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You and Silco have developed a strangely symbiotic relationship. Not necessarily one built of love (from his side, at least), but rather one that mutually benefits both of your twisted perversions. However, you find yourself spending more time with him even beyond that. He often requests for you to do your paperwork in his office, keeping him company as he pours over papers on his desk. The invitations always give you sickening butterflies, getting your hopes up that he could see you as something more than a fucktoy. Maybe he just wants you nearby for whenever he needs to get out his frustration, but... you also like to believe he simply enjoys your presence.
Today is no different. You sit on the couch with a glass of wine, taking sips while scanning over the details of shimmer exports and looking for any discrepancies. An irritated sigh rips you out of your focus.
You glance over at Silco. That type of noise usually meant you were about to get brutalized. "What's wrong?" you query, unable to hide the small smile on your face.
"... Be a doll and come over here," he requests, and you obey without hesitation. You set your things down on the couch and practically run over, standing in front of his chair. He looks up at you, brows furrowed with clear frustration, then points to the floor. "Sit."
You slink to your knees and scoot closer, hands raising to cusp his bony knees in your palms. He wastes no time unbuttoning his pants - uncharacteristically rushed for him, considering how he usually toys with you more first. Even more alarming is that his cock is completely flaccid when he pulls it out. You peer up at him questioningly.
"I've thought it over, and I believe you deserve a promotion," he hums, his hand raising to gently pet your head.
“Uhm. Alright.” You pause, and he doesn't continue. His purposeful vagueness is extremely worrying. With a sigh, you prod further, “What exactly does this promotion entail?”
Another beat. Then, “How'd you like to be my personal urinal?"
You jerk back out of shock. "U-Urinal?!" you squawk. "I... I don't know about that one, sir."
Okay, you'd be lying if you said you'd never thought about it before. Maybe you've thought about it a couple times, actually. But actually going through with it? The horrible scent, the taste that'll probably make you puke, the sensation of Silco's warm fluids filling up and marking your insides, the utter humiliation that comes with being defiled in such an intimate way...
Shit, maybe you could be into this.
Silco seems to peer right into your brain, watching all your gears turn as you contemplate whether you're ready to accept this new level of depravity. He winces in discomfort, exhaling shakily. "I haven't got all day, pet. Open your mouth and let me use you, just this once."
His smooth voice coaxes you with ease, quieting the screaming in your brain that's telling you this is absolutely deranged. Slowly, your lips part and you scoot in closer between his thighs. He gifts you a little nod of praise. The tip of his cock nears your open mouth and settles comfortably on your bottom lip. You can't believe you're doing this.
"Try not to make too big of a mess, hmm?" he murmurs.
The first splash of his piss is quick to hit your tongue, and Silco lets out a low whine of relief. You gag the moment it hits your taste buds, but he’s ready for your reaction - he grabs the back of your head and keeps you in place, despite how your body tries to recoil. Some of his fluids dribble out of the corner of your mouth, leaving sticky residue as it trails down onto your chest.
It's sharp and bitter, making your face scrunch up in repulsion. The acrid scent overpowers everything, all your thoughts and senses consumed by his pungent, steaming piss. The yellow liquid slides down your tongue and into the back of your throat relentlessly, easily working past your gag reflex that tries desperately to block its path. You grip his thighs and fist the fabric of his pants as your eyes water from the intensity.
"That's it, sweetheart," Silco groans, head tilted back as he empties his achingly full bladder. "Breathe in your owner's piss. Drown in it. That's all a piss whore like you deserves."
The putrid taste never lessens, but you manage to establish a steadier rhythm. You squeeze your teary eyes shut and focus on swallowing down each squirt of urine into your mouth. The heat of his piss warms up your insides, sloshing around in your belly in a way that could be described as comforting in any other context.
A little too much slips down the wrong pipe and you start coughing. Immediately, you lose any semblance of control. Without thinking, you close your lips to try and clear your throat – his pee splatters across your mouth, your cheeks, into your hair and down your front. Piss is everywhere, and you feel like you’re suffocating in its horrible scent. Yet, you don’t miss the twitch in Silco’s cock, how it’s a little bigger than before when you finally manage to take the heavy mass back in your mouth.
“Oh my, look at you… what a filthy thing.” Silco presses his thumb into your cheek and smears his fluids across your skin. His chest heaves up and down quickly, strands of hair bouncing over his forehead with each ragged exhale. Judging by the hunger in his eyes, your duties will likely not end at just being his urinal.
You hate yourself for doing this. You hate how your thighs are clenched together, how you’re rocking your wet cunt against the heel of your foot. Although you gag violently after each swallow, body begging to reject his fluids, you resist. You dig your nails into his thigh and refuse to spill another drop.
Finally, his torrential stream tapers off into the last couple droplets that you gulp down quickly. The second Silco pulls his half-hard cock from your lips, your forehead falls onto his knees. You pant desperately for air but only suck in more of Silco’s pervasive stench. Shit, you’re drenched in it.
Silco’s hand tugs at your hair, forcing you to meet his eye – you also take note of his other hand, lazily stroking his cock to full hardness. He’s far too pleased with his handiwork, sneering down at your debauched state. “Didn’t I tell you to not make a mess? Pathetic excuse for a toilet,” he cruelly taunts.
Your heart clenches painfully at his words. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, genuinely disappointed in yourself.
Silco’s face softens a little at your pitifulness. After a moment of thought, he lets go of your hair and leans back, patting his thigh. “You’ve already managed to soil my pants with your incompetence. Get up here.”
You clamber into his lap, cringing at the sound of droplets falling onto the floor when you rise. Once you settle onto him with your thighs straddling his own, he surveys your entire body, as if assessing the damage done. “This shirt is ruined,” he comments dryly, gripping at the bottom. “Arms up.”
He pulls your shirt off and over your head, exposing the noticeable swelling of your stomach that makes you burn hot with shame. His hand rests at the curve of your hip, thumb tracing soft circles over your distended belly. “How’s that feel?” he purrs, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Having my piss inside of you, filling you up until you can’t take anymore?” The nail of his thumb digs in slightly, putting pressure against the upset gurgling of your urine-filled stomach. “You’ll never be able to wash the scent of me out of your hair, your skin. I’ll always have marked you. Ruined you for anyone else.”
The velvet of his voice oozes into your ears and down your spine, sending uncomfortably arousing shivers across your body. You despise Silco in this moment, solely because you know he’s right. He’s corrupted you in every sense of the word, and you hate him even more for the fact that you don’t really care that much.
Most of all, you hate that fucking wine you were sipping on earlier, because now you have the nagging urge to pee.
So when Silco’s thumb travels further down, pressing into your lower belly, you lurch forward with a soft groan. Silco hums attentively, bringing his whole hand to rest over your abdomen. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. How does it feel?”
“F-Full,” you dumbly whimper, shifting uncomfortably. “Hot. Wet.”
“What about down here?” His fingers crawl downwards, breaching the waistband of your pants and inching closer to your sensitive cunt. “Did drinking an old man’s piss make you all tingly?”
You push your forehead into Silco’s shoulder, huffing softly. You can’t help but sink into the throes of submission when he talks down to you so sweetly. “Y-yes, sir.” Your hole clenches around nothing but your own arousal.
His fingers slide over your underwear, prodding at the damp spot that has leaked through the fabric. “Oh,” he faux gasps, “You certainly weren’t lying. How disgusting does one have to be to get off on such a thing?” He taps your clothed clit and your back arches out, pulled taut like a bow. “So worked up…”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, though you’re not sure why.
Silco’s finger nudges aside your soaked underwear. “You have nothing to apologize for.” His free hand returns to your piss-swollen belly, this time with more possession. “Truthfully, it’s fascinating. I cannot wait to find out how far you can be pushed before you start trying to defy me. Before I completely break you.”
Your hips rock against his finger as it gingerly parts your folds. “I could never defy you,” you reply genuinely. If he sweet-talked enough, you would probably do anything he asked of you.
Silco chuckles. “It’s unwise to say such a thing to someone like me, little one.” He begins to press down on your stomach, right over your bladder. All your muscles tense and you whine into his shirt. “Why don’t you go grab your bottle of wine?”
Oh no. No, no, no. You know where this is going, and you don't know if you like it or not. You lean your head back and wearily meet Silco’s eyes, your face clearly conveying all of your anxieties and reservations.
He flashes his chipped teeth in a mocking smile. “Going back on your word already?”
“N-No, I just –”
Silco’s fist rears back and punches you in the lower abdomen. It doesn’t hurt like normal – the pain is drowned out by the intense spasming of your bladder, squeezing and aching for release after being jostled so violently. You wheeze, ejecting all the air in your lungs as you focus solely on not peeing your pants.
“Go get the wine, dear,” he states, no longer a question.
And you do. His hand slides out from your underwear and you stumble to your feet, thighs clenching together at the sudden onslaught of pressure. You know you look ridiculous like this, pattering across the room shirtless, legs squeezed together, hair matted and skin crusted with piss. Another humiliation ritual. You try to be fast, grabbing the wine bottle and returning to your mildly less embarrassing position on Silco’s lap.
“My good doggy knows how to fetch,” he praises, ridiculing and smug as always. He grabs the bottle by the neck and pops off the cap. “Head back, mouth open.”
You follow his directions, settling on his thigh and propping your hands on his chest for support. Of course, shooting his piss into your mouth wasn’t enough. Now you’ll have the lovely addition of wine on your grimy skin.
Silco leans the wine bottle over your mouth and begins trickling it in. You have a relatively easy time gulping it down, only a couple droplets spilling from the corners of your mouth. The worst part is the nausea from the copious amount of fluids filling your stomach – or perhaps it’s the agonizing pressure on your bladder, which feels heavier and heavier with each swallow.
“You’re doing so well,” Silco coos as the wine nears its end. His eyes flicker between your face and stomach, watching as your belly enlarges further, a visual representation of how he’s filling you to your absolute limit. He’s remarkably gentler now as he delights in the delicious process of stripping all control and dignity from you. “That’s it… just a couple more sips.”
Finally, he sets the empty bottle onto his desk and returns his full attention to your body. He runs his hands over your stomach, pushing down just hard enough to make you twitch and shudder. His fingers deftly unbutton your pants, then helps you shimmy them off. As always, you end up being the only one fully nude, laid bare for Silco to examine and poke at as he pleases.
“Gorgeous,” he utters, raising a hand to wholly envelop your breast. You curl into him, searching for any relief from the fullness that’s weighing you down. “My sweet baby…” His nails pinch at your nipple and tug slightly, jolting your body with prickles of pleasure. “How badly do you need to go?”
“R-Really bad,” you answer in a hushed tone, pressing your face into his shoulder. “It hurts.”
He gropes at your soft tit, squeezing and massaging as you lowly moan. “Do you think you can let go right now?”
You bite your lip and shake your head, about to respond – when Silco bounces his knee, grinding his thigh against your bare cunt. A pained exhale escapes your lips and you grip tightly onto his arm, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. You can feel a droplet of something trickling down your inner thigh.
“I know you can do it.” Silco plants a kiss on the crown of your head. His leg jumps again and you audibly cry, nails digging into his shirt. “Accidents happen, little one. It’s okay.” Another bounce. The ache in your bladder and the sloshing in your stomach are unbearable. Every nerve burns with the hedonistic desire to abandon self-respect and relinquish yourself to Silco.
“P-Please, sir, I can’t,” you babble, squeezing your legs tightly around Silco’s thigh. “I can’t hold it, I can’t –” You begin to hyperventilate, burying your face into the fabric and surrounding yourself with his comforting scent. You want, need to let go, but you’re terrified.
His leg bounces without hesitation now, a relentless assault on your overwhelmed body that has you writhing and panting. Silco’s hand kneads at your bladder and, with genuine care and patience, he whispers into your ear, “Shhh, shhh, you’re doing so well. Daddy’s got you.”
Through the haze in your brain, you vaguely realize fuck he’s never called himself that before and everything falls apart. “I-I’m gonna-”
“I know. It’s okay.” That final reassurance is what destroys you.
Everything explodes, both inside and out. A surge of piss drenches both you and Silco in its heat, drowning the chair and dripping onto the floor. Pleasure consumes all of you, breaking your voice and only allowing some strange, animalistic idea of words to emerge. Your cunt violently pulsates as your entire bladder empties onto Silco’s lap. His fingers dip into your sopping wet cunt and rub at your clit frantically.
“Beautiful,” he groans, breathing hard into your ear. “So, so beautiful, so good for me, baby. Daddy’s proud of you.” His voice is as unrecognizable as your own, rough and bordering on pleading as he pushes you to your limit. You know you should be humiliated, should be running away in shame and horror – but Silco soothes you with ease. Urine squirts all over his hand and wrist and he doesn’t bat an eye. Rather, he gathers the yellow fluid in his palm and rubs it along your slit, reveling in the disgusting mess.
Your stream is unforgiving in its amount, pouring and pouring until there’s no hope of getting its acidic smell out of Silco’s slacks. You’re completely limp against him as the last couple squirts escape. Despite the immense weight lifted, you somehow feel even heavier than before. Exhausted and drained, you simply press your head against his chest and breathe.
Silco’s hand leaves your pussy and grips onto his weeping cock; you hadn’t even noticed how hard he’d grown while you were fixated on your own release. He starts to wildly fist his piss-covered cock, hips bucking and thigh bumping erratically against your overstimulated clit. The squelching noises echo around in your empty head and make you warm all over.
“F-Fuck, fuck,” he hisses, each thrust more aggressive than the last as he nears closer to the edge. “Did you like that? Pissing yourself like a little kid? Oh God, it smells amazing, you smell so good, I need to drink you–” A sharp gasp cuts Silco off. His back arches and spurts of purple-tinted cum splash across your stomachs. One last act of defilement.
A minute of heaving chests and synchronized breathing passes as you both recover. However, Silco is the first to break the stillness. His fingers dip into the puddle of piss gathered in his lap and brings it up to his lips. Your insides shrivel up at the mortifying thought of someone ingesting your urine, but Silco’s soft moan as he laps up the fluids wipes away any uncertainty.
“You’re… insane,” you incredulously state. No words can explain how this man manages to exceed any human concept of shame.
His eyes flicker to your face, and you’re taken aback by the strange vulnerability written across his features. Strands of graying hair are matted to his forehead from his sweat, his pupil is unfocused and hazy, and a little drool seems to have escaped his mouth. You’ve never found him more beautiful.
You lean in and kiss him. You’re pretty sure you can taste yourself on him, yet you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s awkward for a moment, like he’s afraid of reciprocating, but his hands manage to find your cheek and cusp it gently in his palm. Everything is clammy and gross and you want to stay in this moment forever.
Silco separates himself, but keeps his forehead pressed against yours. “You performed well. If not too well.”
You laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist and stands with you coddled to his chest like a bride. You both look down to the large amalgamation of your shared fluids pooled on the floor and cringe.
“… There’ll need to be some extensive cleaning,” Silco sighs.
“I thought I was supposed to relieve your stress, not give you more,” you giggle.
Much to your horror, Silco calmly replies, “I’ll have someone else handle it.” Then he carries you to the bathroom, as has become the routine after each of your little sessions.
A routine. The thought gives you butterflies.
Every interaction moves you closer to capturing his heart and winning the game. More and more cracks appear in his façade: the fleeting softness that anyone else could miss, or the whole “daddy” thing he sprung on you. You’d have to address that later.
For right now, you cuddle into his chest and close your eyes. There’s nothing more comforting than the familiar scent of cigar smoke… now with a tinge of piss. Dear Janna, you really will never get that smell out of your nose.