No one ever talks about the joys of the bathroom. Of how special a place it can be. Few rooms in a home have so dedicated a purpose, a cacophony of uses, deliberate and accidental. And that goes doubly so for us cunts in the wild. It’s a place where we can escape, no matter what is going on, no matter where we are, and it has special uses for us.

For me, most of all, it’s where I share my purpose with it. Almost every morning, I’m kneeling in there, in front of the toilet. As Jack does his business, my mouth is there for him, to receive his piss, to clean him if he asks. It’s not humiliating, I’m a cunt taking care of her owner, swallowing what he gives me, bonding together with him. I could do it anywhere, of course, and I have. But sometimes accidents happen, the volume is too great, an unexpected choke, and the tile floor is the best place for messes. Easy to clean the toilet, the floor, and myself, if need be.

The bathroom is more than just a place for us to void ourselves, of course. The shower or tub is a memorable place. After the most intense sessions, nothing beats soaking in steaming water, as Jack washes my body and scrapes. Quiet moments, hands against the shower wall, his body pressing into mine, soft grunts hidden by the rush of water. My hands cleansing him, kissing every inch of his body, as we wash together. Or bound, hogtied like a farm animal, toys pushed inside every orifice, taped or held in, left there for hours, any mess I make cleaned easily with cold water raining down upon my exhausted form.

It’s also where I make myself prettier. After the shower, my skin still wet, baby oil rubbed into every inch of my body. Skin soft and supple, ready to glide against his or anyone he chooses. My hair made perfect, makeup just right, perfumed to hide my truth. A cunt pretending to be a classy lady. My lips pursed, puckered, lipstick and eyeliner, blush, deftly done exactly as he likes me. I can be a whore caked in runny mascara, trailer trash with too much makeup, innocent or sultry, a slut advertising for a party, or a proper wife who no one knows her secrets. I have other makeup too, not to make me prettier, more feminine, but to sadly hide his work. Dermacol, blended just right, to hide how he had made his cunt pretty, allowing me outside again. Hiding my truth, preventing questions, concealing me at my best.

Of course, there is more to a bathroom, there always is. No matter where you go, there’s always one there. So easy to be naughty behind closed doors, behind closed stalls. So many times I’ve touched, wet panties between my ankles, fingers darting along and in myself. Fighting back my grunts lest some other girl or woman hear me debase myself. Unable to fight my truth any longer, doing it for him, for them, or even just the thought of them. Needy, hungry, stepping away from class or work to get a brief moment of bliss before I wash my sticky fingers.

And I’m not the only one who has fun in them. I was first whored in a bathroom, pissed on, so many cocks in my mouth, men groping me. A cheap bar skank, with condoms and without, strange men dumping loads in rubber, in my cunt, my ass, and my mouth. Messes splattered on cheap dresses, worn only once, to be thrown away after I’d had my face rubbed in them, in my shame. Drunk or sober, high or clear-headed, gentle or rough, I’ve lost count of how many have used me in some way in one. The smell reminds me of what I am, and where I belong.

And now, as a parent, it’s a quick escape. For myself, with Jack, Tony, or another of his friends. Stepping in, the fan on, no one hears the soft moaning, the slapping of our skin. No one notices the flushed face or that two people entered, but they leave separately. On vacation even more so, our only quiet time. The door is locked, and the kids are gated, napping, or watching tv. And for a few minutes, I can be whatever Jack needs, only quietly and quickly. And then, he can wash his hands and I’ll clean up however I need to. Those around us are none the wiser. A special place, a perfect place, for a cunt to be used.