Today I’m sharing a story that makes me smile every time I think about it. In one wonderful, kinky act, a friend showed me how much he cared about me – removing my anxiety and leaving deep certainty in our deep, platonic friendship.
I have never had anyone bring me flowers, write me poetry, or buy me chocolates. I’ve never received a Valentine’s card, let alone a whispered declaration of amorous affection.
However, that doesn’t mean that people haven’t done wonderful things to show how much they care about me. A few months ago, a friend and I were looking through a box of pin badges, and I picked out a Q. Without saying anything to her, my friend figured out what I was doing and helped me find a U, two Es, and an R. Best friends finish each other’s sexual identity in pin badges I tweeted, after I’d hugged her and told her how much it meant to me.
My favourite way for someone to show they love me, though, is through kink.
I’ve previously posted a story on my blog about a couple discussing whether piss-play was a kink they wanted to play with, and the boy in question knew it was something I wanted to explore. We were having fun together, mixing each other’s kinks with laughter and teasing. I would send him links to erotica and blog posts, featuring things I wanted to try and things I thought he’d be into, and we weaved them together into kinky scenes that worked for both of us.
We were open with each other about the things we were into, so he knew that I wanted to explore being pissed on. It was about the control, I explained to him, less about the pee itself and more because it was a sign of a dominant’s power over me. It was degrading and filthy in a way that appealed when I was in a I’m a dirty little slut and I’ll let you do anything to me because I’m desperate to be fucked kind of mood. There was no expectation that we’d do these things together – I knew it wasn’t something he was into – but we both enjoyed sharing our kinks and talking about sex.
In my opinion, expressions of love are always best when they’re a surprise.
It was our first time together for six weeks: six weeks we’d spent trying to turn the other on with ideas for things we could do together. We had dinner together at a small restaurant: he’d instructed me to pick out a place where he could do unspeakable things to me during the meal. We got back to my flat, and the first thing he did, before kisses or spanks, he went into the dominant mode that would have made me slick my knickers if they weren’t in his pocket.
“Get me a glass of water, little slut.”
Already spinning into a subby headspace, I did as I was told. When I came back, I watched him drink down almost the whole glass at once and then greedily claimed my kisses. And then got spanked with a hard-back book with a cruel, aloof air that I loved all the more because I know it didn’t come naturally to him. He was doing it for me.
The spanking was followed by a blow job, a massage, and a vibrator assisted orgasm. Throughout, he used dominant tone in his voice that kept me melting into a puddle of arousal. He requested more water at frequent intervals throughout our play, and bringing this to him was rewarded with hair stroking and good girls. It wasn’t until his spunk was cooling on my tits during a much-needed cuddle break that I realised there might be ulterior motives at play.
“What do you want to do next?” I asked, idly tracing patterns on his chest.
“I had something in mind,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “I’ve kind of been preparing for it all evening…”
I turned to him excitedly, and saw he was grinning widely.
“What have you got in mind?”
He made me guess, and I blushed and hid my face against his shoulder. I had an idea – a hope – of what he might be planning, but I was too embarrassed. He pulled me close, and told me, in tones that were gently commanding, that he was going to piss on me.
A few moments later, he was standing above me as I knelt in my shower. I couldn’t stop smiling, and I could feel the arousal dripping down between my lets.
“Do you want me to make you filthy, little slut?”
I looked up at him eagerly, nodding.
It was hot and humiliating: I felt filthy. Of course, nothing is ever quite as you imagine it: the forceful jet of piss was warm and wonderful, but also a little unpredictable in its course, and I giggled as it hit my boobs and sprayed upwards. I dodged, because I wasn’t quite prepared for any of it to land on my face. He scolded me for not staying still, but I could see that he was laughing too.
Afterwards we turned on the water and showered together. I washed him carefully, almost reverently, rubbing soapy bubbles into his skin and feeling like a good girl serving her Sir. I’m not sure if he understood why I was doing it, but kisses and affirming words assured me that he was enjoying it, as well as making me glow with pride.
I have never had anyone bring me flowers, write me poetry, or buy me chocolates – but I’ve been given a g-spot vibrator by someone eager to use it on me. I’ve never received a Valentine’s card, let alone a whispered declaration of amorous affection… but I’ve been sent personalised erotica and had some pin me down and hiss that I need to be a good little slut and let him fuck my mouth.
I’ve also been pissed on by a guy I really like.
Image sourced by Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.