Drinking Champagne from my Manchester Dominatrix shoes

To say that things are tight would be an understatement.

However when Manchester Dominatrix Mistress Helena text messaged me saying “I hope to see you soon” things begin to take on a very different perspective.

All of a sudden the various bills I have outstanding seem less urgent.

I can push the rent back if needs must.

And needs must.

Manchester Mistress Helena has agreed in principle to visit me wearing black shiny, glossy seamed nylons, she did not specify if they were stockings or pantyhose, although either would be just fine. For when she graces me with her stunning presence that’s all that matters.

My fine Manchester Dominatrix will wear her black patent high heeled shoes, red painted fingernails, red lipstick and, most importantly, to my great delight, she has promised to urinate into her shoes and into my face. A true delight.

As I digest this information I realize how singularly unimportant paying my rent really is. This Manchester Dominatrix is addictive to say the least. I am now an hooked to her. I wonder if I need Rehab.

At this moment I could honestly not care less if I am rendered homeless; Mistress’ hosiery and shoes are all that matter.

The moment my Dominatrix arrives she orders me to the floor; this is perfectly reasonable as she is a perfect goddess whilst I, on the other hand, am a worthless, pathetic, piece of shit, put on this earth to worship my Manchester Dominatrix Mistress Helena.

She graciously permits me to sniff the arch of her stockinged foot, allowing her black stiletto shoe to gently dangle slightly beneath her nylon-clad heel.

“Can you smell the piss in my shoes from our last encounter? I filled these full of piss and made you gulp it all down last time we met”

Of course I remember, how could I forget?

I do not answer though, I am completely overcome with a sensation I have not felt before. It is more than desire, more profound than passion. I realize I am utterly overwhelmed and totally powerless against the hold, the power, that these stiletto heels have over me.

I am commanded to sniff them, to stroke them, to kiss them, to lick them.

I deep-throat the full heel, clean them with my tongue as instructed to by my Mistress, and also lick the sole spotless.

Intermittently Manchester Dominatrix Mistress Helena spits into my face and mouth.

Each time I thank her sincerely.

I think I am undeserving of her spit, let alone her gorgeous nectar.

After a couple of hours grovelling at Mistress’ feet I am led downstairs to be pissed on.

I am ordered to beg to be pissed upon.

I do as I am told.

I plead to be allowed to lick urine from my Mistress’ high heeled shoes.

I watch in awe as it cascades down her seamed nylons and into her black patent shoes.

Her shoes soon fill up and it begins to overflow onto the floor.

She removes her stockinged toes from the front of the shoe, they are drenched in still-warm piss, she offers them to my mouth, I eagerly accept.

I suck all the magnificent moisture from them.

The taste is indescribable.

She pokes her toes back inside the still-flooded-in-piss shoe.

After soaking them once again in gallons of adorable urine they are shoved into my waiting mouth again.

I do not complain.

Far from it.

This is repeated several times until Mistress’ shoes are liquid-free.

What an honour.

As a final treat my Manchester Dominatrix leaves me with one of her champagne-soaked nylons.

Not a day goes by that I do not spend at least an hour with this oh-so-special garment.

It is my most treasured item in the world.