Of Piss and Humiliation
Alexandra writes about piss play and the couple of times she wonderfully used the toilet to confuse my expectations.
She wonders why we haven’t done more. My ‘fault’ I suspect.
I told her that I didn’t find the idea of being peed on that humiliating. I’ve known a number of gay men who enjoy the act as if piss were a secondary form of ejaculate. My image is of two happy guys frolicsomely whizzing away at each other.
Maybe I was being glib. Having never had wash urine wash over my face or into my mouth how would I really know. (Though I’d hate to have her ask me how that felt and say “Oh, that was nice.”) And a D/s context might flavor my response. When she adopts a certain voice my spine wriggles in response (her pet’s invisible tail?).
Alexandra will tell you I’m not that easily humiliated. (Bless her for managing to do so anyway). Despite growing up with prudish parents I’m still in the Garden of Eden and don’t have a sense of sexual shame.
At 18 I bought a sort of trashy gay tabloid that has vanished in the era of slick queer porn. It was there that I saw my first ad for sex toys (the butt plug surprised me to no end). And read my first BDSM story.
I remember only two things from the story. The slave was whipped with a wet towel. That turned me on. The master pissed on the floor and made the boy lick it up. That turned me on violently. I’ve never stopped masturbating to that image.
From the beginning my image of piss humiliation was worse than - to my mind - having it directed at me.
When a fantasy grows stale you up the wattage to keep it thrilling. Sometimes the idea of licking urine from the floor wasn’t enough. I’d picture myself locked in a cage all night. On and off when my owner’s bladder needed to be emptied I’d be pissed on. And left there stinking with piss in my hair.
Pushing the envelope a bit further I’d picture myself in a box - or better - a pit. She or he would drink a six-pack of beer or a big pot of coffee. I’d stay there alone except for the moments when the hot piss poured over me.
Naturally I fantasized about having to lap it up after my owner used the toilet. Being allowed to drink only from the commode, clean or otherwise, was part of my first images of 24/7 slavery.
Most consistently: being told that I’d only be allowed to drink piss and would lap it up from a pet bowl. This was part of my first ‘training’ fantasies. Eventually I saw a drawing of a guy eating pet food from a bowl after his owner had pissed on it. If my hair could uncurl and stand on end that would’ve done it.
The harsh piss fantasies were staples of my imaginary slave life for years.
I’ve shared all these things with Alexandra. I’m sure there are times when knowing your slave’s imagination has rushed off to wildest pervert space can be discouraging for a dominant.
Some of you, I suspect, have gotten used to that.