Previously: She fanned herself with one hand, and gasped until her breathing slowed down. “Good boy.” She patted his head, and closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them the string was still pulled tight but not broken, and he was smiling at her.
She smiled back, and licked her lips. “So, your throat was for swallowing piss, yes?”
He scooted back towards the dresser, letting some slack into the string, and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”
“Stay.” She walked out of the room, and he heard cupboards then drawers banging in the kitchen. She walked back past him carrying two red cups and went into the bathroom. “Take the collar and leash off and come in here.”
He sat up and pulled the collar around his neck until the knot was in front of him, and worked the string loose until it fell apart. He shoved himself to his feet, ran a hand through his hair and tried to ignore the aches in his legs and across his back.
He followed her into the bathroom, and she handed him one of the cups. “Pee in it.”
She nodded. “Oh yeah. Pee in it.”
He held his cock with one hand, and positioned the cup in front of it with the other. He closed his eyes, and relaxed his bladder. Piss splashed into the cup, and slowly filled it. The stream slowed, then stopped, and he shook the last few drops off his cock.
“Put it down there.” She pointed to the sink.
He set the cup down on the sink, and she made a shooing motion with one hand. “Okay, scoot. Wait outside, I’ll just be a minute.”
He stepped out of the bathroom, and she shut the door behind him. He stretched and scratched his stomach, rocking on his feet, looking around the room, waiting.
The door opened, and she came out with the two cups. “Come on.” She walked into the kitchen, and he followed her with a frown.
She sat the table, put one cup in front of her, and the other in the chair opposite. “Sit.”
He sat down, and she grinned. “Now, the battle of wits begins. It ends when you choose a cup, and we both drink.”
He raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head at her across the table. “Am I the princess in this situation, or the Sicilian?”
“Definitely the princess.” She nodded with mock seriousness. “Definitely.
He pointed to the cup in front of him, then the cup in front of her. “And the iocane powder is what in this scenario?”
“One cup is your pee, one cup is mine. Very simple.” She tried a British accent that was broken up by a giggle, and let it go. “You have to choose which cup to drink.”
“And you drink the other?”
She laughed. “God no, the other gets dumped in the toilet.” She smiled, an evil glint in her eye. “Well?”
He frowned, and looked from cup to cup. “Can I see the other cup?”
She slid it towards him, and he compared the two. They both held the same amount, and looked about the same. They smelled the same, the sour, acrid reek of urine. He slid the second cup back towards her, and leaned back in the chair.
He drummed his fingers on the table, and and licked his lips.
She tried to keep a serious look on her face, but kept breaking into giggles. “God, you like drinking my piss, but put a cup of your own in front of you and you act like it’s the most horrible thing in the world.”
His eyes kept moving from one cup to the other. “Yeah, well, drinking your piss makes me feel like you’re inside of me, invading every cell as my body breaks it down. Like internal bruises I can carry around for a week. Drinking my own is just gross, unless I’ve been trapped in a coal mine for three days, in which case still gross, but society will give me a pass.”
She snorted another laugh, enjoying his anxiety. “I totally understand. A well reasoned and astute observation.”
He gave up on looking at the cups, and looked at her instead. She liked to watch him deny himself for her, so she’d probably put the cup with her piss in front of him. She’d know he’d know, but she enjoyed the familiarity they had with each other, so no reason to switch it. But she also liked the mental aspect of domination, the contest of wills, the mental strength rather than the physical struggle, so she’d want him to pick the wrong one, so he should go for the one in front of her. But she’d probably be more comfortable with her own piss than his, so she’d put hers in front of herself.
He added things up mentally.
“It’s getting cold,” she sang in a lilting voice, smiling her not trying to help smile.
Two points for being on her side of the table, one for being on his. He pointed back to her cup. “I’ll take that one.”
She kept her face neutral as she slid it across the table to him. He paused, then lifted the cup to his lips, and drank it down in several long gulps. He put it back on the table, and looked at her. “Well?”
“Was that your piss or mine?”
She shrugged and snorted a laugh. “I honestly have no idea, I lost track in the bathroom when I was evening out the amount in them.”
He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Not cool, I’d like to know if I should be enjoying this or not.”
She shrugged. “I just wanted to see you sweat, and it worked fine for me. Go dump this in the toilet, and meet me in the bedroom. I think I have a use for your tongue.”
Preview: Tongues are for licking boots, cunt, and ass. So I’ve been told anyway.
Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.