Washing off the dirt.

I love everything about being drenched in piss, except the part when it starts to dry and it starts to burn my skin a little. Burning might not be the perfect way to describe it; it's not a warm sensation but a prickly one. Either way, it's unpleasant and even though I never want his poss washed off me, I really wish he would hurry up and let me wash it off. The water is flowing over the rim of the bucket and the faucet is still running. I'm tempted to turn it off because I can't not think about all the wasted water but if I move around the chains will rattle and he'll hear me moving.

That's the worst thing I can do in his book, I think. I've never met anyone else who is this into stillness and remaining in position. It's such an oddly endearing fixation. I think maybe in his head he positions all things neatly in their exact spots and when one of those things moves in of its own volition it conflicts with the image in his head and makes his nose itch. I understand that even if I don't feel that way about this exact thing. I do feel that way about other things.

He comes in in through the door behind me and immediately kicks me in the cunt. It's doesn't surprise me though, I've been longing for these kicks all day. Begging. Taking my clothes off and laying myself at his feet just so he'd put them inside me. I just feel grateful when he kicks me and I say as much. I'm so agreeable when I'm horny; my best, most polite and most civilized behaviour comes out when my most depraved self is deeply engaged. Maybe because deep down I really just want to be a *good girl*.

Just in a different way.

I want to be a good girl like this: chained to the pipe, on all fours, covered in piss, waited to be bathed and being utterly grateful for any attention my cunt gets even if it hurts. This hits my sweet spot of  being pathetic.

He turns the faucet and it becomes very quiet in the room. He sets the cleaning brush down in front of me on the floor and reaches for a mug of water. I'm too distracted by the brush to prepare to be wet. The water is warmer than I anticipated but I'm more taken by how he..throws it at me. It's like he's flinging water at me; swinging his arm and releasing the water. It splashes on my skin and bounces back onto him. For once, he doesn't seem to mind getting wet. I don't either. I don't mind how horrible it feels as he scrubs me with steel bristles and soap, I like how everything that touches my skin feels good somehow.

It feels goods to hear his words bounce against my flesh as he props me on my knees and starts to scrub with steel between my legs; it feels good to feel his words somehow touch me. It feels weird how undeniably engaged I am in this activity, like somehow this is all that matters in the world right. All that matters is that he clean me so thoroughly, because only a thoroughly cleaned animal could sleep in his bed. I want to *rise above* these things and be less frivolous with my sexuality, but it's the only thing that blinds me enough and captures me enough in the moment to really believe nothing else matters.

Nothing else matters as he covers me from head to toe in bloody soap and soapy water. Just this. Just this weird vortex of shame, pleasure and insignificant power where everything is okay. It's okay to say thank you when your lover calls you names. It's okay to say sorry when you did nothing wrong but everything hurts and you want it to stop. It's okay to moan when he laughs at you and scrubs you from head to toe. It's all..okay. There are no consequences to being this vulnerable with him except to ultimately being safer in being myself. I don't have to worry about what he'll think of me tomorrow and how we'll feel about this later, he'll still love me tomorrow and he'll still love *this* tomorrow. I'll still be myself later when I talk animatedly about cats and highways. He won't look at me differently. I won't feel differently. It's very freeing to be allowed to really be yourself in the most intimate of spaces. It's much more freeing to be attacked in that vulnerability but ultimately one way or another, it's the only place where I am able to really let go.

I can get go and stop performing. I can just be. I can do whatever. I feel so free. So I take my soapy hair and scrub his  feet. This feels like something I should have been doing my entire life the second I start doing it. I've always wanted to but I've always been to scared to ask. Too scared to just..do it. Yet I do it now so easily. I scrub his feet with my hair and it feels like the most natural thing to do. And as the soap and water fall across my face and trickle into my eyes, i realize I could keep doing this until forced to stop.

But I'm not being forced.

I'm being encouraged.

That's what I love most about this place. I can do all the things I really want to and the world won't stop turning. I can have all my illusions and it won't terminate my reality. I can be reduced to nothing and worse and still love myself moderately later. Because really it's only at my most shamed that I can let go of the shame of being myself.