The Piss Slave's Confessional

It would shame me no end to know you had read this and I would never admit to having written it at all. If you are reading this now, I am squirming inside. I want you to read it but then dismiss it, delete it and never mention it again. It is too embarrassing.

I have always lusted after you. That's not news. You know that only too well. Now as much as ever, your body is so hot. And so unavailable.

I have memories and photos but no chances of fucking you. No expectations and nothing but the thrill of occasional glimpses and stolen glances. All of which is more than fine.

What drives me to insane actions, such as writing this, is the fierce lust that is provoked by thoughts of what you can give me instead. It leads me on and forces me to entertain depraved fantasies and to revel in a form of exquisite, intoxicated sexual debasement.

I would do anything, anything at all for a drink. A drink from you.

I have paid money for a glass that, later on, I have used in extended masturbation sessions. I'm astonished that you have also kindly donated free samples for my pleasure and use. I'm ecstatic.

You wouldn't even need to do that though, to thrill me all day. Just you verbalising that I like to drink your piss, sorry, love to, and would do anything for it is almost enough.

Sometimes, when I lie in self bondage with your piss retained at length in my mouth, I imagine your voice telling me over and over not to swallow but to just keep it there. Plus all kinds of other instructions. And how happy I would be to oblige.

Of course I like to watch, but am as aroused when you keep yourself bunched up and unexposed, leaving me to listen and guess. Imagining being really up close. To almost feel the warmth of the stream. Whilst blindfolded. Denied a view.

It is everything. The smell and the sound too. As I become more turned on I fantasise wildly that one day you would bring round some of your piss soaked knickers, sealed in a bag. I imagine you being entirely perfunctory about the whole affair but gladly accepting my money and playing no part or having no interest in how I press them to my face or stuff them in my mouth as vibrators whirr on a roped up body.

So now we are deep into the realm of far-fetched fantasies.

What would it ever take for me to video you pissing in a glass for me again? Would I beg or pay over the odds or would you be drunk and happy enough with me to reward me? Could you promise this indefinitely, have me instantly enthralled only for you to defer it once more? And then, if ever it did occur, would you do it in awkward light or have me only focus on the glass or the sound and still expect me to thank you profusely. I would.

But the ultimate, what gets me instantly hard and totally wanton, is the thought, just the thought of you pissing in my mouth. Saying it under my breath; please piss in my mouth, please piss in my mouth as I stroke myself is a must. Writing it now brings me close. So close.

The fact it is so unlikely is such a turn on. Way beyond expectations. May be you would just have me sip from a glass you offer. Tell me to hold it here and not touch myself perhaps. Wild fantasies.

Or one day, in some place you might come round with a 2-litre bottle of your piss , chilled from the fridge, and show casual disdain as I pay you gleefully. Or may be you would watch disinterestedly as you tipped some of it into a funnel or a bowl for me to taste, savour or just smell.

Or maybe you would just come round and get drunk and spend the whole time teasing and flirting me with your bladder and what you will do but ultimately leave me with nothing but your laughs.

I need to come now. Writing this is too much. And when I do, I will imagine these scenes and shiver with horror that I have sent this to you. A panic and a chill. I can see your disappointment as you read this. Your eyes rolling and your finger hovering over the delete key. Please. Please do. Never mention this. I am such a fool for sending it. Sorry.