Pissy Domination Stories

Pissy Domination Stories.

This isn’t really a story; its more of a writing experiment. If you like it, the idea that is, even if you don’t like my attempts, then have your own go. The idea is to write a short piece (or maybe a few) based on randomly generated words. So, I am going to ask a random word generator to make 10 words, and then attempt to write a dirty mini-story based around at least half of them. For the length I was humming-and-haaing about three-hundred words, or five-hundred, and then I thought why not randomly generate that instead. So it will be a randomly generated 3-digit number of words long: exactly. And there are a couple of running themes, because people have their niches, and I want the kinds of people who might enjoy one to enjoy the others. Here goes!

10 words: progress, cathedral, remember, brake, harmony, step, feed, classify, technique, threat

Length: 508

ONE

Cast your mind back fifty years, to when you’d just turned twenty-one, sitting in the cell you were born in, to a woman you’d never meet. It was in the confines of this cell, looked after so wonderfully by the nuns, that you learned to love life, despite the unnecessary hardships of how you came by it. The nuns were good to you. One in particular was wonderful to you, and you loved her, first, in your youth, your guardian, then, later, your friend, and finally, in the last few years of your childhood, as the subject of password. Though you had never revealed your feelings, you had pinned over her.

Do you remember, all those years ago, on the morning of your birthday, when she came into your cell to say good-morning and you felt compelled to tell her how you adored her, and, despite it being so incredibly wrong, wanted to have her, or rather for her to have you, to instruct you, as she had done when you were a child, and to make you serve her?

Do you remember how it shocked you how she reacted, and how only moments later your dreams had come true, instead of the embarrassment and shame that you had anticipated?

How she had dragged you out of the convent and into the crypt below the cathedral, hidden away from watchful eyes, sat on the step of the alter, and pushed you onto your knees on the cold crypt floor, and lifted up her skirt and taken off her unders and made you kiss and lick and suck and service her cunt?

You were a complete novel, and had to master the technique quickly, first trying everything frantically, and then doing more and more of what made her moan the most, learning the ways of her cunt.

Though she had not been cruel, only firm, there was forever the implied threat that you would be hurt were you not good enough in your service. She tasted wonderful. The nuns washed once a week: it had been five days, and the sweat from wearing those dark heavy clots in the middle of June had given her cunt a rich earthy flavour.

Once she’d finished, flooding your mouth with her cum, she had ripped your face from between her legs, and told you to open wide and drink her piss.

‘Wait,’ she had then said, ‘Beg for it first! Beg me to feed you? Call me Mistress, and beg.’

And so you had pleaded – I bet you even remember the words – you had pleaded her, hands claped as though in prayer and a generally desperate need in your eyes, to piss into your mouth, to feed you her waste.

And how did it progress, this impossible sub-dom relationship? Did you take you down into the crypt often? Did you ever disobey, or displease your mistress? Did she ever have to punish you?

When you lie awake at night do you Still dream of the taste of her piss and unwashed pussy?

10 more words: shark, truth, mirror, cabin, weed, block, lemon, index, pocket, occupation

Length: 392

He repeatedly thrusts his index finger into your anus. The pain of the initial action gives way to slight pleasure. You star into your own reflection in the mirror. What a pathetic little slut, allowing herself to be played with like this.

The lemon juice that he had used as lube stings slightly, especially were it clings to the bottom of your cunt. You think you can taste some of your own shit on the rind that you hold between your teeth.

It was a strange cabin. With an entire wall one big mirror like that.

As he slips a second finger into your anus you bite down on the rind. Yes, definitely tasting that shit.

Eventually he has four fingers inside of you. You weed a little as the third one went in. Control yourself, for fucks sake!

Each time addition is painful and only after a few moments does the pleasure see in underneath. And he’s clever. He seems to know. Because you only get a moment before the next one goes in.

Once there’s an entire hand, he leans in close and whispers something in your ear.

‘You know that mirror?’ and you nod.

‘Truth is it ain’t a normal mirror. Do you know what a one-way mirror is?’ and you nod again, slower, and horrified, with the sudden realisation that you have not only been serving, you have been performing.

You hang your head in shame, but he pulls you up with your hair and shouts: ‘look at the mirror’.

You start crying a little, but you stare at the mirror.

‘Drop the lemon,’ and you do.

‘Say hi,’ and you can’t bring yourself to.

He slaps your tits.

‘SAY HI!’

A hi escapes your lips, with tears streaming down your face, as master eases his hand into a fist inside you.

When master asked what you wanted for Christmas, and you’d said you wanted to be watched, and he’d punished you for it as you’d begged for forgiveness, you had no idea he’d alreadystarted plotting the best Christmas present that a worthless slut like you could ever hope for.

Four men come out from behind the mirror and watch as you clean your own shit from master’s hand. They laugh and cheer as you get onto your knees and lick your own piss from the floor.

10 more words: sticky, relieve, introduce, negotiation, back, virtue, lock, train, deviation, tube

Length: 899

Sunday morning, I wake up inside my locked cage to the feeling of master’s piss hitting my face: not an unusual occurrence, though I’m supposed to wake up first, ready for him, despite not being allowed an alarm clock. Master makes me sleep with a vibrator on a low setting in my cunt, which makes it hard for me to fall asleep quickly. He has turned it up before blasting me with his piss.

I get up onto my knees, facing the stream, and open my mouth, tryingto catch as much as possible, because I know that this will reduce my punishment a little. It tastes acrid, as it always does when he’s had a lot to drink the night before.

Master had some of his friend’s over last night. And, as I’m sure you guessed, I was their primary entertainment. Most of them I had met before, apart from Sharon, who I was introduced to arsehole first. Initially the boys were coming over to watch the game, and so I was left upstairs, locked up. It wasn’t until halftime, when everyone had had quite a bit to drink, that I was dragged out, by Colin and Stephen, to the bathroom, where I was told my tongue was needed. Sharon had taken a shit, and was on her knees in the bathroom, her backside pointed towards the door, as I was dragged in, thrown onto my knees and told to clean her. I licked her sticky, smelly hole, swallowing what had been stuck to it, trying desperately not to gag, as master told me ‘you’re lucky she didn’t want to relieve herself straight intothat worthless mouth.’

I was then taken back to my cage for the remainder of the game.

The first time the guys came over, it was all about me. Slapping me around, fucking all my holes, and humiliating me. They loved it. And I loved the attention, despite how much I reached afterwards. But now I’m boring, and despite the fact that they can do whatever they want to me none of the guys are interested if there’s something good on TV. Sometimes they come over and the only thing I do is run to the shop to buy booze and fags.

Last night though, for Sharon’s benefit, I’d imagine, I was taken out properly, once the game was over, and showed off a little, which was nice. I went down on her, and made her cum, pulling my hair, and squeezing my head and shouting horrible things at me. Women treat women far worse than men do, especially when it comes to sex. Men usually want to be campered, and tended to, and are happy to sit back as I suck them off, or to just bend me over and run atrain on me, whereas women, they get off on the violence of it, the hitting and the slapping and the spitting. First time master’s sister was asked to housesit when master was away on the business was the first time I’d cried in that house, properly cried, from the physical pain and the mental.

Sharon was pretty twisted, and wanted to give me an enema. She’d even brought stuff with her from home, in the hope of being allowed to play with me.

The guys just carried on drinking as the tube was shoved up my ass, and I was filled with two pins of water, stopped with a butt plug.

‘Now I think it’s time she went for a booze run, what do we think lads?’ she said, sly.

I was put in the skimpiest of outfits, the rhinestone of the plug clearly visible under the ‘SLUT’ microskirt, and sent off with a shopping list.

The water swished around me, and already I felt the need to shit.

As I walked to the shop I was desperate to be back, to be emptied, no matter how humiliating. It was only on the walk back that it occurred to me that once I was emptied there’d be two pins of shitty water which Sharon surely had an evil plan for.

In the shop I got a lot of looks. The man who served me never looked up from my tits, bulging out of my schoolgirl top which they were clearly far too big for. My brief attempts to dawdle on the way back where thwarted by the cold that raced up my uncovered fanny, not to mention to fear of punishment, and the stars. I waddled as fast as I could, despite not to lose the plug and leak all over the street, or for the water to jiggle around too much and dislodge more shit from the walls of my bowel.

I was right, Sharon did have evil plans.

As they all smoked and drank, the party having moved to the bedroom, I sat in my cage and deposited the water into a washing up bowl and then poured it over my head ‘like an African kid having a shower.’

Sharon is the second woman to make me cry in this house.

I shudder as the memories come back, suddenly consciousness of my skin, and how dirty it still feels. Sharon will be back in her own bed, having had a wonderful evening, and despite for an invitation back.

‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, my sister’s back in town tomorrow.’