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An Ode to Leathersex

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I dream of doing nothing, except being your soft, pretty, toy.
Your home is clean, because I keep it that way. Sometimes, you will arrive home when I am still cleaning, pink marigolds, French Maid Outfit, and all. The way you fuck me on the kitchen floor, black skirt flipped up, my ass high in the air as my gloved hands struggle for purchase on the sparkly clean tiles, makes me think you don't mind.
Our home is bright, airy, modern. Floor to ceiling windows. Except for my room, which is a gold gilded roccoco monstrosity that you do not enter, except to give me gifts, or read me stories.
Your food is delicious, because I cook it that way. Wearing sweet, soft cotton dresses, hair pinned back. An apron tied about my waist. We reverse roles as I cook. You, eagerly waiting. Me, delivering satisfaction.
I don't go out, unless you let me.
I don't have thoughts, unless they are about you.
When I want to feel your eyes hot on me, I wear beautiful floating chemises, or silly little frilled garments. In pinks and blues. They work. Make your eyes wander over me, burning, but leisurely. No sense of urgency. You know I am yours, anytime you want me. Why rush?
I coiff and curl my hair for you, and paint my lips.
We eat our staged meals in silence. The air breathes with our love. Sometimes, you set out the soft pink pillow next to your seat, and I kneel, grateful, supplicant, as you feed morsels into my mouth.

I wake you in many ways. Singing, cooking something sizzling, or by coming into your austere bedroom, all mahogany and navy, kneeling by your bedside, and softly laying my cheek on your bed, gazing up at you. You wake slowly like that. You always know I'm there. Then, nostrils flaring, you beckon me onto your big wide bed, land me on my back, and take your first breakfast from me, as my thighs tremble, and I make those high desperate noises you so love.
Sometimes, after this, you will give me a gift.
The gift goes like this:
We are in the shower, and I am kneeling. You are looking down at me, in a way that feels more natural than the colour of the sky, or the sound of water beating down. If I could forever suspend this moment, you, looking down, me, on my knees, I would. But I cannot. Because once you see in my eyes that I am no longer mine, but yours, that is when you tilt my head back, and, grasping my chin, open my mouth wide. And then, one foot behind my back, one between my thighs, you stand over me. You look, your eyes boring into mine. And you keep on looking, as you piss directly into my mouth. This is an act of humiliation, of degradation. But it is not a claiming. I am not required to swallow it. You do not cover me in it. I am merely...a receptacle. My mouth holds it for you. And, as with everything that comes from you, that you give to me, I treat it with reverence. With respect. I am reduced to the thing you piss in. I am nothing. I hold no meaning until you give me it.
The salt taste overrrides my senses. I fight the urge to gag, to swallow, to DO. The gift is sensefulness. I can think of nothing but your piss in my mouth, on my skin. Dribbling down my chin. Nothing else but this. I hold it for you. I contain it, until you tell me I can let it go. I do this because I love you. This is how I love you. I hold what you give me, and I do not let go.
I hold it in my mouth until my eyes weep tears, until my jaw aches, and my nose stings from the sharp unpleasant taste. The water beats down on us, the water running rivulets down your cropped hair and back. Over your chest. You stand over me, and look.
You look until I begin to cry. Until it begins to fall out of the corners of my open mouth, as I cry. Your piss is in my mouth, and I hate it, but I let you put it there. You are looking down at me, with knowingness in your dark eyes. I am forced to see you, and know that I have let this happen. As you stand over me, you prove it to me. That is the point: There is nothing you would give me that I would not take, especially when I do not want it.
The piss is not what is making me cry. It is what the piss MEANS. This degradation. You use me, and I let you. I need it. I need to feel small, powerless, reduced to nothing in your presence. This piss in my mouth is the key to accepting that I am yours. I am what you make me. I am how you use me. I am yours.
You step out of the shower as the tears continue to stream down my face. My heart lurches at the thought that you are going to do something more. Something else. I cannot do it. I cannot hold your piss and be something else to you. I cannot have more than one use, I cannot take more degradation than this. I am at my limit, and you know that.
But you are going to do it anyway. I sob, and choke slightly on the urine. I swallow some, it burning its way down my throat, and that makes me cry even more. I am here, my mouth curved open as your urinal, and you are about to do more to me. You are about to make it ~worse~. I am so aroused, my cunt aches, clenches around nothing. I take my shame, at being this for you. I take my shame, at loving it so much that I could die from it, and I live it.
I am your most treasured toy, and you are going to break me, the way that only you know how.