LUDOVICA LUXURY -FIRST AND LAST TIME -hd
For two months this guy has been flooding my inbox with pathetic emails. Always the same plea: I want to be your human toilet.
At first I deleted them without even opening. Then his persistence started to amuse me. Eventually I sent one cold reply:
If you are serious, there is one non negotiable rule. You swallow it. Every last bit. Otherwise do not waste my time.
He replied in under sixty seconds: I accept.
10 a.m. sharp. The intercom buzzes right on time while outside the cold bites straight into the bones.
I open the door wearing only a black thong, push up bra, and a thick pair of yellow wool socks I have had on for four straight days. The bright yellow has darkened slightly at the toes and heels. They are heavy, damp, reeking of that thick winter sweat wool stench that hits him the moment he steps inside.
He enters head down, hands trembling, probably from the chill, probably from nerves after a three hour drive in this miserable weather.
On your knees.
I point at the plastic sheet. He drops instantly, knees smacking the floor.
I press one socked foot right under his nose.
Sniff. Get acquainted with my winter socks.
He inhales; his whole face twists. He once confessed he cannot stand strong smells. Too bad. This is warm wool, four days of trapped sweat, and the cold soaked deep into the fibers. Yet he takes another long breath.
Take them off. Teeth only.
He fumbles clumsily at the fuzzy edges. Finally my bare feet slide free, still hot, glossy with old sweat, soles darkened from days pressed against yellow wool.
Lick them. Toes to heel. Do not miss a spot.
His tongue comes out shy, flat, sliding between my toes. Every pass makes him grimace; the sour taste of damp wool must be coating his mouth. I laugh softly and rub the other still socked foot across his face, leaving bits of yellow fluff stuck to his cold reddened cheeks.
Good toilet. But today you are not here for feet.
No, Mistress.
Exactly.
I push him flat on his back on the sheet. I position the portable toilet over his head, then spread my legs wide, ankles framing his face, perfectly balanced. I want him to see every second while the radiator wheezes uselessly against the frost creeping through the windows.
Today is not one of those massive loads. I ate light last night, so it comes out as one long, solid piece, about twenty centimeters, soft enough to mold. It lands straight in his mouth, then overflows gently in brown streaks running down his cheeks and neck.
I remove the toilet slowly. I slip on the long black gloves up to the elbows.
First, though, my bladder is full. I bend slightly and release a hot stream onto his cock, soaking the shaft, the pubes, the balls. A burning contrast to the icy room. He jerks but keeps his mouth sealed. Not a drop escapes.
I crouch beside his head. With gloved fingers I scoop up what spilled out, pack it into fat mouthfuls and push them in one after another.
After about ten he starts to break. Hands shaking uncontrollably, throat convulsing, eyes glassy with unshed tears.
I press my palm flat on his forehead, pinning him.
I have not given you permission to quit yet.
He raises a trembling hand: stop.
I sigh, voice like ice.
This was your one and only chance. This was your first and last time seeing me in the flesh. Do not message me again unless you have trained yourself to swallow everything without acting like a little bitch. Apologize. Now.
I am sorry Mistress. Thank you for using me.
Louder.
I AM SORRY MISTRESS. THANK YOU FOR USING ME AS YOUR TOILET.
Good boy.
I stand up slowly, looking down at him. He is still flat on his back on the cold sheet, mouth stuffed, cheeks smeared, cock cooling in a puddle beneath him. His chest rises and falls fast; he breathes through his nose because his mouth is full.
I say nothing more. No permission to rise, to spit, to wipe himself. Nothing.
I turn, pick up the yellow wool socks from the floor, they are still warm, and drop them onto his chest like dirty rags.
For a moment I just watch him lie there: pathetic, frozen, too terrified to move without my command.
Then I turn and walk out of the room without another word. The door clicks shut behind me.
I leave him right there on the floor in the freezing silence, my smell all over him.
How long will it take him to realize I am not coming back? That he will have to crawl out alone, clean himself up as best he can in the guest bathroom, get dressed, and leave without daring to knock again?
Maybe he will disappear for good. Maybe in a few weeks another desperate email will land in my inbox.
We will see.
