Those who follow my musings know that I have a fetish for all things urethral. Piss games like target practice, forced consumption, toilet slavery, golden enema, bladder control, and on to more precise practices like sounding, figging, and urethral stretching.
Catheter play is a twisted merry game, and it can be done as a standalone practice or as part of a longer scene. If you’ve been sounded you’ll know that the feeling of a slender object snaking up your urethra is incredible, intensely pleasurable, and stimulating for the prostate. Once it’s secured in you, imagine how much it would heighten pleasure for other play.
It’s quite an ordeal of medical paraphernalia, laying the sterile Sheet of Dignity over your freshly swabbed and cleansed junk, lubricating the equipment, feeding it through into the bladder and inflating the bubble to keep it in, and securing the leg bag. The bag fills – you don’t get to decide when you are going to urinate because this little tube does it all for you.
From there, I might carry on flaying you, going deeper into medical play. Needles, staples, sutures… I can go into more detail when we meet, I don’t want to frighten the sissies away from reading the rest of this.
I put you in extended bondage. You are immobile, unable to touch yourself. Perhaps you are kept in a cage overnight as I sleep soundly in the king bed upstairs.
Or maybe we go out in public, and you squirm with hot embarrassment in lacy knickers and catheter tubing under your everyday clothes. Imagine dinner across form me as I gently torment you, urging you to drink more water.
And then, a test of your devotion in an act of submissive debasement. The bag is full, but how could we waste such a precious collection? It’s got to go back in, one hole or another. I might let you flip a coin to seal your fate.
Want to try it? Break the golden seal. Come get cath’d.
I open the door to the accessible toilet at the cheap and cheerful Canadian coffee shop on the corner and to my fiendish delight, you are still there where I left you, tied up with plastic string to the baby changing table, spider gag installed keeping your mouth forced open, your dribble pooling into an already rolled-up rim cardboard cup. It’s stifling and hot in this tiny room. You look up at me as best as your head will allow, bound in a web of packaging sting as you are, and inhale sharply when you catch sight of my pure white blouse, my starched cap, my braided hair shimmering under the fluorescent light. It is as though my splendid milky purity dazzles the linoleum tiles, and you must stop from swooning.
Without a word, I plop a package on my lap and slowly unwrap this first item. A heavy, warm wheel of brie, as big as my hand, thick and quivering with calcium and fat. You gargle piteously. I take it to mean, “please, sweet maid, all of it!” As you wish, little goose. I push the soft, squishy cheese into your mouth, liquid enough to simply open your throat and allow it to slip down.
Gravity takes its time, and so I get to unwrapping individual CheeseWhizzes from the bulk packet I found on the street. With great care I move the Cheeze sticks into your nostrils, your ears, and lovingly roll the remainder into your body hair.
Humming to myself, I set to work on filing a lump of aged parmesan into a butt plug. I dip it into your spit cup and apply a stiff twisting technique to fit it into your cavity.
You are quite a sight. I take out a sketch pad and pencil, and fuss over a smudgy little drawing for the time it takes all the cheeses to acclimatize to your body heat. Poor goose, restrained and force fed, plugged up and helpless. But that look on your bulging, sweating face tells me that you can’t get enough of being a dairy slut. I’ve captured the expression in my sketch; I’m rather pleased with how it turned out.
I open the door and prop it open. Your thick moans of embarrassment and alarm are drowned out by a restless crowd of men who burst in carrying buckets spilling over with yogurt, cheesecake, pavlova, and scrambled egg. They rush you, surrounding you in the clamour of dairy products. You gurgle and shriek; your brie gag bubbles. They are banging their buckets, waiting for my call. The mob of dairy men are consumed with feverish lust for the finale. You try to look away but I pull your eyes back, and I shout, “Pour!”
And the buckets flow. On your face, all down your neck and chest, your belly, on top of your head, trickling down the gutters of your body, pooling in your dips, seeping into the folds of your flesh. The entire coffee shop is watching, since there was so much noise.
The deed is done. The men discard their buckets and file out, an air of subdued satisfaction around them. I am the last one out, and before I turn the light out and shut the door I take a look back. Dripping with milkiness, chunks of dairy-rich edibles running rivulets down your body, your eyes meet mine. You look pathetic, abused, and absolutely dazzling.