Slave Drinks Our Piss From our Feet
I sit him on the floor between us, hooded, harnessed, wrists locked, cock in his own hands. He already knows our feet. Tonight I decide he will learn our piss as well.
We keep him close to the sofa so he can smell the leather of our boots, the warmth of our stockings, the salt of the shoes we take off and press toward his face. I tell him the truth without dressing it up: we have spent enough time on worship. Now he drinks.
I let my guest stand over him first. Her stream runs down her thighs, over her stockings, across his chest and into the open mouth of the hood. I hold his head so he cannot turn away. When I take my turn, I aim over my own feet and stockings so the piss has to travel the path he already worships. It hits his tongue, his cock, the sheet beneath him.
We peel the wet nylons off and wring them over his face. I put a bare foot in his mouth while the last drops still run. He stays on his back, bound, leaking, while we sit above him and decide how much more he swallows. Our piss mixes on his skin, in his mouth, on the stockings we leave for him to smell.
He does not get to choose the order. He drinks what we give him, from the source he already begs for.