For Wanton Wednesday last time I posted a picture of bathtime with Ad (I was in the hospital during last week’s edition, so didn’t get a chance to participate.) As often happens when I am playing with Ad, it was fun, silly, light play. It is enjoyable, and I love it, especially in counterpoint to the kinds of play W and I do, and I especially love it when it is the three of us playing together, playing off each other’s energies, as we were that day.
This week I want to feature a different kind of bath. The kind that wasn’t so sweet, or fun, or light. This is the kind of play I do with W…play that sometimes isn’t so much “play” at all, but something else, something that scrapes the insides of me raw and leaves me, breathless and emotionally stunned, in a heap.
This was pretty raw, even for me. He’d given me a sound beating, thighs and and ass and tits, slashing me, marking me, while I struggled against rope and gag. It was in his basement, a place I’d been before, a place where he stages some intense scenes, and the location, the cement floor, the tools and dirt and smell and dankness, all contribute to the feeling of isolation, of brutality, that is the hallmark of many of them.
By the time he untied me and lowered me to the floor, I was exhausted, spent, wiped out.
And incredibly grateful, thinking it was finally over.
But the beating was only the beginning, and what followed hit me on a much deeper level than any beating could have.
I was bruised, battered, stunned into submission, quiet in my head, empty…just floating as I sat there on the floor in the dirt. My hands were still tied, but that was nothing new. He oftentimes keeps me tied “in between” moving from one scene to the next.
And when I heard the sound of his zipper, that was nothing new either.
What came next was so utterly unexpected though, I think my brain couldn’t grasp at first what was happening. I had no context for the warmth and wetness I felt falling on my shoulders and poor, sore back. And then, suddenly, I realized what he was doing. He was pissing on me, there on the basement floor.
I don’t know why that fact–that I was on the floor of the basement–should feel more debasing to me, but it did. Perhaps because I’d heard of other people getting pissed on, and in fact had been pissed on during a shower by a Top, but it was always, always, in this semi-sanitary way, in a bathtub or bathroom at the least, with cleanliness and tiles all around. Contained.
This was nothing like that. This was dirty and rude and…stark. Later, when he did it again in another room of his house, he told me that was why he did it in places other than the bathroom. He wanted me to know that he could-and would-do it any time, any place, he chose. That just because we were in the living room or kitchen or bedroom didn’t mean I was safe. If he felt like pissing on me, he’d do it, wherever, whenever he chose. This was what being “property” meant.
I gasped, sputtered, maybe even protested, but he didn’t stop. Finally, I gave in, and simply let his piss mark me.
But it got worse. After pissing on my back, he came around to the front–and pissed in my hair. I don’t know that I have ever felt smaller than I did in that moment. Small, and yet outraged. My hair! His piss dribbled down my scalp into my face, but by then I didn’t even have what it would take to voice my outrage. I simply…huddled, and let it happen. Because it would whether I was protesting or not. Because he would, whether I protested or not. He would do as he would, and he was showing me that very clearly. It was that simple.
And then…it got worse. He has a hose in the basement. And after he was done pissing on me, he hosed me off like a an animal. There is nothing I hate worse than cold water splashing on me. It was the final humiliation.
But this then, is why I do what I do, and why I love him for being able to do these things to me: afterward, he bathed me. He took me upstairs, climbed into the tub with me, and ran the shower over us both. He held me, and washed me, ran the water through my hair and his hands over every part of my body. I clung to him as I came out of that stunned place I was in, and kissed him, and drank shower water from his mouth. He held me and washed away all the humiliation and put me back together with a warm bath and warmer, loving hands, and when he lifted me out of the bath and wrapped me in a towel and carried me to the front room, I knew I had found a special place, a place that only he could have shown me, there on his basement floor.
Do you feel like sometimes you want to be a little more than just half naked? A bit more than just slightly suggestive? For the weeks you want to play with the wicked & wanton crowd, feel free to join us on Wednesdays.
Check out last week’s players as well!