By: lytoa
My life as an escort was a double existence. By day, I was a faceless drone in an office. By night, I was a well-paid object for the wealthy. My specialty was submission. I could take pain, humiliation, and bondage with a detached pleasure that made me popular. But my deepest, most shameful kink was one I never advertised. It was a line I thought no client would cross.
Then I met Seraphina.A wealthy mistress who was quite different than other cruel mistresses.
She wasn't like the others. She didn't want to whip me or tie me up in complex ways. Her power was quieter, more absolute. She was a tech mogul, younger than most of my clients, with an unnerving intensity. She looked at me not like a person, but like a fascinating piece of technology she was about to acquire.
Our first session was in her minimalist, stark-white apartment. She had me strip and kneel. She circled me, not touching, just observing.
"You have a very pliable mouth," she said, her voice soft but cutting. "The muscles are relaxed. It's a natural receptor."
She had me open my mouth. She peered inside, like a dentist. "Yes. This will do."
She didn't fuck me or hurt me that first time. She had me lie on my back on the cold floor while she sat on a simple chair above my face. For two hours, she simply used my mouth as an ashtray, spitting into it, making me hold her spit until my mouth was full, then giving me permission to swallow. She was studying my reactions, my capacity for being used.
At the end of the session, she paid me triple my rate. "I'm acquiring your services exclusively," she stated, not asked. "You will no longer see other clients. I will pay you a monthly salary that is more than generous. Your only job is to be available when I call."
I agreed. The money was life-changing, and her focused dominance was intoxicating.
The calls became more frequent. And her obsession with my mouth deepened. She bought a custom-made chair. It was a sleek, ergonomic throne with a hole cut perfectly in the seat. A padded, adjustable headrest was positioned beneath it. She would have me lie down, my head locked in the rest, my face positioned directly under the hole. My mouth was her new flush toilet.
At first, it was just for her piss. She would sit for hours, working on her tablet, and whenever she felt the need, she would simply release herself into my mouth. I learned the taste of her, the temperature, the force. I learned to swallow without spilling a drop. She would sometimes praise me. "Good toilet. You're not wasting a drop."
Then she escalated. One evening, she settled onto the chair after a large dinner. She sighed contentedly. "Time for a proper meal, my little receptacle."
I watched as her asshole descended, a perfect, tight star. She pushed, and a long, soft log began to emerge. It slid directly into my open mouth. The taste was an explosion of her essence a bitter, earthy, and profoundly intimate. It filled me completely. She pushed again, and more came. I was a vessel for her waste, and the act was so complete, so total, that I came, untouched, inside my pants.
She noticed. "Interesting," she mused. "Total consumption brings you pleasure. Good."
From that day on, it became our ritual. She was obsessed. She would call me to her apartment not for a session, but for a "feeding." She'd have me lie under the chair for hours. She'd drink cup after cup of herbal tea, filling my mouth with warm piss, waiting for her body to produce its gift. She loved watching me struggle to swallow, to see my throat work as I consumed her.
"You were born for this," she'd whisper, her voice thick with arousal. "This mouth was made to worship me. To take everything I give you."
Her obsession grew to the point where it was no longer just a kink. It was her lifestyle. She sold her apartment and bought a private, isolated estate. And she had a special room built for me. It was a small, sterile, white room. In the center was a custom-built fixture. It was a low, padded bench on which I would lie. At one end, a mechanical apparatus would lower a mask over my face. The mask had a built-in gag that held my mouth perfectly open and was connected to a tube. Above the fixture, a hole in the ceiling led directly to her private bathroom upstairs.
She had me move in. My old life was gone. My only purpose was to be her toilet.
My days became a cycle of feeding and cleaning. I would be locked into the fixture for hours at a time. I would hear her walking around upstairs, taking calls, running her empire. Then, I'd hear the bathroom door close. I'd hear her unzip her trousers, sit down, and then the sound of her pissing would be followed by the warm liquid flooding my mouth. Sometimes she'd talk to me through an intercom.
"Are you hungry, my toilet?" she'd ask. "I've had a very fiber-rich breakfast. It's going to be a big one."
Then I would hear her grunt, and moments later, the thick, solid mass would travel down the tube and into my waiting mouth. I would chew and swallow, my body conditioned to accept it, to crave it. I was her permanent, living sewer system. She would use me, then flush the system with a cleaning solution and water, hosing out my mouth before locking me in place for the next round.
She became obsessed with the idea of being worshipped forever. She would sometimes just sit on the toilet upstairs for an hour, not using it, just knowing I was underneath, waiting, my mouth held open in eternal readiness. The knowledge that I was there, a permanent part of her home, devoted entirely to processing her body's waste, was her ultimate turn-on.
One evening, she came down to my room. She looked different. There was a feverish glint in her eyes.
"I've decided," she said, her voice trembling with excitement. "This is not enough. I want to be closer to you. I want to feel your worship directly."
She had me released from the fixture. She led me to her bedroom. She had me lie on the floor at the foot of her bed. She then straddled my face, squatting down, her ass directly over my mouth.
"No more tubes," she breathed. "Just you. Just me. Direct contact."
And she used me. Her piss splashed directly onto my tongue. Her shit was pushed straight into my mouth. I could feel the heat of her, the texture of her skin against my lips. It was the most intimate, most profound act of submission imaginable. She ground her ass against my face as she came, smearing her mess over me, marking me as hers.
From then on, that was our new reality. I no longer slept in my room. I slept on a mat on the floor of her bedroom. I was her bedside toilet, her night-time receptacle, her morning worshipper. She would wake me in the middle of the night to use my mouth. She would use me first thing in the morning. My entire world was her ass, her holes, her waste. I was fed, watered, and used by her, and in return, I got to live in a state of constant, blissful submission. I was no longer a person. I was an extension of her body, a devoted part of her, and I worshipped her with every swallow.