What do you do, when you meet the perfect man?
One who gives, without reserve, everything you’ve ever craved? One who takes everything you’ve ever wanted to relinquish?
What do you do when you meet this man?
Every desire, every fantasy, every secret filthy yearning. He knows them all. I am laid bare before him, and I would have it no other way. He haunts my dreams and my nightmares, as I ache to please him, drowning in gratitude.
I can feel him, standing behind me, as I study the tile under my feet. He makes the air prickle over my skin, leaving a wash of goosebumps in its wake. I don’t understand how he has this effect on me, but his power claws over the curves of my body. It is simply another aspect of his possession. This sensation of caustic, rapturous control.
I cannot escape him, and I don’t want to.
Still, he rewards me with a touch, fingers on the back of my neck. The feel of his skin against mine, even this tiny touch, is comfort and terror, joy and horror.
“Kneel, slave.” Simple words, the voice that makes my heart race. “I will allow you to give into your craving to be on your knees for me.”
He knows.
I can feel the blush begin to creep over my cheeks. He shouldn’t be able to know these thoughts, but he does. My blush deepens as I begin to truly understand how transparent I am to him.
I kneel. Some tension that has pooled in my tendons dissipates, now that I am positioned correctly. Some wrongness evaporates.
I take my first full breath of the day, as I lower my forehead to the floor.
“Thank you, Master.” My words seem wholly inadequate. Completely inadequate to express the level of appreciation for giving me this overwhelming sense of serenity. “Thank you for… everything.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
It’s still not good enough. What do you do, when you meet the perfect man? What do you say?
I can hear the chuckle in his voice, something both quietly malicious and deeply calming. “You’re welcome, slave. Deficient as your gratitude is.”
My face feels hot, and I fight the urge to squirm. “Yes, Master.” I arch my back, bring my ass up, and spread my legs. If I cannot offer his suitable gratitude with my words, maybe he will accept my body, my wet, desperate need for him to be inside me.
“Are you wet for me, slave?”
I feel my pussy pulse, and it feels cool against the air. Of course I’m wet for him. “Yes, Master.”
“Are you sure?”
And just that small sentence makes me stop and question. Am I wet? His words are hopelessly disorienting, making me question the nature of my own reality. I was so sure, seconds ago. Now, I’m not. “I… don’t know.” My insides clench at the thought of this power he has over me.
“I expect you to be dripping, and you’re not,” he says.
Disappointment spears me, as I internalize his words. Not wet enough. “I’m sorry.”
“Would you like my help, slave?” There is a trap in the tone of his voice, I know, but I can’t see where it is hidden.
I often wonder if he’s done something to my mind, to make the traps invisible to me until I’ve walked into them, or if I was always this naive. Truly, I don’t know. Perhaps one day I will ask.
“Yes, Master. Please help me be acceptable to you.”
I am still on my knees, prostrate, with my forehead on the floor.
I don’t know what I expect; a touch, maybe, to the sensitive pieces between my legs, the center of my aching desperation.
Instead, all I hear is the sound of his zipper. The teeth scrape against each other, both too fast and much too slow. I fight my desire to wiggle, to entice him to use my holes.
The moment dilates as I wait.
I feel no touch of his cock, no firm push against the openings of my body, exposed as they are.
I feel nothing, except a warm stream of piss that splashes against my pussy, before traveling up and over the swell of my ass. The humiliation of it feels like an implosion in my chest, crushing every rib inward.
Not wet enough.
He will make me wet enough.
I can feel the warm rivulets of his waste flow down my back, into my hair, over my ears and over the ridge of my cheeks. It puddles underneath my face, underneath my lips. I hiss in pain as it flows into the corners of my eyes, burning and stinging.
“Open your eyes, slave. Keep them open.”
I whimper, as I struggle to comply, to allow him to hurt me. My eyelids flutter open, under the acrid deluge, and I suck in a breath as a new wave of pain overwhelms me. It is sharp, biting.
I shiver in my struggle.
The puddle grows ever larger underneath me, as he continues to cover me, to soak my body.
The pain in my eyes is overpowering, second over to the crushing degradation of being covered in his piss while in devotion.
The combination is heady and devastating, and another piece of tension breaks somewhere in my mind, as I let out a choked sob.
He is perfect. He breaks me in such beautiful ways.
His flow dwindles, and I hear another zip. “This is my gift to you, today, slave. You will lick everything up, before it cools. Do you understand me?”
I shiver, the liquid already losing some of its heat. “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”
“One day, I’ll train you to be wet enough for me, without my assistance.”
Another twinge of deep inadequacy crawls over my body, but still I am grateful for his help. I am so grateful that he spends the time to make me better for him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t disappoint me in this task; you will not like the consequences.”
Of that, I am sure. His punishments are brutal, devious, and outrageously creative. “Yes, Master,” I say, as I begin to draw my tongue through the mess on the floor. My eyes burn, but he did not give me permission to close them.
The puddle seems to stretch on and on, and no matter how fast I slurp and lick, I can feel the temperature of it dropping. I try not to cry, licking in abject desperation, wondering what he’s going to do to me, once I come crawling to tell him of my failure in this impossible task.
His malicious laughter floats on the air behind me, and it sends a shiver of terror, a shiver of longing, over me. “You’ll find out, my precious slave. Don’t worry. My punishment will be every horror you’ve ever dreamed.”