Piss

"There you go. Good girl."

He steps back, and I catch his eye, then swallow. Piss hasn't got much of a taste without access to oxygen it doesn't give off that specific acrid smell and so, straight from cock to mouth, it's a lukewarm liquid with a faint tang. He kisses me and I wonder whether he can taste it too or whether I've just got the memory of flavour in my mind. It's a rare kiss, as they all are, and I savour it as much as I can, my mind warm and fuzzy at the edges. Being used in this way pushes a number of my buttons: the casual familiarity and intimacy of it, the service value that I can offer up and the slight edge of unpleasantness about it too - of being a repository for something that, although sterile, is considered dirty.

A little later on and I make a moue and a small noise when he heads over to the bathroom and he raises an eyebrow. "You asked for it." He holds me firm whilst standing behind me, eye contact and face to face is often the first thing to go when he moves from being casual to more serious. He unbuttons my dress and half walks, half drags me over to the toilet box. It's a black cube with a toilet seat and lid fitted over a hole in the top. There's an arch underneath and clips on the side, the former is where my head goes, the latter where my cuffed wrists are fixed. I'm on my back, staring at the ceiling. It's quite relaxing: there's certainly nowhere else to go, it's getting dark and the pleasant odour of the wood mingles with the smell of incense that I've come to associate with him. He's somewhere else in the room, arranging things, making noises. He comes over and places a loo roll on the edge of the seat. I curl my toes. Piss is one thing, shit is entirely another. On the other hand I am where I am and there is a certain freedom in this kind of captivity - certainly from responsibility, choice, blame. I will go through whatever he chooses to put me through and come out of it having experienced more, gone further.

In the end I get a lot of piss. An awful lot. At first, I'm able to swallow it, lifting my head up so that I can lick it from his cock, grinning as I do at thoughts of what I'm doing. He wriggles around splashing my face, soaking my hair. The smell is stronger now, confined into the box and lying in it as I am. He shuts the lid and leaves me for a while. I can hear the piss sloshing against my ears, my hair spreading out in the liquid, soaking it up, I expect. Other than that, it's quiet and I'm left to my thoughts, of which there are calmingly few. I am here, that is all - to be used or not used as he decides. It's reassuring, in a way.

Some time passes, probably not much. There's a hand against my leg, pulling it wide and he starts to fuck me. I'm wet and he feels good although I feel curiously (or perhaps not so curiously) disembodied. It's a feature of our sex life that more often that not my face is hidden whenever he fucks me. I'm never quite sure what to make of it. On the one hand I am free from distraction, I can vanish inside myself and only exist as a body, a channel to be used. It focuses my feelings to the physical only, distancing me from both of us as people. When we fuck without faces we are not people, we have no emotional connection. We are interchangeable and anonymous. That is the part that I don't like. The feeling of nothing in my mind and my heart, that frozen bit of emptiness in which there is no desire, passion or care. The concern that we mean nothing to each other outside of what we are doing right now. Two bodies, rutting. I flip between these conflicting thoughts, usually immersed in the former but sometimes I fall into the latter and can make myself upset. At the time, I catch myself and am able to relax into his rhythm, feeling my cunt get wetter and just enjoying the sensation, the mild sense of degradation becoming both thrilling and comforting as I allow myself to think that this kind of use means he feels that I am worth being his.

A few nights later and I'm being threatened with shit again and the same concerns surface. He's poised over my face, arse an inch or so above my mouth and I'm wriggling my legs and pinned down arms in uncomfortable distress. I can't do it. I hate saying no because to say no is to fail, to be sub par and that never makes me comfortable. He moves away and pressing a pillow against my face, starts to fuck me. Enclosed in the hot dark pressure I am unable to orgasm because my fingers are too numb and tired, there's also some feeling of unease in the back of my brain, pit of my stomach, that I can't push away.

We've recently been going into some types of D/s play that I'm finding genuinely difficult and challenging and that's making me consider whether I'm getting what I need in order to feel happy. The harder the D/s the more I need the satisfaction that these difficult, nasty things are part of something worthwhile and meaningful. Part of this is probably stiIl a hangover from my previous relationship with The Photographer - I'm vulnerable to fears of abandonment and challenges to my self image mean that when I'm feeling exposed I need to also feel special, wanted, desired and to know that, for one person at least, I stand out from the crowd. For the most part I like what we have. I like that it is friendly, calm, fun and easy going. But it can sometimes feel cold and flat outside of the "active" D/s that we do. I'm not ready for big capital letter "L" love or huge emotional intensity but I am ready for a little more connection and intimac. I find myself requiring an acknowledgement of a jointly shared passion: flirtation, dirty words that make me smile, fingers touching and holding hands, hungry kisses that keep me horny. The lighter side of the coin that means when you flip it, it's bigger, stronger and better.