Caution: This story includes watersports, and more extreme submission.
It was part of my contract.
It was part of life at The Grange.
I’d come willingly: the drawings that lined our first room were from “the manual,” written in Victorian times, but left untouched since the heady days of Lady Barber. Everyone still looked up to her – all the dominatrices took solace in her written word and enacted her “show kindness through no mercy” mantra on a daily basis.
Life was tough. Total submission at The Grange was relinquishing all needs, all control and all power to the ladies who demanded total obedience. It was placing their wants before my needs and trusting in them completely.
Fiona was one such lady: she was my main dominatrix. A tall, statuesque beauty, with long blonde hair and clever mind. She wiled away her hours writing novels in the South-facing garden. I was in one; she read it to me one night as I massaged her legs and her feet. Is there a greater honour?
I trusted her completely. We’d first met two years ago at a kink club, and moved into The Grange together a few months later. She knew my limits, she knew where to push me. She showed care and kindness: a twisted form of love as I submitted to her every need and whim.
She loved to experiment. Sure, I got caned and whipped, beaten and punished for every indiscretion. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, but she wanted to play with my mind, push me places neither of us had been before and learn from the more experienced dommes in the house.
And I was her canvas. Her playground.
My aching limbs stretched with the rope tied to my extremities; groans escaping from my lips as the sound of tortured men echoed from the building. It was Friday night: of course there would be pain, suffering and a multitude of humiliation. It was the rules, it was the entertainment.
But Fiona wanted to play: she had the fiery look of arousal in her eyes, the latex stockings that made her feel confident and sexy, and the gleam of a sadistic imagination desperate to be set free.
The edges of the cold tiles in the South Lounge were rough; they dragged on my skin. I did as I was told, watching as my domme joked with other ladies, listening to the pitiful screams and inflamed cries.
She drank, they laughed and they took turns in batting the ruddled posterior of an unlucky gent. I had to wait my turn for attention, I had to be patient until she wanted to play her games. I had no choice as I was restrained, but waited, anxious at what she had planned. She had promised me that my night would be free of physical pain, but she had allowed my imagination to fester, wondering what she had planned.
She loved doing that; torturing my mind instead of my body. It made my blood run cold with apprehension, letting fear soak and spread while she teased and tormented me with her dramatic delay. She stood above me, her eyes sparkling as I stared into her smattering of pubic hair. She was right above me, waiting, smiling at her friends as they watched.
A gentle sprinkle landed first, followed by another, her warm urine bouncing off my cheek as she glanced down at my startled expression. “Open your mouth,” she demanded.
I knew better than to resist, my mind swimming with possibilities. Was she really going to make me drink her piss? To reduce me to the level of a toilet and watch as I gulped down her waste? My eyes met hers: it said safety. She communicated without saying a word, watching as she relaxed her bladder muscles and her pee falling into my mouth.
I coughed, her water hitting my gag reflex before I was ready, but she continued, giggling at my shocked expression as the feint taste of her bitterness sank in. It was weak, almost clear, yet the act was amazingly hot.
She was filling my mouth with her piss; gloating as I struggled to gulp every drop landing on my mouth. My face was soaked, the spray of her urination covering me as she struggled to aim. “Squat,” a voice behind me suggested. “Like this.”
The middle-aged dominatrix replaced Fiona: her luscious crotch inches from my face as she relaxed her muscles and a gentle stream filled my mouth. I gulped: her pee tasted violently bitter and disgustingly acrid. I felt my stomach heave as the influx of piss flowed into my belly, my mind whirred as I fought the urge to vomit, and continue to gulp down every last drop entering my mouth.
It was degrading. Humiliating. Disgusting.
But it was part of my life at The Grange.
It was part of my contract.
I existed to serve the ladies, and why should they have to walk to the toilet when there was a perfectly usable mouth within peeing distance?
Featured image from here.