FAGGOT BAR URINAL

Whores: Here's a Story submitted to Me by one of My faggot minions. I've edited it for readability, but it's otherwise a TRUE story. Read it, faggots. And Learn from it.

- FagMaster

 

Being a urinal, especially in public, is a point of pride for this faggot. A few years ago I had a very rewarding arrangement with Sir Max. When at the bar I always paid for all of Sir's beer and made sure that Sir always had a cold, fresh one in hand at all times. In exchange, I was rewarded by being allowed to drink Sir Max’s piss ... all night long.

The most memorable night I had serving as Sir Max's faggot urinal was also, sadly, the last night I had the privilege of serving Him. Sir texted me with a command to meet Him at The Eagle in one hour, and to wear a jock-strap. He told me to be well-prepared to go above and beyond what it had previously done for Him.

This cryptic message excited me.

As always when Sir issued a command to meet Him, I immediately dropped everything to obey. I believe that serving Real Men is a faggot's highest duty—nothing matters more—and Sir was as Real of a Real Man as they come.

I was like a fag in heat during my bus ride to The Eagle, and could already almost taste Sir's piss in my mouth by the time I got to the entrance. I was thirsty, in the most faggot sense of the word.

Inside I saw Sir. He must have just arrived too, because He was taking a stool at the bar. Cringing at the thought He may have to order His own beer, I rushed to the bar, ordered one for Him, and immediately handed it to Him.

"Good little faggot!" He said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. As Men turned to look at me I felt myself flush with a familiar mix of humiliation and joy at being singled out by Sir as the pathetic faggot I am.

Finishing His beer, Sir took His now-empty bottle and walked into the bathroom. I knew what was coming next, and my mouth watered in anticipation.

In a couple minutes He returned, slammed the now re-filled bottle onto the bar in front of me, and said: "Drink up faggot. Drink My piss."

I didn't need to be told twice. I gulped down his warm, delicious Man-piss with obvious relish. Over the next couple of hours I was lucky enough to guzzle down three more bottles of Sir's recycled beer.

Each time Sir went out of his way to draw attention to me, making me into a faggot side-show freak for all the onlookers. "Don't you love drinking My piss, faggot?" He'd loudly say. And, "That's right, bitch, drink every last drop. Beer is for Men, piss is for faggots. Don't you forget it!" And,"You're just a thirsty faggot urinal, aren't you whore?" 

This public humiliation and abuse was almost as delicious as the piss itself.

Beer is for Men, piss is for faggots.

Don't you forget it.”

I was disappointed when Sir didn't repeat this ritual with the last two beers He commanded me to buy Him. I watched Him drink each, hoping that He'd go to the restroom and return with another full bottle of piss, but each time He just sat the empty bottle on the counter.

Disappointed or not, I waited like a patient dog, knowing that it wasn't my place to ask for more. Finally, He ordered me to pay up and said we were leaving.

After paying, I followed Him out the bar. He then led me down a small street directly across Santa Monica Blvd. Then, about halfway down the street, he unexpectedly stopped, faced me, and ordered me to take off my shorts. Right there, on the side of the street.

I may have felt a surge of anxiety over how public this was, but it didn't stop me. My instinct to obey and serve was more powerful than any other consideration. So I pulled off my shorts and stood there in nothing but a white tank-top and my jockstrap. He commanded me to hand my shorts to Him, which I did too.

"On your knees, faggot," He barked.

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I dropped to me knees. The rough asphalt stung my knees, but it didn't matter. All I could think about was what I knew would happen next. Transfixed I gazed at his bulging crotch. He unbuckled, then unzipped, and then ... he pulled out his Cock. Huge, uncut, and already hard.

"Suck it, faggot. Suck it good. And don't fucking stop even if a car drives by."

I happily obliged. After a few, slow, worshipful licks I began sucking faster. He pulled out a few times just long enough to slap His Cock across my face, which only made me want it more. Soon He grabbed the back of my head and drove his Cock so hard and deep down my throat that my eyes began to water.

Then, again, He pulled out. This time He ordered me to look Him in the eyes. He had a cruel smirk that I'll never forget. "Wrap  your lips around that Cock again, faggot," He said. "But keep looking at Me. Don't look away. I want to see your expression."

I didn't understand, but I didn't need to understand. I was just a faggot, and He was Sir, and so I obeyed. Again He grabbed the back of my head, holding it firmly in place. "Lock those lips tight around My shaft, faggot." 

Then I felt it. And tasted it. The warm flow of piss filling my mouth like a wild river fills a reservoir.

"Drink it down, faggot. Drink it all."

I did. All Man-piss is delicious to me, but fresh-from-the tap piss is my favorite of all.

Now I understood why He had not immediately used me to recycle those last two beers at the bar. He'd wanted to have a completely full bladder. 

GET MIND FUCKED AND BECOME A URINAL FAGGOT NOW! ONLY IN THE MASTER'S SHOP 

He'd wanted this.  And I was grateful. The stream was huge and seemed endless. I guzzled and guzzled. Just when I thought I couldn't drink anymore, He pulled his Cock out of my urinal mouth. He ordered me to lean my head back and open wide. Then a few more yellow spurts streamed into my toilet hole, which I thought must be the very last of it.

I was glad to be wrong ... Because next I knew it was like a second damn had burst, and another powerful stream of piss broke loose. But this time He didn't just piss in my mouth. He pissed on my face, my hair, on my chest, on my jockstrap. It was like a golden baptism.

When he was tapped out, He tossed my shorts into the puddle of piss at my knees. But He wasn't done using and humiliating me yet. "Put those back on," He barked.

I obeyed.

Next He commanded me to follow Him back to The Eagle. His orders were to go straight up to the bar and buy Him another beer ... His piss still dripping from my face, my clothes still soaked. He warned me that He'd be watching and I had better not wipe any of his piss off its face either.

I did precisely as He commanded, without an ounce of hesitation. I walked back into the bar in my piss-dripping shorts and my now yellow-stained shirt. As I ordered another beer it seemed to me that the Men all looked at me with amused contempt, and the other faggots looked at me with jealous disdain. That might have must been wishful thinking, maybe they didn't notice me at all. I was just another faggot, after all. One thing I do know is that I felt pride in my shame. I'd never felt like more of a faggot. A true faggot.

And it wasn't over yet.

He didn't just piss in my mouth. He pissed on my face, my hair, on my chest, on my jockstrap. It was like a golden baptism."

Sir sat down again at the bar, spending most the time talking to other Men while I just waited patiently. Like earlier in the night He drained a couple beers, and generously recycled them so I could drain more of his piss from the beer bottles.

Finally, just before closing time, Sir told me pay up and to follow Him again. He went back down the same street and told me to take off my shorts again. He let me drink a few more mouthfuls of his piss this time, but then pulled out to soak me from head to toe.

Once done pissing on me, He ordered me to start sucking his Cock again. This time the reward wouldn't be more piss, He informed me. It would be Cum.

I wanted it. Bad. I was ready to stay on my knees as long as it took, and actually hoped it would take a long time because I didn't want this night to end. I wanted his Cock in my whore mouth forever.

It didn't take that long, but I can't complain. He allowed me to suck at my own pace at first, taking my time to lick and taste the piss-tinged precum oozing by the gallons from under his long foreskin. I cupped, fondled, and licked his balls. I bobbed my head back and forth working his Cock deeper into my mouth and throat with each neck-thrust.

Soon He reclaimed command, and grabbed the back of my head. "I'm going to rape that fucking throat," He growled.

And He did.

He fucked my face. He fucked my throat. He fucked my head. He raped the fuck out of my gullet. Tears streamed down my cheeks, snot dripped from my nose. My vision was a blur, and my eardrums rang with white noise. That's how intense it was.

"I'm going to Cum, faggot. Get ready," He grunted. And then ... I felt His Cock erupt, shooting steam after stream of jizz into my mouth which he fucked into my throat."

Panting, He pulled his Cock out of my mouth-cunt, wiping a last few drops of his seed across my lips.

He zipped up, and picked up my shorts ...

But he still wasn't done with me.

He told me to wait three minutes and then come find Him in his car, which was parked on Santa Monica Blvd across from The Eagle. His condition for returning the shorts was that I had to walk all the way to His car, bare-ass, in public, with jockstrap in hand. He told me that if I followed His instructions and handed its jockstrap to Him, he would “probably” give me back my shorts.

"I'm going to rape that fucking throat."

As He walked off I peeled off my jockstrap and stood there counting down the three minutes before heading to His car. I had no idea what kind of car He was driving or where exactly He was parked. Being a piss-drinking, piss-soaked, Cocksucking faggot in public didn't make me as self-conscious as those few moments of being naked and searching for His car. Fortunately, it didn't take long for me to find it. I would have found it quicker, but He'd deliberately misled me by using the word "car." It was in fact was a black van. He was sitting inside, door cracked, a cigarette dangling from His lips.

As I approached He stepped out. I presented Him my jockstrap as He'd instructed. He made like He was going to hand me my shorts, but as I reached for them He jerked them away. With another of those evil smirks I'd grown to both fear and love, He said, "I think I want to see that again before I hand these over, whore. Walk to that corner, and back, slowly. I want everyone to see what a faggot looks like."

So that's what I did. I had no choice, not unless I wanted to be stranded there naked. But the fact is, that's not why I did it. I did it because He wanted me to do it. And because I knew that He was right: I was—I am—just a faggot and if Real Men want to publicly humiliate me then that's their right. 

So though I was a little afraid of a cop seeing me, I didn't let that stop me and I did what I was told. I walked up the street to the corner entirely naked except for a pair of boots. I didn't even try to rush it. Just a normal, casual walk. I turned. I walked back. A passing car honked at me. I group that was now spilling out of The Eagle hooted and cat-called, mockingly.

As I stood there again before Him, Sir took a final drag from his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, snubbed it out with a few twists of his boot-toe, looked me in the eye, spat in my face, and threw my shorts to the ground in front of my feet.

"Fuck off now, faggot," He said.

As he drove away I scooped up my shorts to put them on. 

My humiliation was complete.

I was happy.

FAGMASTER

I am The Master.

Pay Me Tribute, faggots. Submit. Obey. Worship.