I grew up in a small town and, as a young girl, my mum and I used to take a bus to the nearest city to shop. We’d only do it on special occasions, like after my birthday and for the Christmas sales.
The bus station had a public toilet and we’d always make a stop there before we walked to the shopping centre. From a fairly young age, this toilet was a source of fascination to me. It was a typical public toilet with white tiled walls, cheap MDF cubicle doors complete with punch holes, and a scratched, murky mirror.
Thanks to the hero that is George Michael, I was already aware of the fact that toilets were erotically charged places. Even before I was knew the cultural and historical importance of cruising and cottaging to the LGBT community, they seemed to hold the promise of forbidden trysts and exhilarating new experiences.
The toilets smelt of stale piss, and there was lewd graffiti on the walls that I found both mysterious and titillating. When I first began masturbating, this public toilet was often the backdrop to the erotic fantasies that would get me off. Sometimes I’d be dragged in there by the older, hotter girls at school and made to drink their piss. Sometimes I’d have an “owner” who would chain me to the sinks for men and women to use.
I kept this from Cadi for the first 10 years of our relationship. It seemed such an outlandish fantasy that I didn’t even know if I wanted to act it out in ‘real life.’ And yet, sometimes as I was nearing orgasm, I’d still think about that public toilet to push me over the edge. I’d use my imagination to conjure the smell, the cold, wet tiles under my knees, the warm piss in my face.
I told Cadi when we were in the car. We were driving back from a family wedding. It was late, Cadi was driving and she was getting very tired. To keep her alert, I looked up a list of the “most common fetishes” and we discussed each one in turn. We’d tried a lot of them, and were mostly united in our likes and dislikes. I brought up my fantasy, and she surprised me by saying that she’d be interested in trying it.
It took us a while to get around to it. The first time we tried, Cadi was quite nervous. I’ve just taken a look at my old paper sex journal, and I wrote that I had already eaten her out, and was feeling very “sub-spacey.” I wrote that I was desperate for more of her.
One thing that I had not thought about in my early sexual fantasies was how different it would feel to swallow the piss of my Domme, someone I love and trust. My early fantasies were all centred around degradation and humiliation, but my first time with Cadi was more about having her as close to me as possible.
Cadi ordered me to the toilet and made me kneel with my hands cupped, in front of my face. Eventually, she peed into my cupped hands. Looking back this was a really clever move as it gave me the opportunity to either let it run over my hands and down my chest, or lick it up. She was shy, and I remember that I needed to beg her to let go, and the stream stopped quite quickly. After she finished, she instructed me to clean her off.
We were both really turned on, and she dragged me back to the bedroom to sit on my face again. I was midway through licking her when suddenly a gush of fluid filled my mouth. It was largely taste-free, and I swallowed immediately. Cadi sat forward a bit, and I vividly recall watching her vulva twitch and pulse as she pissed directly into my mouth. There were a few strong jets, one of which went straight down the back of my throat. It seemed that it would last forever, and I was so proud of the volume I swallowed. Over time, the smell and taste got stronger.
My journal describes my feelings throughout. I wrote, “I began to feel overwhelmed and tired, and a drop came out of the side of my mouth and into my hair. It was so exciting and I licked her pussy through the whole thing. I felt so good and useful and proud.”
I still get off on the humiliation of it. Cadi often calls me her “little piss bitch,” and I (not so) secretly love it. On holiday she promised that I could drink her piss if I had been a good girl, and then used my enthusiasm to humiliate me too.
But I also get off on the service aspect of it. I love the idea of providing a service for her, making her life easier. I love venerating my Mistress, and appreciating everything that she has to give me. I feel honoured when she chooses to use me as her vessel to piss into. The more sub-spacey I am, the more intense this feeling is.
The bus station toilet is long gone. It was demolished to make way for a new building development. There were photographs in the local newspaper, a “then and now” feature that talked about all the changes to the city centre in recent years. I remember looking at those photos, wondering if they inspired that particular flavour of nostalgia in anyone else.