BDSM Stories: Piss Play & Watersports (Thank You, Mistress)

No one has ever pissed on my face or into my mouth before, and it was something I’ve always wanted to do, especially with her. I’ve often thought about, and rarely (if ever) discussed, showing up to our regular service day with a coffee that she then pisses in. (Thank you, Mistress.)

Here I am again on another Sunday with another XL iced coffee, ready for service. (This is protocol… no one likes a grumpy service submissive in the morning.) She holds out her hand, slowly opening it to reveal a small blue pill in her palm. “Go ahead,” she encourages or dares—it’s hard to tell the difference. I take the pill without question or hesitation. (Thank you, Mistress.)

The downward angle that my head was resting in the toilet made it feel like I imagine waterboarding does when the water (piss) feels like it’s rushing into your brain. At first, I was stretching down into the toilet bowl to catch as much of her piss in my mouth as possible. Then, the panic and an immediate need to sit up set in. I thought about my two brain cells—all I need to do as I’m told—swimming in her piss. (Thank you, Mistress.)

I thought about getting a very thorough beating, like the one she gave me in the bathroom upstate earlier this year, and getting pissed on after. I thought about my warm tears and blood mixing with her warm piss on cold tile flooring. I thought about cleaning the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. (Thank you, Mistress.)

I thought about how I often struggle with humiliation. Partially just my not-so-small ego, and partially because I get frustrated with myself when I am not perfect (or at least above average) at something—anything. Perhaps my aversion to humiliation is why I have so deeply eroticized it. Yet there are very few things that I truly do find humiliating! (Thank you, Mistress.)

Her making me admit I wanted my long day of organizing and cleaning to be acknowledged, and then having me follow her from room to room on my hands and knees while she condescendingly praised me or critiqued me was very humiliating. I will be thinking about it for a long time. “I hate love to feel pathetic for you.” (Thank you, Mistress.)

We conclude the inspection in her bedroom. “Have a drink,” she encourages (or dares). I quickly put my hair up, and take a small drink from the dog bowl on the ground in front of me. (Thank you, Mistress.)

“Eat.” This time I pause, staring into the bowl of dog food as though it held some sort of alternative. “Do it,” she says, leaning down towards me. I take one kibble in my mouth, and she giggles. Another kibble falls to the floor, so she picks it up and pushes it into my mouth. “This one too,” comes a sing-song voice. The catch in my throat from trying not to gag on the dog food I’m attempting to force down—while she smiled down at me—will also hold a special place in the Humiliation Hall of Fame™. (Thank you, Mistress.)

It went everywhere—immediately. Down my throat, up my nose, in my eyes, in my hair. While I really wish I had swallowed all of my kibble beforehand, it is very humiliating to think about washing down dog food with her piss. (Thank you, Mistress.)

I thought about how I love piss for three reasons: (1) society has largely taught us that being pissed on/consuming piss is humiliating; (2) animals piss on things to mark their territory, and I like any and all reminders that I am her territory; and (3) I think there is something wholesome and romantic about her bodily fluids sustaining me. (Thank you, Mistress.)

As Tim Dean wrote, “Coded as dirty, urinemay cleanse; coded as waste, it is valued as precious by piss afi-cionados; coded as repulsive, its luminous beauty was dramatically revealed by Serrano.” 

I am thankful for everything she (and her pussy) give me, everything she allows me to have. (Thank you, Mistress.)

A couple nights ago I got to taste her pussy on her cock, I thought about how I need to re-practice reducing my gag reflex so I can get more of her cock into my throat. Tonight, I am also thinking about how to open my throat… to swallow without thinking. (Thank you, Mistress.)

Tonight, I am thinking about how she gently held my right cheek while her fist repeatedly slammed into my left. “‘Yes, Mistress.’ ‘Thank you, Mistress.’ ‘I’m sorry, Mistress.’ It’s not that hard; we’ve been doing this for years. Use your words. I don’t want to have to remind you again.” I felt “again” shoot through my jawline. (Thank you, Mistress.)

Thank you for pissing on my face and down my throat, Mistress. It felt like a reward after 9 hours of continuous little blue pills, physical service submission, and hyper productivity. I’m sorry I wasted so much of your piss; I promise I will be better and it will not happen again. (Thank you, Mistress.)

This is part of my BDSM Stories writing contest, contributed by an eager submissive. Want a more intimate look into my personal relationships? Follow me on my OnlyFans. Don’t forget to sign up for my newsletter and for those who feel inspired by the above interview and want to make fantasy a reality, reach out.