Feeding the Throne
Valentina Lux
LUDOVICA LUXURY: A FIRST AND FINAL ENCOUNTER
For two months, my inbox was bombarded with desperate pleas from a man obsessed with becoming my human toilet. Initially, I deleted his messages without a second thought, but his persistence eventually piqued my curiosity. I sent him a cold, blunt reply: “If you’re serious, there’s one rule—you swallow everything. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.” He agreed within seconds. At precisely 10 a.m., the intercom buzzed. I greeted him wearing nothing but a black thong, a push-up bra, and my thick yellow wool socks—worn continuously for four days. Their damp warmth filled the room with an overpowering stench as he stepped inside, trembling from the cold or nerves. “On your knees,” I commanded, pointing to the plastic sheet. He obeyed without hesitation. I pressed one socked foot under his nose. “Sniff. Get acquainted with my winter sweat.” His face twisted as he inhaled, but he took another breath despite his aversion to strong odors. “Take them off—with your teeth.” He struggled clumsily, but eventually, my bare feet emerged—hot, glossy with sweat, soles darkened from days pressed against wool. “Lick them. Toes to heel. Don’t miss a spot.” His tongue moved hesitantly, grimacing with each pass as the sour taste of damp wool coated his mouth. I laughed softly, rubbing my other socked foot across his face, leaving traces of yellow fluff on his reddened cheeks. “Good toilet. But today, you’re not here for feet.” “No, Mistress,” he replied. I positioned him flat on his back, spreading my legs over his face. The radiator groaned uselessly as the cold seeped through the windows. My bladder full, I bent slightly and pissed onto his cock—a hot stream in stark contrast to the icy room. He flinched but kept his mouth sealed. Next came the main event. A long, solid piece landed directly in his mouth, overflowing in brown streaks down his cheeks and neck. With gloved hands, I scooped up the spillage, packing it into his mouth one fat mouthful at a time. His body trembled, tears welling in his eyes as he struggled to comply. “I haven’t given you permission to quit yet,” I hissed, pressing my palm against his forehead. He raised a trembling hand, gasping for mercy. My voice turned icy. “This was your one and only chance. Apologize. Now.” “I’m sorry, Mistress… thank you for using me…” “Louder.” “I’M SORRY, MISTRESS! THANK YOU FOR USING ME AS YOUR TOILET!” I stood, looking down at him—mouth stuffed, cheeks smeared, cock cooling in a puddle of my piss. Without a word, I tossed my yellow socks onto his chest and walked out, leaving him frozen in fear and silence. How long would it take him to realize I wasn’t returning? To crawl out alone, clean up, and leave without daring to knock? Maybe he’d vanish forever. Maybe another desperate email would arrive. We’ll see.
