Chapter 1: Piss Baptism
The cold of the marble seeped through the knees of her cargo pants. Kim’s breath hitched, her palms flat on the polished floor as she crawled forward. The only sound was the whisper of fabric and the frantic drum of her own heart. Ahead, the black leather couch was a dark island in the sea of grey stone, and on it, Shego waited.
She was reclined, one arm draped along the back of the couch, wearing nothing but a robe of sheer black silk that fell open completely. The low amber light caressed the pale green curves of her body, shadows pooling in the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts. Her raven hair was loose, a dark cascade against the leather. She watched Kim approach, her emerald eyes glittering with cold amusement.
“Look at you,” Shego said, her voice a smoky drawl that vibrated in Kim’s bones. “The great Kim Possible. On her knees.”
Kim stopped at Shego’s feet. The scent of her, expensive leather and something wilder, something inherently Shego, was overwhelming. She felt a flush heat her skin, a traitorous throb between her legs that had no place here, in this humiliation.
Shego leaned forward. A long, pale green finger hooked under Kim’s chin, forcing her head up. “Eyes on me, princess.”
Then Shego’s mouth was on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim. Hard, possessive, messily urgent. The taste of black lipstick, waxy and faintly bitter, smeared across Kim’s lips, onto her cheeks as Shego angled her head, licking into her mouth with a hungry growl. Kim’s hands clenched on her own thighs, her whole body rigid with a tension that wasn’t entirely resistance.
Shego broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before she stood up in one fluid, powerful motion. The sheer robe fell away completely. She looked down at Kim, a goddess of malevolent grace.
“You’re still too clean,” Shego whispered. “You still smell like cheap soap and virtue. Let’s fix that.”
Shego’s stance widened slightly. Kim, hypnotized, kept her face upturned, her green eyes wide. She knew what was coming. A part of her screamed to scramble back, to fight, to wake up. A deeper, hidden part clenched in vicious anticipation.
The warm stream hit her forehead first.
It was startlingly hot, a golden arc in the dim light. It splashed over her brows, into her eyes, blinding her for a moment with its warmth and intimate salt. Kim gasped, and the sound was choked as the flow coursed over her nose, her lips, into her open mouth.
It was bitter, acidic, profoundly alien. She gagged instinctively, but then her throat worked, swallowing. She kept her mouth open, letting it wash over her tongue, her teeth, drip from her chin. It was impossible, the volume, the length of time, a storm that soaked her fiery red hair, plastering it to her scalp, drenching the shoulders of her trademark cargo jacket, seeping through the fabric to soak her tank top beneath. It ran in hot rivulets down her neck, into the collar, tracing paths between her breasts, soaking her pants until they were heavy and clingy.
She trembled, kneeling in the growing puddle, the warm liquid spreading around her knees. The entire world narrowed to the sound, the scent, the overwhelming, degrading heat of it. Her body was singing, every nerve alight, her core a tight knot of desperate, shameful need.
Finally, it stopped.
Dripping, drowned, Kim lowered her head for a second, shuddering. Then she forced her eyes open, looking up through wet, stinging lashes at Shego, who stood over her, a satisfied, predatory smile on her lips.
The words left Kim’s mouth, a hoarse, sincere whisper into the sudden quiet. “Thank you, Mistress, for marking me as yours.”
Kim jolted awake in the darkness of her own apartment.
A strangled gasp tore from her throat. She was tangled in her sheets, her skin slick with sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs. The blush on her face was a burning inferno, spreading down her neck and chest.
And between her legs—a soaking, aching warmth. Her panties were drenched, clung to her with a damp insistence that was unmistakable. She pressed her thighs together, a sharp, involuntary moan escaping her as the pressure sparked the dream all over again behind her eyes.
“Jesus,” she breathed into the dark, her voice ragged.
She flopped back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling where the faint light from a streetlamp painted amorphous shapes. That was… new. Usually, in the secret dreams about Shego that she’d never, ever admit to having, they were just… making out. Hot, frantic grappling against a wall, or on a roof, hands under clothes, biting kisses. Adult versions of their fights.
This was different. This was raw. This was filthy.
And her body’s reaction had been terrifyingly immediate, overwhelmingly complete.
She threw an arm over her eyes, as if to block out the memory. But it was seared into her. The cold floor. The heat of the stream. The bitter taste. The submission that felt less like defeat and more like… coming home.
“Get a grip, Possible,” she muttered to herself, pushing up to sit on the edge of the bed. The wet fabric between her legs was a cold, shameful reminder. She stood, peeling off the soaked panties with a grimace of self-disgust that wasn’t entirely convincing.
She padded to the bathroom, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She turned the shower on hot, stepping under the spray and scrubbing at her skin until it was pink, trying to scour the phantom sensation away. It didn’t work. The smell of her own body wash seemed cloying and childish compared to the complex, electrifying scent that haunted her from the dream.
As the water beat down on her, the logic center of her brain, the part that solved global crises before breakfast, flickered back online. The dream had a vividness, a clarity of detail—the specific grain of the marble, the exact pattern of shadows in Shego’s penthouse—that her usual fantasies lacked. It felt engineered. Implanted.
Shego. Of course it was Shego. The reformed villainess, the tech CEO. If anyone had the capability and the twisted motivation to hijack someone’s dreams… She’d always been obsessed with winning, with beating Kim, with proving her superiority.
A fresh, different heat bloomed in Kim’s chest. Anger. This was a violation. A profound, intimate attack.
But beneath the anger, humming like a live wire, was that other thing. The part that had whispered thank you. The part that was already wondering, with a thrill of dread and longing, what the next dream would bring.
She turned off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself tightly. She stared at her blurred reflection in the foggy mirror.
Shego wanted to play a new kind of game. A dirty, psychological war aimed at corruption.
Kim’s jaw set. Her green eyes, usually bright with optimistic determination, hardened into something darker, more complex. A slow smile, one Shego would recognize, touched her lips.
“Okay, Shego,” Kim whispered to her reflection, her voice steady now, clear in the quiet bathroom. “You want to get into my head? Fine. Let’s see who ends up owning who.”