I have an issue with peeing. I hate to do it (and most times can’t) in front of people. The times that W has urinated on me, marking me, are both incredibly humiliating and incredibly hot, both because it is humiliating, and because it makes me feel so fucking owned. It’s hard to describe it any other way.
And the times that I have drunk his pee…
Yes. I’ve done that. I did it the other night. For the record, it tastes…musky. But it isn’t the taste of it that bothers me (well not that alone.) It’s the act of it, it’s the complicity involved in it. Because I have to choose to obey. I have to open my mouth, to take his cock into my mouth, I have to willingly let him pee into my mouth and swallow it. If I am tied or beaten and he pees on me, I have no choice. When he says, “Drink my piss,” well, I have to make the choice to do it. To choose to obey, to give him what he wants. To kneel down in front of him and take his cock out of his pants and place it, warm and soft, into my mouth. To wait until I feel it filling with his warm piss, unable to look at him but knowing he is watching me, watching the revulsion warring with my desire to please him, watching as I fight myself to do as he wants.
Today I uploaded a picture of me in my cage to Twitter (scroll down, it’s at the bottom.) And I was asked if my jailer let me out to use the facilities. “Don’t even get me started on that,” I said, remembering another time that I wasn’t let out to use the facilities.
He had locked me in the cage during a weekend long visit, which was a kind of respite for both of us from the intensity of the interactions we’d had up til then. It was playful and fun, and we both enjoyed talking, writing, laughing, and, occasionally, playing.
What he didn’t warn me about was that he wasn’t going to let me out to pee.
He brought me coffee and soda throughout the morning. And eventually, I had to do what comes naturally. “Will you unlock me?” I asked. “I have to go pee.” He just smiled, got up and went into the other room. “Here you go,” he said, and handed me a mason jar. I looked at it blankly. “Excuse me?”
“That’s your bathroom.”
For quite a while I didn’t believe him, that he actually wanted me to piss in that jar. In front of him. I argued, I pleaded, I was frankly disbelieving. Eventually, I realized he was serious. And my need to go to the bathroom gradually got more and more serious. Finally, I gave in.
I positioned myself over the mason jar, my face red with embarrassment. I implored him not to take any photos (I don’t recall if he did or not, now.) It was horrendously embarrassing to have to maneuver myself into that position, ungainly, awkward and graceless. Add that I was going to have to pee that way as well, and it was a long, miserable process.
But I had to try. I really had to go. So, I gave in, I was in position…and I tried to pee in that fucking jar.
I tried and tried and tried.
I couldn’t do it.
Sitting there, crouched over that jar, trying to urinate and failing, over and over…god it was awful. So much so that when I actually, finally, managed to do it, it was almost a triumph. I succeeded! It was definitely a relief.
This past weekend, when they put me in the cage to write, I was very very careful about my fluid intake.
I do learn.