Piss Shy, Part Twelve
Disclaimer: The content of this story is a little bit harsher and a little more intense than most of the experiences I have written about on here. Please keep in mind that I had safe words – “yellow” for slow down or do less, “red” for stop. The things I did were done willingly and enthusiastically, even when I demonstrated reluctant or fearful behavior. I like to be scared and I like to feel psychologically exhausted, and this experience allowed me to tread some harsher waters. So, I hope you’ll stick along for the ride.
Flint had devised the clever and totally mean plan of pitting WRM and I against each other with a little bit of impact play. He started by holding her still, kissing her as he let me hit her ass with a tool that looked like a lot of skewers bundled together.
While I was beating her with it, I got a little cheeky and scolded her for not cutting her nails. “We’ve been out, what, three times?” I reprimanded, “and still – still – you keep your nails that long. You need to clip your fucking nails.”
Of course, I was significantly less cheeky about it once Flint was holding me still while I cried into his chest as WRM beat me. I felt absolutely awful for hitting WRM with it once I knew how much it hurt, but she had been such a sport about it while I was a big baby about taking half of what I’d given her.
Then, Flint had WRM pin me back down while he aggressively rubbed my g-spot and clit. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push back the oncoming orgasm with just about any neutral, unsexy thought I could summon. “I can’t,” I pleaded, “I don’t want to drink piss, please.”
“You’d better drink a lot of water beforehand,” Macy said from the corner.
As hard as I tried to hold off, I came. Hard. Flint didn’t relent, continuing to assault my clit and g-spot with his fingers while WRM held me still. “Hey, think you’ll get another tally for each time?” He asked jovially. He wrenched another orgasm out of me before I pleaded with him to stop, my pussy was far too sensitive and tender to continue.
WRM let me go and I rolled over onto my belly, covering my face with my hands. I started to cry, overwhelmed by the idea that I was probably halfway to drinking a cup of my own urine, hating that I’d secretly enjoyed every second that led up to this, that I even liked the fact that I was facing these consequences.
“Rain on The Morning Bird’s Throat”
Philadelphia, Pa 2014