Every single night without fail I awaken sweating and aroused around 4am.
It is the same dream each and every time; I am lay on my back, naked and helpless, my gaping mouth is wide open and my eyes are equally expectant.
Above me is Mistress Helena.
My Manchester Mistress is wringing out her piss-sodden pantyhose into my face and mouth.
As she does so I am asked over and over if I am deserving of such an honour; of course I am not and never could be.
There is simply nothing I could ever do in my worthless and useless life that could warrant a treat as magnificent and special as having Mistress rinse the urine out of her tights all over my grateful face.
Mistress Helena then asks of me “Tell me just how important my high heeled shoes are to your life”.
She knows full well just how frustrated I become upon being asked this.
If I lived forever I could never do her query justice.
I attempt an answer by telling her that her heels are always on my mind.
That I think about them every single day without fail.
That I would do anything to be near to them.
That I need her shoes.
A very unimpressed Dominatrix, the fine Mistress Helena interrupts my pleading and sternly asserts “If you truly adored my high heels you would not mind crying over them”.
I begin to sob over Mistress’s beautiful patent stiletto shoes, and as a reward, possibly, she stuffs the damp hosiery into my willing mouth.
To cap it all off she spits into my face and instructs me to
“savour the flavour of moist champagne in my lingerie”.
I do as I am bid and all I can hear is Mistress Helena disparagingly referring to me as her “nasty little piss whore”.
That I am. And proud of it.