She loves it when he pisses on her.
Not the act itself, so much; the sensory experience leaves much to be desired. It hurts her knees to kneel in the shower. The taste (because, inevitably, some always ends up in her mouth) is bitter. Not pleasant. The deluge of piss feels overwhelming sometimes, particularly when he directs it at her face, and she splutters, struggles to stay still, struggles to keep her mouth open. She can barely find room to breathe sometimes.
But, for all that, it turns her on. The act is so debased that she cannot help but feel it in her gut. Here she is, kneeling, naked while her lover pisses on her face. She is that person. That person is her. That nude, spluttering thing. That pisssoaked animal.
From the moment the hot stream of his water first hits her skin, a sense of bottomless submissiveness yawns open inside her. It throbs. Those boundaries she had before drop away. What point is there in modesty? She’s literally being pissed on by another adult human. What point is there in retaining any kind of control? What point is there in protesting, in feeling shy, in holding back? She’s being pissed on, and she is enjoying it, and that is all she needs to know about herself.
Afterwards, dripping with piss, she kneels in the shower. She wants to do what he wants, anything, everything, give him everything. She wants that so urgently that she can barely think.
She waits to be told what to do. If he told her nothing she would stay there until he did. She wouldn’t wash herself. Wouldn’t spit. Wouldn’t even move to ease the ache in her knees. His piss on her skin, in her mouth, even inside her (shamefully, she swallowed quite a bit of it). It drips from her. It is warm. She is warm from him. And though the taste in her mouth is bitter and her knees ache and some vague distant part of her baulks in disgust, she wants to remember every moment of this.
