That existential question: what shall I wear? PVC dress? Rubber Cat suit? Leather corset? The best punishment is no punishment. So I settled for a buckled halter neck PVC top and shiny skin tight trousers moulded to my arse so exquisitely that they constitute a potent torment device: One can’t help but desperately crave proximity to the shapely form. Mouth open and ready to receive a poignant steaming stream of piss from my cunt.
But since it’s impossible to pull said trousers down gracefully without removing my footwear, wearing is a statement that I won’t even entertain the notion of water sports. Yes. I was in a mean head space.
I could, of course, display more kindness and wear the dress with the blue hell Wellies. I am not an unreasonable person. I did try this outfit on. The looked achieved was of a vintage porn Santa. Not tonight, Josephine. I left the concept purchase next to the yellow New Rock bruisers, zipped up my favourite pointy black crocodile skin knee high boots, and set out for the lush North London dungeon, to monitor the flow of the piss party.
This is were I stop the fashion column rant and get abstract on your arse:
I have seen a women in a little red dress becoming our lord savour. Men kneeling open mouthed to receive her. She gave them something infinitely better then a stale wafer and cheap wine. She gave them the distilled essence of her flesh and blood. Planted drops of piss on their tongues. Each according to his needs. Her boundless ability.
When the night reached it’s prime hour she was wading in a wee pool. A fresh supply from a super hero cock – being sucked by her lover. Splashing warm pee on her cunt. Lapping like tomorrow never comes. A hand deep inside the filth refinery. Overhead, a rubber fist up to it’s elbow in a European ass hole.
Later, piss domination was pondered. Making one swallow until they choke and vomit. The intricate power of depriving your lover of breath and dignity, purely by making them take in everything you give. Akin to my beloved bodily restraint breath play.
We were joined by a lethal beauty in the smallest denim cut-off this side of Vegas and outrageously 80th gold sequin platforms, a a busty and brilliant gorgeous Californian, and a pretty boy who knew how to read my quantum mechanics tattoo.
The best punishment is the prospect of punishment.
I did not remove my trousers. Yet.