Each morning begins with an undeniable urge—a need to relieve myself. And as you may know, I have a distinct preference for human over porcelain. Fresh back from Scotland, I decided to grant my submissive the privilege of sleeping bare and vulnerable at my feet. Upon waking, I command him to kiss my feet, still carrying the faint scent of last night’s sweat. My armpits exude a raw aroma, and I insist he cleanses them with his tongue. A firm kick to his groin, a twist of his nipples, and a forceful spit into his mouth follow. I press his face against me, forcing him to inhale my intimate scent—an unmistakable signal of what’s to come. Slipping off my robe, I leave him at my mercy. I settle over him, face-to-seat, and announce my growing need. Removing my panties, I instruct him to clutch them between his teeth, savoring the anticipation. Squatting above him, I demand his mouth open wide. Slowly, a firm turd emerges, landing directly onto his tongue. I wipe myself with toilet paper, tossing it his way with the command to clean the remnants later. He obeys, consuming eagerly, yet more awaits. Another, longer stool follows, and I ensure he swallows every bit. Two more pieces emerge, each met with compliance. I clean myself again, ordering him to lick the used paper. The morning air invigorates me, and I feel the urge once more. This time, I crouch backward, releasing yet another load into his awaiting mouth. Without pause, I drench him in a stream of golden morning urine, followed by one final turd. After cleaning, I instruct him to lick the paper once more, then thoroughly scrub the floor—there must be no trace left. He serves me obediently, like a devoted pet, licking and consuming whatever I command. Placing my foot on his head, I use him as a mop, ensuring every corner is spotless. When it’s time for his release, I thrust crumpled toilet paper into his mouth, commanding him to climax. Only through servitude, as my living toilet, is he allowed this pleasure. This is his purpose—his ultimate fulfillment.
