In the early morning hours, Dea Samantha awoke with a start. A warm, sticky sensation between her legs immediately told her that she had to pee. As her personal toilet slave, Drake, was already near her room, waiting for her wakefulness or any other sign he could serve her, she summoned him with a slight wave of her hand.
The young man, who had been dozing on the floor, woke up instantly and scurried to her side. His eyes widened as he saw the crack of dawn peeking through the curtains; he knew this would be an unusual time for his mistress to require his services. Still, he could not disobey her call.
"Wake up, Drake," she purred, her voice low and sultry in the quiet of the room. "I need you to drink my morning PeePee."
Drake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he nodded vigorously. He knew that being dismissed from his duties as her toilet slave would mean a life of poverty or worse for him, so he would keep his place by her side, no matter how humiliating it was.
Dea Samantha stood up slowly, stretching her lithe body before wrapping herself in a plush robe that only partly concealed her nakedness. Drake knelt down, bowing his head before her as she approached him. A hot stream of urine splashed onto his face, neck, and chest as she began to relieve herself onto his prone form.
The warmth of her pee felt strangely comforting against his skin, and he couldn't help but let out a soft moan. She glanced down at him, a look of amused satisfaction crossing her face.
"Shhh, my little toilet slave," she murmured, running her fingers through his sweaty hair. "Don't make too much noise; we don't want to wake anyone else up, now do we?"
With that, she continued to empty her bladder onto his face and chest, her soft tinkling noises filling the room. Drake closed his eyes, allowing himself to be taken by her scent, her heat, her power over him. He opened his mouth, tasting the salty tang of her urine mingled with traces of champagne.
Finally, she was done. A warm stream of liquid ran down his chest, dripping onto the floor between them. She stepped back, surveying her work with a small smile. Drake remained where he was, his mind, body, and soul hers to command.
"Drink it all up, my toilet slave," she instructed gently. "Every single drop."
Without hesitation, he began licking up the puddle on the floor, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth like that of a thirsty animal. Within moments, he had finished, and he sat back on his heels, panting slightly from both exertion and arousal.
"Very well done, Drake," she praised, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Now clean yourself up and get some sleep; I know we have a busy day ahead of us."
Drake nodded gratefully, already imagining the myriad ways she would put him to use later that day. As he stumbled to his feet and wobbled out of the room, he couldn't help but feel lucky to have such a powerful mistress—even if his role in her life was one that others might find degrading or shameful. He was hers, and he would do anything to please her.
