I used to think I knew what obedience felt like. Kneeling. Kissing her heels. Holding her coat while she flirted with other men. I thought those were the moments that defined submission.
I was wrong.
Obedience doesn’t live in posture. It lives in what you’ll drink without question.
She had teased it for months. The threat lingered in her voice every time I pleased her too well,
“Keep begging like that, and I’ll let you drink something truly personal.”
I always nodded, laughed nervously, whispered yes. I didn’t believe she meant it.
Until she handed me the glass bowl.
“Bathroom. Kneel. Wait.”
My body obeyed before my mind caught up.
The bowl was cold in my palms. The floor even colder. My breath shallow. My cock pulsing, already half hard, already humiliated.
She entered like a queen, in heels, lace, and cruelty.
No words. Just a smirk. And then she climbed onto the bench above me, spread her thighs, and squatted.
I didn’t dare look away.
The first drops were quiet. Almost delicate. Then came the stream, hot, golden, pungent, perfect.
It hit the bowl with a sound I’ll never forget. Like truth echoing. Like shame becoming sacred.
I watched her face as she pissed. Relaxed. Powerful. Slightly flushed. Like she was feeding a pet she barely had to notice.
And when she was done, she stood, wiped, and dropped the tissue in the bowl like a signature.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.
I knew what came next.
I lifted the bowl to my lips.
The warmth hit first. Then the smell. Then the taste, bitter, intimate, her.
I drank slowly. Reverently. Letting each swallow brand me.
Every drop was a line in a new contract. Every twitch of my cock was a confession.
By the time I finished, I was crying. Not because it was disgusting. But because it was pure.
I had never been this close to her. I had never felt this claimed.
And I knew in that moment: I wasn’t her husband. Her submissive. Her pet.
I was her toilet. And I loved it.
But she wasn’t done.
“Come here,” she said, patting her thigh like she was calling a dog. I crawled, bowl still trembling in my hands. She took it, set it aside, and pulled me between her legs.
“From the source.”
She leaned back against the wall, one hand on the back of my head. The other slid two fingers between her swollen lips, spreading herself open.
“Open your mouth.”
And I did.
The first splash caught the back of my tongue, hotter, sharper, more alive than anything I’d swallowed before. She sighed above me, not in relief, in ownership.
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just drank. Obeyed. Submitted.
And when she finished, she slapped my cheek lightly with her soaked hand.
“That,” she whispered, “is what you were made for.”
And she was right.
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