Ah, the liquids that sustain us. Quenching my thirst, running through my body’s aquifers; nourishing, cleansing, cooling. A short journey, barely more than an hour, warmed to the perfect body temperature, it carries excess salt and minerals, before collecting drop by drop inside my eagerly awaiting bladder. A perfect cycle creating a warm reservoir of clean, mineral-rich fluid; a reflection of my body and health.

This miracle of nature, transformed from crystal clear to subtle yellow, is my number one. It pains me to see it washed down the drain. Yes, I am pro-piss. Pro water-sports. Pro-recycling. Yes, I like my piss. I pee in the shower and enjoy the warm stream of water running through my fingers, over my pussy, down my legs. Then I watch it disappear like garbage down the trash chute.

I lick my fingers, taste the changing flavor of my piss from morning to evening, from water to juice to coffee. It’s never the same, always telling me how my body is doing, what I put in it, what holds me together.

Just like wine, it wants to be enjoyed at the perfect temperature. Just like wine, once opened, it wants to remain fresh. Oxygen is not its friend.

The moments I get to enjoy my own piss are brief and fleeting. They are best in the evening, after some red wine, low in sulfites. The flavor comes through, gone is the morning bitterness, salt levels are low. If wine is sunshine, held together by water, then my evening piss is the same for my body. Ready to be tapped, enjoyed all over again.

I harvest my piss. A bag, strapped between my legs, attached to form a tight seal until I’m ready to open the tap at the bottom and enjoy the warm nectar after dinner, before I go to bed.

Or, when the bratty submissive in me pretends to be humiliated. Doms love to see subs drink their own piss. Secretly, I’m sure they’d like to try it, too. Go away, it’s mine, I like it, and I’m not sharing; except for breakfast.

I’m not alone. My doctors values it. She appreciates the secrets it holds, what it says about me, my lifestyle, my health. And then it goes down the drain. I guess my piss can please different people in different ways. It is versatile, an all-around performer. I’m proud of it.

After an evening of my own piss, alone or with others, I get sloppy. Some leave their half-finished bottle of wine standing on the table, I leave my barely rinsed out pissbag hanging over the towel rack. Who wants to worry about cleaning up after a perfect evening. Who is alert before mid-day when on vacation?

So it happens. An empty pissbag hangs casually, like a misplaced towel, in my hotel room. Brunch was delicious. The coffee comes back to my room. I don’t think much of it until I realize the bed is made, pillows fluffed, just the bathroom is untouched. My face turns pink-red. I meant no harm, did not mean to offend anyone.

Would a bottle of water or wine be treated the same way?

Sinful Sunday