My ode to the rain

I am a submissive, and I have been immersed in this world of shadows and surrender for years, where pleasure is intertwined with humiliation like threads of a fabric that envelops me more and more tightly. I wasn't always this way; at first, submission was just a game, a superficial brush with the desire to give up control. But over time, it became something deeper, a search for myself in the depths of the forbidden. And of all the practices I've explored – flogging, gagging, or bondage, among others – none have captivated me as much as the golden rain. That warm, forbidden stream that descends upon me like a pagan baptism. Why? I often ask myself, on sleepless nights after a session, when my body still throbs and my mind replays what happened.

The satisfaction it produces is, above all, a total surrender. In the act of receiving the rain, there are no half-measures: it's a primal exchange, where the Master marks his territory in the most instinctive way possible, and I, the submissive, accept that mark as a seal of ownership. It's not just physical; it's psychological, almost spiritual. When I feel the first hot stream hit my skin – on my chest, on my face, in my open mouth – something breaks inside me. It's as if all the social barriers, all the norms we're taught from childhood about what's "good" and "pure," dissolve in that amber liquid. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but at the same time, liberated. The humiliation elevates me: I am the receptacle of his most basic essence, of something he expels and I receive with gratitude. That inversion of power produces a pleasure that borders on the addictive because it reminds me that, in submission, I find my strength, my liberation. I'm not weak for kneeling; I'm brave for doing so, for choosing it.

And then there's the taste, oh, the taste... It's not uniform, as many think. Each rain is unique, a map of the Master's life at that moment. I've learned to appreciate its variations like a wine connoisseur, but of a forbidden fluid. If he's drunk a lot of water, it's light, almost tasteless, with a subtle salty touch that makes me salivate, like a marine kiss. Clear, almost transparent, with a pale yellow color that shines under the room's light. I like that version because it's gentle, easy to digest and savor. But when it's concentrated – after a night of alcohol, for example – the taste intensifies: bitter, harsh, with a metallic aftertaste that clings to my palate and makes me swallow with effort. The color then is darker, a deep gold, that drips down my chin. That's the one that challenges me the most; the most demanding, it makes me feel truly dirty, but in that dirtiness, I find ecstasy. Why? Because it forces me to confront the taboo. Swallowing that is accepting what society rejects, and in that acceptance, I free myself from others' judgments.

The color also tells its story. I've seen crystalline rains, like spring water, that, even hot, refresh me in long...