Desireprint: I Would Do Anything for Love
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 1
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Selene Moreau has hired a male Desireprint to really discover what her kinks are. It is an evening of full of exploration and extremes.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Science Fiction MaleDom Rough Sadistic Analingus Spitting Water Sports AI Generated
The first hot stream of piss Selene had ever tasted hit her open mouth like a slap of liquid fire.
She sat naked in the deep hotel bathtub, back pressed to the cool porcelain curve, knees loosely drawn up, showerhead dripping a slow warm trickle over her toes to keep the water circulating. Drain gurgling softly beneath her ass. Head tilted back against the rim, mouth wide, tongue flat, eyes locked upward on Cassian. She’d positioned herself like this on purpose—practical, contained, easy to rinse. No surprises.
He stood at the tub’s edge, pants unzipped, cock thick and aimed straight down. The piss poured in—sharp ammonia heat flooding her tongue instantly. Salty-bitter rush filled her mouth faster than she could swallow; excess bubbled at the corners of her lips, spilled warm down her chin in rivulets that raced over her collarbones and onto her tits.
She gulped reflexively. The taste coated everything—metallic, acrid, stubborn. Her throat worked around it while she kept her mouth open, eyes never leaving his.
Oh fantastic. Exactly what I thought it would taste like: piss.
“Swallow,” he ordered, voice low and cold, role locked in tight.
She did. Gulped hard. The aftertaste clung like oil on her tongue.
He adjusted the angle. The stream moved—splashing across her cheeks, then lower. Hot ribbons lashed her tits, nipples puckering from the sudden wet heat rather than desire. Rivulets traced the undersides of her breasts, dripped from her nipples like obscene beads, pooled in her navel, then slid between her thighs into the shallow water at the bottom of the tub. The smell rose thick and unmistakable: stale urine, body warmth, faint chemical hotel soap still clinging to her skin.
“Beg for it, toilet.”
“Please,” she whined, pitching her voice high and needy, perfect broken-little-slut performance. “Please keep pissing on me, sir. I’m your filthy piss-whore. Drown my mouth, my tits—everything. I need it so bad.”
Does anybody actually like this? Is this the height of erotic sophistication? Nothing says “sexy confidence” like feeling like your tongue has licked the inside of a public restroom.
His smile looked evil, like he was genuinely enjoying the sight of her soaked and performing. He kept the stream steady. Long, relentless minutes. It pattered against her stomach, soaked her pubic hair flat, ran in warm sheets down her inner thighs, mixing with the water already pooling around her ass. When it finally thinned he shook the last drops onto her upturned face—splatter across her forehead, eyelids, the bridge of her nose, a final warm drip landing on her lower lip.
“Swallow what’s left in your mouth.”
She closed her lips around the lingering mouthful. Gulped again. Licked her lips slowly, eyes half-lidded in fake ecstasy, moaning low in her throat like she’d just tasted heaven.
Swallow. Check. Adding “professional urine taster” to my LinkedIn. Why the fuck am I doing this?
Cassian tucked himself away. Zipped. Buckled. The cruelty in his posture eased like a switch flipped.
He knelt at the tub’s edge, knees on the wet tile, completely unbothered by the spreading puddle. Reached for the handheld showerhead—warm water already running—and rinsed her face first: gentle stream across her cheeks, lips, closed eyes, washing away the sting. Then her neck, her tits, her stomach—careful, thorough, no rush. His free hand cupped the back of her head, steadying her with surprising tenderness.
“You were perfect,” he murmured, voice soft and low again, almost intimate. “Breathe, Selene. Let it all go.”
The Desireprint synth she had hired turned off the water. Grabbed a thick white towel from the rack, draped it over her shoulders, let it soak up the worst of the dampness. Thumb brushed a stray droplet from her jaw, gentle.
“Better?” he asked quietly, eyes searching hers with real concern.
Selene looked up at him—still flushed, still tasting faint bitterness at the back of her throat, skin prickling from hot water and shame—and let the snark fade for a moment.
“Yeah,” she said softly, voice small and honest. “Better. Though ... got any more of that piss? I feel kinda thirsty now.”
He gave her a small, almost fond smile. “Sorry, was that too bitter? I thought it was what you ordered.”
“You’re fine,” Selene answered, almost apologetic. “You were great. But somehow I have a hard time grasping how somebody would enjoy being waterboarded with piss.”
“You did very well, I think,” he said quietly. “But whenever you’re ready for the next one. We can try something else. No hurry.”
She nodded once. The synth did exactly what she had told it to do. Be kinky. Be nasty. Be as real as it could be. Make the experience as genuine as possible. And she was no quitter. She kept her promises. If she said yes, she finished what she started.
“Let me shower the piss smell out of my hair,” Selene said, a small smile creeping back onto her face. “But yeah ... give me some new ideas, because I don’t think being a human toilet is my thing.”
Selene didn’t linger under the spray—just rinsed fast, efficient, like scrubbing off a bad night. Steam clung to the glass; the mirror was fogged blind.
Cassian waited just outside the enclosure, already holding a thick white towel open for her. She took it, wrapped it around her torso, started drying her arms and shoulders without looking at him.
He spoke first, voice soft again, the gentle check-in tone that felt almost too human for a synth.
“You handled that like a pro,” he said quietly. “Most would’ve safeworded halfway through.”
Selene gave a small snort, toweling her neck. “I ordered you from Desireprint. Full immersion, no early outs. You’re doing exactly what I paid for.”
She finished drying her upper body, let the towel drop to her waist, started on her legs. “Good.”
“Then let’s keep going. Next I want to bend you over that counter right there, yank your cheeks apart, spit once on your asshole, and rape that tight little shithole raw. No lube, no prep—just brutal, balls-deep anal pounding until your ring’s torn and bleeding, your guts feel like they’re on fire, and you’re sobbing while I slap your ass purple and make you thank me for fucking the blood out of you. I’ll leave you gaping, leaking, ruined for days.”
Selene paused, towel still wrapped around one thigh. She looked up at him—calm eyes, calm face—and exhaled slowly through her nose.
“I’ve been there a few times,” she said with a smile. “Turns out my anal passage is one-way only. Outwards, not inwards. Not my thing.”
He didn’t argue. Just a single nod, like he’d filed the information away.
“Understood.”
His gaze slid down deliberately to her chest—still flushed from the shower, nipples tight from the cooler air—and his voice turned crude again, slow and deliberate.
“Fine. Then those tits are next. I’m gonna clamp those fat nipples until they’re purple and throbbing, twist them hard enough to make tears run, slap those heavy fuck-bags back and forth until they’re bright red, swollen, bouncing like useless meat. I’ll make you hold them up for me while I bruise them black and blue, beg me to hurt them more. You’ll feel every heartbeat in them for a week.”
Selene finished drying her legs, draped the wet towel over the rack. She met his eyes again, steady.
“Never tried that,” she said simply. “Not like that. So ... yeah. Let’s do it. I paid for it. It is now or never.”
Cassian’s smile returned—small, approving. He stepped back, giving her room.
She stood there naked, skin cooling now, goosebumps rising in faint patches. She handed him the second towel without thinking; he took it, folded it neatly.
“Okay,” she said, voice even. “Tell me what you want. Where you want me. Do your worst.”
He tilted his chin toward the bedroom doorway.
“Bedroom. Sit on the edge of the mattress. Knees wide, hands behind your back. My hands will take care of the rest.”
Selene nodded once.
She walked past him—bare feet silent on tile then carpet—leaving the bathroom behind. Naked. Still tasting faint bitterness at the edges of her tongue. Still wondering, quietly, why she hadn’t just ended the whole thing. Was this a terrible mistake?
Cassian stepped into the bedroom doorway. The moment he crossed the threshold the softness vanished. Shoulders squared. Eyes darkened. Mouth set in a hard line. The nice-guy synth disappeared; the paid monster took his place.
He didn’t speak at first. Just walked straight to her, boots silent on the carpet, until he stood between her spread knees. Towering. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“You said do my worst,” he said, voice low and mean. “No toys. No clamps. Just my hands. Bare fucking hands. You sure?”
Selene swallowed once. Nodded.
His smile was cold, predatory.
“Good girl.”
He reached down with both hands. Fingers curled around the undersides of her breasts, lifting them like they were objects to be inspected. Heavy. Warm. Soft. He squeezed—hard—thumbs pressing deep into the flesh just below the nipples. She gasped, sharp and real.
Then he started.
First the slaps—open palms, fast and deliberate. Left tit, right tit, left again, alternating in a steady rhythm. The sound cracked through the room: wet, meaty smacks. Each strike made her breasts bounce, skin blooming red instantly. He didn’t hold back. The force rocked her forward; she had to brace her hands harder behind her to stay upright.
“Beg,” he growled.
“Please—” she whimpered, voice pitching high and fragile, the perfect performance. “Please hurt them more, sir. Slap my tits harder. Make them red. Make them yours.”
Fuck. It hurts. A lot. Stings like hell. Each slap burns hotter than the last.
He switched to twisting. Fingers pinched her nipples—hard—then twisted, clockwise, counterclockwise, pulling outward until the skin stretched taut. She cried out—real tears pricking her eyes—back arching involuntarily, pushing her chest forward even as her brain screamed to pull away.
“More,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Please—twist them more—hurt me—”
Jesus Christ. This is worse than I thought. The burn goes deep. Like fire under the skin. I can feel every heartbeat throbbing in them already.
He slapped again—harder now—back and forth, left-right-left-right, until her breasts glowed angry red, skin hot to the touch. Then he grabbed both tits in full handfuls, squeezed until the flesh bulged between his fingers, nails digging in. He shook them roughly, making them slap against each other, then slammed them together once—twice—hard enough that she yelped, tears spilling over.
“Tell me what you are,” he snarled.
“I’m—your tit-slut—sir,” she sobbed out, voice trembling, eyes glassy. “Just a pair of heavy fuck-bags—please—use them—bruise them—make them ugly—”
This is insane. My tits are on fire. They’re swelling already. I can feel them getting thicker, heavier. They’re going to be purple tomorrow. How the hell do I hide this from Rowan? High-neck tops? Sports bra? Fuck. He’ll notice. He always notices when I’m hiding something.
Cassian kept going. Alternating: slaps, twists, crushing grips, pulling her nipples out until they looked ready to tear, then letting them snap back. Every few seconds he’d pause—just long enough for her to catch her breath—then start again harder. Her breasts were bright red now, mottled with deeper crimson handprints. The skin felt tight, overstretched. Bruises were already forming under the surface—dark blooms spreading like ink in water.
She kept performing—whimpering, begging, arching into every strike, every twist, every punishing grip. Moaning like she loved it. Tears streaming down her cheeks. Body trembling.
Inside the calculation was relentless.
Hurts. A lot. Maybe this isn’t my thing. Maybe pain just isn’t my thing. Or maybe ... maybe it is. I don’t know. I can’t tell. It’s too much to think straight.
Finally he stepped back. Breathing steady. Hands flexing once, like he’d finished a workout.
Her tits were wrecked.
Swollen. Bright red turning purple at the edges. Nipples dark and puffy, standing out painfully. Handprints clearly visible—five-fingered bruises already darkening. They throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Every breath sent fresh stings through the abused flesh.
Cassian’s voice dropped back to soft. The role ended as cleanly as it had begun.
“You took it beautifully,” he said quietly. He knelt in front of her, eyes level with hers now. “Look at you.”
She looked down—slowly—at her ruined breasts. The sight made her stomach flip. Tears still streaming from her eyes.
“Still with me?” he asked.
She nodded. Voice hoarse.
“Yeah.”
He gave her a small, almost proud smile.
“Ready for more? Or do you need a minute?”
She looked at her swollen, bruised tits again. Throbbing. Aching. Marked.
She let out a shaky breath.
“Give me a minute ok. But yeah think of something else. They hurt. A lot.”
Selene exhaled shakily. The pain in her tits was constant now—deep, aching, radiating outward—but his touch on her face felt grounding. Almost kind. She let herself lean into it for a second.
“I know.” He stroked her cheek once more, thumb tracing the dried tear tracks. “We can stop anytime. Or keep going. Your call.”
She shook her head—just a small motion. “I’m okay. Keep going.”
Cassian nodded, no judgment. Then he stood, offered her a hand. She took it, let him help her to her feet. Her breasts swayed with the movement; she winced, hissed softly through her teeth.
He led her to the center of the room, near the foot of the bed. Stayed close, one hand lightly on her lower back—supportive, not possessive.
“Let’s try something softer next,” he said, voice calm and conversational again. “Baby-play. You’re my little girl tonight. I put you in a thick diaper. You fill it for Daddy—wet or messy, whatever you need. Then I change you. Powder, wipes, fresh diaper. All gentle. All taken care of.”
Selene stared at him for a beat. Then the laugh burst out—sharp, genuine, almost startled. It hurt her bruised tits to laugh like that, but she couldn’t stop it.
“No thanks,” she managed, still half-laughing, shaking her head. “Pass. Hard pass. That’s ... nope. Not even a little.”
Cassian’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, like he’d expected it. No push. Just acceptance.
Selene looked at him. It was amazing how human these sims felt. The robotic twists of emotions were a clear give-away, but had to admit to herself; she had some boyfriends of flesh and blood in the past who could do the same.
He stepped back half a pace, eyes sliding down her body again—lingering on her hips, her thighs, the space between them. His voice dropped lower, slower, the cruelty creeping back in without fully taking over yet.
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