I know your type, you're the filthiest kind. Curious about My 🚽habits. Today you are an inanimate convenience. you will be used as a sump for My deity fluid, and then rinse Me like a bidet.
As I hover above your face, you have high hopes for reverence of My most pinky, pulpy parts. An insidious tease and denial.
Readying Myself, I lean forward a bit to widen the angle. A short pause, and the fluids are relieved in a steady stream. Golden warmth fills My 🚽as you are awarded a most succulent and remarkable treat. Take Me in. Savour. Flush. your tongue becomes My loo paper, used to dab Me clean when I'm done with My toilet business. As you lap My drips, you are forced to take in the aroma of Me: A sweet bouquet of dark fruit effuses from the front, and faint notes of umami tang from behind. you are hypnotized by My scent, programmed to crave Me. The taste of Me lingers long after I am gone. I am the essence of deliciousness.