Mistress had never been in such a rush before. She had barely finished her breakfast when there was a knock on the door, and it was clear from her body language that whoever was on the other side was impatient. She sighed and turned to me, revealing a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Toiletslave," she purred, her voice honeyed with danger. "I'm afraid I don't have much time today. Someone's at the door, and they're anxious to see me. But don't worry, that just means you get to serve me even more."
My heart raced with fear and anticipation as I realized what she was implying. She didn't need to say anything else; I knew my role in her household all too well. With a swift motion, she undid the button on her tight jeans and pulled them down, exposing her perfect ass. My mouth watered at the sight of her tight little hole, still glistening from our previous encounters.
"Drink my piss," she commanded, and I couldn't help but obey. I leaned forward, my tongue darting out to catch every drop of her nectar as it flowed freely into my mouth. The taste was bitter and sharp, but I savored every last drop, eager to please her. When she was finished, she grabbed my head roughly and pushed it back down between her legs, soaking wet from her arousal.
"Now, don't swallow yet," she warned, and I obeyed, feeling the warmth of her piss against my tongue. She thrust her hips back and forth, grinding against my face as she soaked my hair with her urine. Then, without warning, she pulled out and stood up, revealing a bucket overflowing with diarrhea.
"Open wide," she ordered, her voice now laced with cruel amusement. "It's time for your next treat."
I did as I was told, opening my mouth as widely as possible, taking in the pungent smell of her feces. She gave me one last look of warning, a mixture of lust and dominance in her eyes, before pouring the viscous liquid into my mouth. It was thick and warm, coating my tongue and teeth as it dripped down my throat. The taste was revolting but strangely addictive; I couldn't help but want more of her filth.
But that wasn't all. She grabbed one of her high heels and shoved it into my mouth, her foot pressing against the back of my throat. "Swallow every last drop," she commanded, and I did as I was told, gulping down the diarrhea and feeling it slosh around in my stomach. Her foot stayed there for what felt like an eternity, grinding against my flesh, her nails digging into my jaw as she held me in place.
Finally, she pulled the shoe out, and I slumped back in relief, the taste of her waste still lingering on my tongue. She was already opening the door, her excitement palpable. As she left, I could hear her voice ring out, "And remember, toiletslave, you're nothing but a receptacle for my filth."
I sat there, panting, my mind reeling from the intensity of our encounter. My stomach churned with nausea and desire, a strange mix of emotions that only added to the thrill of serving Mistress. I knew that this was what I was born for - to be her personal toilet, to clean up her messes, and to take every humiliation she threw my way. As I waited for her return, I couldn't help but wonder what she had in store for me next.
