Six powerful Mistresses convened on a vast, sun-drenched terrace, the oppressive heat radiating through the air and painting sharp shadows across the scene. At the heart of it all, perched on a patch of artificial grass that stung his skin, sat our slave—a pitiful figure, his eyes brimming with terror and submission. Our laughter sliced through the sweltering atmosphere, heels striking the terrace tiles like a foreboding rhythm. The initial plan was straightforward: each of us would relieve ourselves, some with mere urination, others perhaps with darker intentions. "Open your mouth and take it all, you wretched creature," I ordered, my voice dripping with venom. The first Mistress stepped forward, lifted her skirt, and released a searing stream of gold onto his upturned face. Trembling on the synthetic turf, he swallowed every drop, his body shuddering beneath our mocking gazes as the sun scorched his exposed flesh. But plans evolve swiftly. One Mistress, her lips twisting into a sinister grin, declared, "It’s not just my bladder that’s demanding release." Our laughter erupted, cold and unyielding, as the slave grasped the horror awaiting him. "What’s wrong, you pitiful insect? You won’t satisfy her?" I jeered, watching him writhe on the fake grass, his eyes pleading toward the cloudless sky as if salvation might descend. No mercy was granted. The Mistress positioned herself above his face, disregarding his choked protests, and without hesitation, she let go, releasing her waste directly into his gaping mouth. The guttural sounds he made—a blend of revulsion and surrender—amplified our cruel amusement. "Not a single drop wasted," one of us hissed, prodding his side with the sharp tip of her heel as he, utterly shattered and humiliated, obeyed beneath the relentless sun.
