slides down my throat, leaving only a sour taste in my mouth and a surprised chuckle from him.
“Absolutely disgusting,” he informs me. As if I didn’t know. Tears begin leaking down my face again, tears of gratefulness, of shame, of humiliation, of relief - of arousal.
He steps from the tub and sits next to me, stroking my hair, disregarding of the pungent wetness soaking it.
“Does it feel better now?” He asks, the ghost of smile on his face as he looks down on me. “Is the filth satisfied?”
I sob my thanks, barely coherent professions of gratefulness for this gift, for his fulfilling of this need, for reminding me of my place, for marking his property, for using me as I am meant to be used, for understanding this desperate need.
He smiles, the cruelty gone for the moment. “You’re welcome, slave. Filthy little fucktoy.” I sigh in acceptance, closing my eyes, enjoying the sensation of wetness running down my naked, abused body, feeling the warm puddles beneath my fingers, the tingle between my thighs, the satisfaction of a service provided.
His hand traces a golden rivulet over my breast, ignoring my sharp inhale as he brushes my bruised nipple. “Filthy little fuckmeat. You did so good, little girl.” Finally, splayed out in the tub on all fours in a puddle of piss, I relax, falling back into the haze of my humiliation and satisfaction. His words penetrate the fog, reassuring and familiar.
kianamaiart
2087
gummygunk
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
