The most brutal part of my routine is the wake-up call. I don’t have a clock; I have a urinal.
Every morning at 5:00 AM, a mechanical trigger releases a stream of warm, recycled urine directly onto my face and chest while I’m strapped to the bed. I wake up drenched, smelling of musk and waste, which serves as a constant reminder that I am lower than the lowest. I am not allowed to wash until Master gives me permission, meaning I spend my first few hours of the day smelling like a urinal, a scent that marks me as his property.
“Wake up, slut,” he says, walking into the room as I shiver in the wetness.
I immediately shift into my morning posture—kneeling on the bed, legs wide, arms behind my back. “Thank you for waking me, Master. Thank you for marking me, Master.”
He looks at me with disgust and desire, his hand already reaching for his belt. “You’re dripping wet and smelling like a toilet. It’s pathetic. I love it.”
He pushes me down onto my stomach, grabbing my hips and slamming into me from behind without any warning. I scream into the pillows, my body jolting with every thrust. There is no tenderness here, only the raw, explicit reality of my existence. I am a hardcore BDSM slut, and as he fills me up, pounding my pussy into the mattress, I know there is nowhere else I’d rather be. I beg for more, I beg for harder, and I thank him for every single inch of the degradation
Edith
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