CW:Knife play, Watersports

If you wanna know what happened before this scene check out Crying Out Loud, this can be read on it’s own though you’ll get more of an insight into my frame of mind if you’ve read what had just happened. Also you’ll get double the hot :p 


“So, when I’ve finished my coffee I need a piss and a shower and I think you should join me for both.” H said matter of factly.

“Okay, sure.” I replied with a smile.  Watersports had been on our to do list the first time we played, but I got them too turned on for it to be achieved. It’s something we’ve talked about lots. I didn’t have to think about it for even a second. I wanted to have H pee on me.

It took a while to get there, not just because they sipped their coffee slowly but because they were enjoying hurting me. Shocker. The marks from the pinching ‘til I cried were so sore that even if they looked like they might prod or slap them I’d cringe with real fear. They took great pleasure in using that against me.

And then I took great pleasure from accepting H’s invitation to sit on their face. Holy crap that was hot. I remember them tapping my leg so I could release them and seeing their face, red and hot and their lips and chin covered in my juices and this pure joy in their eyes. I could smell my cunt on their face, I could taste me on their lips when we kissed. Hot. It was fucking hot. Did I say it was hot? Yeah.

It was.

Anyway, this just illustrates what the time I spend with H can be like. We are very easily distracted.

It’s great.

Finally, they finished their coffee and took me upstairs. I followed them into their room and dropped off my stuff. I ended up in their arms, kissing them passionately and suddenly there was a knife held to my throat.

They’d shown me the knife a while ago and I was somewhat intrigued. Being cut isn’t a big turn on in itself, but the fear, that’s what caught my attention.

And the knife at my throat, being drawn across my skin, gently caressed over my chest, that was really scary but it turned me on. I could see the intent and lust in H’s eyes and me holding still, letting them caress me with their knife edge was pleasing them. I wanted to be good for them. I wanted to show that I could hold still through the fear, that I trusted them that much.

They put away the knife, kissed me and led me to the bathroom. They stripped me. My red zipped dress removed in seconds. My bra a little longer (damn those things are not easy) but then I was naked. H helped me into the bath and told me to kneel.

I had barely a moment to brace myself before the piss hit me squarely in the chest. I gasped, closed my eyes then opened them again to look up at H. I couldn’t hold their gaze. I could see the delight, the power, the lust in their gaze and I felt so small, so lowly that I had to look down and close my eyes tight. Not only against the weight of their dominant stare but against the splashing of the urine that sprayed everywhere.

I wasn’t revelling in the sensations. The stream was warm, constant and splashed everywhere. I felt it on my chest, my cheek, my hair, my neck. A little splashed onto my lips even. I shuddered. An automatic reaction to something dirty, least that’s what I’ve been told since I was little.

I was covered in their pee. I could smell it, musky, wheaty and although not unpleasant, the smell surrounding me, the fluid dripping on my skin felt wrong. Like I was doing something so disgusting by letting someone piss on me. I was disgusting. A deviant. A degenerate. And to a person who spends their every waking moment trying hard to be good, to feel so bad was quite overwhelming.

Not distressing, weirdly enough. I was calm. I didn’t feel like I wanted it to stop. I was giving up my need to be good. I was letting go of my need to do what looks right, what is acceptable by society and my peers. I let all that go and just did what H wanted of me. I wanted to please them so very much. That overrode every other instinct in me.

I was on my knees, soaked in their piss. A humble offering.

“How do you feel?” They asked.

“Dirty.” I replied.  And I did. I felt filthy and insignificant. I felt like nothing. I couldn’t verbalise anything more. That one word was hard work in fact.  Admitting that I felt dirty filled me with shame and I was overwhelmed by that.

I was degraded. Totally stripped bare, right to my very soul.

Then H held out their hand. It was such a simple act, really but it was the most significant moment of the whole scene for me. Their hand symbolised their love. They reached out, enveloped my hand in theirs and pulled me back up to their level.

They took a flannel, wetted it in the jets of the shower (I don’t remember them switching it on. I was not focused on that at all) and started to clean me off. So gently, so tenderly. I watched. Their hand gripped around the blue flannel, wiping at my skin with such reverence.

From profane to profound.

Every bit of me that had been stripped away was renewed. The warmth of the water, the gentle purpose of the stroking flannel and their other hand holding me. Their care brought me back.

Every stroke built me up. Every touch of their hands reminded me of my worth. They cleaned me, kissed me, held me. I felt so loved, so cherished.

That was what I loved most about the whole experience but without the degradation I wouldn’t have felt that cherished and rejuvenated. I had to experience the dirtiness of being on my knees before H, their piss flowing all over me to experience the uplifting love of being cleaned by their hand.

Brutal balance.

Humiliation and revival.