The Filthy Swine Devoured Every Last Morsel of His Mistress’s Waste
Mistress Jardena
LUDOVICA LUXURY — THE SPINACH CURE RITUAL
Today, I step into the role of healer: a crisp white coat, unbuttoned just enough to hint at what lies beneath, and featherlight white slippers that glide silently across the studio floor. At precisely two o'clock, Marco enters. I study him in a single glance—dull eyes, sallow skin, pallid nails, and when he offers his tongue, it is utterly devoid of color. Last night, after confirming his name on my schedule, I consumed nothing but a vast mound of spinach. All that iron now courses through me, transformed and ready to be delivered. I bid him to sit, absorbing his litany of complaints—the unrelenting dizziness, the distended belly, the sharp pangs, the erections that refuse to stir—then reach for my stethoscope. I part his shirt and press the cold diaphragm to his chest. His heart beats slow, slightly irregular; his lungs sound fragile, as though each breath is a labor. I nod with a knowing smile, then guide him to recline on the examination table. My hands press into his tight, hardened abdomen, feeling the bloat beneath my fingers, before sliding lower to assess his circulation. His breathing quickens—he understands the true treatment is about to commence. I help him down and point to the floor. He lowers himself onto the plush rug beside the table, flat on his back, head tilted back just so. I draw the low white chair close to his face, settle into it, turn my back to him, and lift the hem of my coat. "Open wide, darling," I murmur, low and warm. "The magic medicine comes straight from the source." I push gently, releasing everything directly into his waiting mouth. Today it is a true mountain—green, soft, steaming, sweet with transformed spinach. He swallows steadily, gulping after gulping, as the warm mass floods his mouth and slides down his throat. He takes in at least half, licking his lips between breaths. Then I rise just enough to straddle his face. I begin to urinate slowly, aiming into his still-open mouth. He drinks greedily, swallowing every drop of the warm, golden nectar I offer, while the overflow trickles down his neck and chest. What spills, I guide onto his swollen belly and his cock, which stirs to life under the heated stream. With the remaining green medicine, I coat his body like thick, curative mud: over his abdomen, along his thighs, up his shaft, massaging it in slowly so it seeps into his skin and begins to ease the bloat. I watch him surrender to the treatment, color returning to his cheeks, his erection growing firm and insistent beneath my touch. I spread his legs wider, settle his arms at his sides, and leave him there—perfectly still on the floor—for exactly fifteen minutes, so the cure can work its way deep inside and out. I slip from the room without haste, close the door, and smile to myself. When I return, I will lead him to the warm shower, wash every trace away, and watch him depart utterly reborn. And I will remind him that this ritual must be repeated at least once a month if he wishes to remain this way.
