.:there is an element of truth in all fiction:.
Before I even walk in the door, my stomach is in knots, tears welling up in my eyes. I'm scared shitless - I'm a masochist who hates pain, and if there's one thing Master has no qualms about doing, it's inflicting pain. Up until this moment, I was tempted to come up with any reason I could to escape the inevitable - to escape facing the consequences of my ill-thought-out actions. Perhaps I could find reasons to consider Him incompetent or untrustworthy or even dangerous, maybe I could even argue that I really was right to snap at Him. But I know I'd just be running away, and it's time I learn to face the punishment that's been due to me a long time. I realize can't run from myself forever, but that thought doesn't comfort me any.
Once the door is closed and locked, and my coat is hung up, He leads me into the center of the room with a tight, painful grip on my hair. Pulling me down onto my knees, He stares into my eyes intently, his rage apparent. I let out a nervous giggle and his other hand finds its way across my cheek. I'm not sure quite how to react, stunned into silence, the burning imprint of his palm a reminder of why I'm there to begin with. His fingers grab hold of my nipples and pull upwards, indicating I'm to rise to my feet. The pain is incredible, beyond anything erotic. Master then commands me to strip. I fold my clothes neatly in a pile and place them on the floor off to the side. I stand before Him again, erect, hands behind me, head bowed. It takes every ounce of energy in me not to cave in, to hold myself upright. I must take what's coming to me. The silence is torture enough, but perhaps it's better that way.
The area rug has been rolled up off to the side, and he commands me onto my hands and knees on the hardwood floor, which hasn't been swept since the carpet was moved. The little pieces of dirt start digging into my palms and knees. I can only wonder if Master placed little pieces of gravel here intentionally, and I wouldn't put it past Him. As I shift around to try and avoid the little digging pains, He slaps me on the side of my ass and tells me to stop moving. My frustration grows, but my fear reminds me to be patient. Master places a deep bowl in front of me, pulls down his pants and directs a stream of piss into the bowl. On the way down, it sprays lightly into my face. I'm tempted to close my eyes, but I know that would only result in his piss finding its way more directly onto my face - which, regardless of my stoicism, it does. His piss runs down my face and drips beneath me onto the floor. After squeezing the last drop from his cock, He points down to the bowl. He needn't say more.
I lower my elbows to the floor, place my arms on the side of the bowl, and lower my face to it. I try not to breathe the smell in, I try not to cry. Cringing, I reach my tongue out to the liquid and take it into my mouth. With each sip, it gets harder and harder to force myself to taste yet more, but yet I must bury my face further into the bowl to get every last drop. Twice I come close to vomiting, but somehow I manage to hold it in and get past it. All I can smell and taste now is his piss. I feel it drying on my face; I fill my mouth with saliva to try and dilute it, but to no avail. His piss surrounds me. I am nothing but repulsed, straining not to show it, fighting the nausea, mentally trying to accept that this is the way it had to be, that I deserved this, that his piss is a gift and I'm lucky even to have been offered to drink of it. Back on my hands and knees, I stare at the floor, trying to blank all of this out.
He pulls me to my knees by my jaw, opening my mouth with his fingers and keeping it open with his cock. A few drops of piss reach the back of my throat, replaced soon by his anxious pre-cum. Master knows I'm not very adept when it comes to deep-throating, so He keeps pushing further in, and eventually, somehow, my jaw starts to relax. I still can't help gagging a few times, but soon I'm able to start sucking eagerly. I'm a bit confused as to why He's even allowing me to suck on his cock, but once He sees I'm starting to enjoy it, He grabs the back of my head, stills his hips, and releases more piss directly into my throat. My mouth overflows, piss dripping down the sides of my face, onto my breasts and body, streaming down to the floor. I'm overcome with shock, sick to my stomach from the taste, shocked, dazed, and in awe.
The words Master speaks resonate through my head. "You've drunk my waste, you've been my toilet twice," He says. "Who the fuck do you think you are to me that you can treat me like I was below you, your cunt to control," He asks? "In case you've forgotten, you're the slut who came to me, LATE, knowing full well what was going to happen if you were. Who do you think you're serving right now? You should speak to me as if you're no better than my crusty toilet, welcoming my essence at all times. Do not forget your place as my piss pot.
"Do not ever cross me again," He commanded. I could do nothing but look down, still dazed. He gripped my hair tightly and turned my head upwards till my piss-covered face and glazed eyes stared back at Him.
"Who do you serve, slut?"
"You Master."
"What is your role in serving me, slut?"
"To always please you, Master."
"If you cross me one more time - one more time like that ever again - we're finished. I will not tolerate this insubordination and utter disrespect."
"Yes, Master. I understand that, Master."
"Good. Now clean up the piss on the floor, roll down the carpet, clean the bowl and get out of my face for tonight. Your stench disgusts me, slut. You may wipe your face off, but leave my piss on the rest of your body as a reminder until you get home. Understood?"
"Yes, Master. Thank You for teaching me this lesson, Master."
With that, Master dropped a rag on the floor and went into his room, closing the door behind Him.
I let out a deep sigh as I scrubbed the mixture of piss and freshly fallen tears from the floor.