Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
A little while ago, we lost a friend and collaborator from the collective. Elements of her personal life collided with her erotic life; that those two things appear in separate categories is, of course, the issue. She contacted me recently to let me know she was okay, pursuing divorce, and (I hope) a better, freer life. As I ghost-wrote and edited these works, I asked if I had her approval to publish our efforts under my pen name. She told me that she’s grateful knowing these stories are out there again, as they happened to her (mostly… certain details have been dramatized for your pleasure). I’ve clustered the stories into one entry. – Now let’s all raise a salty glass to our girl, Peesweetie. Hopefully she’ll come back and play with us again some day. ~ ~ ~
PART ONE
If I had to trace the origins of my pee fetish, I’m confident it officially started the night of my eighteenth birthday. There was a lake behind our house to which Jessie – that’s my cousin – and I would sneak off on hot summer nights. We weren’t allowed in the lake, not ever but especially at night. The land around the lake technically belonged to Old Thicky – I don’t know why he was called that, but I do know that he was ill-tempered and loud. He was never seen without his rifle, and he would stomp across his fields so hard I could see his jowls shaking from our fenced yard.
Everyone knew the story about Mark Duker, a kid a few grades ahead of Jessie and me, that was caught looking for this secret stash of Penthouse magazines that Old Thicky kept somewhere out of his house, away from his wife. The story went that Old Thicky caught Mark over an open magazine, a slick erection in his hand, and Old Thicky was so mad that he shot Mark’s penis clean off. This wasn’t confirmed by public channels. These stories rarely are, but it was the leading story to explain the ambulance and the moving van and all those things we witnessed around the time the Duker family suddenly picked up and left town.
Of course I didn’t believe a word of it. I’d seen the old man stomping his fields all my life, and I’d seen him use that gun on rabbits and squirrels, but he had never raised it on another person.
It was my idea to go to the lake that first time, at least I think it was. But it was Jessie’s idea to swim naked so that we wouldn’t get caught with wet clothes. It was dark, so no issues with privacy – we were a pretty modest family – and it felt so liberating to feel the currents against my skin that from time to time, even on cold winter nights, I would dream of summer nights and the lake’s warm embrace. At least once every summer from then on, my cousin and I would skinny dip in Old Thicky’s lake.
So that final August at home, only three weeks before Jessie and I were bound for separate colleges, we had no reason to think we’d ever get caught. We hadn’t gone to the lake all summer with each of us working, and it was my birthday after all. It seemed like the perfect way to close out one chapter of life and move bravely onto the next.
I don’t know if we were too loud or if it was just bad luck, but I remember the flashlight swinging over the water and the shouts of that old man. There was a breeze that night, so thankfully the water was a bit choppy, and disturbances in the water weren’t easy to isolate. Jessie had been toward the reeds when the shout first came, and she was completely silent after that. I had the terrible luck of being near the middle, but I knew if I could just make the jetty on the opposite side, I could disappear under there. It was still just a game until I heard the gunshot cracking the heat, penetrating the night. I don’t remember much between that moment and the jetty, but somehow I made it.
I waited an eternity under that scummy old dock, muck between my toes, scanning the waterline for traces of Jessie. I could hear the water slapping the pylon, Old Thicky’s movement through the tall grasses getting louder as he approached my position. Across the water, I saw Jessie’s naked behind crawl up the far bank and disappear into the trees around the moment when the old man’s boot hit the wood plank.
Shaking in the darkness, listening to the man with the rifle breathing raggedly above me, I lost control. Warm urine flowed around me as my bladder loosed. I don’t think I should have been able to, but I swear that I could smell it. And I was sure Old Thicky would, too.
But he didn’t. He coughed, “Fucking kids.” And he left that dock.
I never told Jessie that part of the story – the part about peeing. It was too embarrassing. But we never did go back into the lake again.
It took me a few days to recover from that experience, to shake off the jumpiness, as if Old Thicky was going to have a conversation with Daddy about what I’d done. But something was different. I knew it the following morning.
Usually I wake up, sit on the toilet to pee, go to the sink to brush my teeth, and then jump in the shower. That morning, I sat on the toilet but I couldn’t go. And trust me, I Anadolu Yakası escort really tried. So I brushed my teeth, and I tried peeing again. Nothing. I don’t remember all my thoughts at the time, other than frustration and discomfort, but I do know that I could clearly recall the sound of that gunshot and those boots clomping on the jetty boards, and the musty smell of my own fear. I went downstairs. I put something in my mouth, probably toast washed down with orange juice. My parents were already gone for the day, so I watched a re-run of the X-Files.
By this point, I was starting to get pains in my gut. I remember wanting to cry and wondering if I should call a doctor. I thought briefly about calling Jessie and abandon that idea quickly. Or maybe it was just that I needed to relax. So amidst the growing torture of a filling bladder – really regretting that orange juice and so many of my recent decisions – I twisted the faucet handle on my parents’ garden tub. I used my mom’s lilac-perfumed balm. I turned on the jets. (Then I turned off the jets; they’re really loud).
Slipping into the tub, the warm water sliding up my legs, enveloping my groin and rising slowly through my light brown pubic hair, I was already starting to feel better. Like that ache to pee was there but further away.
I laid back in the water, and knew how I was going to relax, if I could. I started to think of this guy I liked to masturbate to lately – let’s call him Chris. Chris was maybe twenty-four, twenty-five, and went straight from high school into his dad’s pool business – I know the cliche. If it helps, Chris wasn’t actually that attractive. But he did have washboard abs and wear oddly tight swimming shorts. We all used to go over to my friend Cassie’s pool and watch Chris clean it. You could see the shape of his massive penis against his leg. It was insane. I’ve cum so many times thinking about waiting in Chris’s truck after one of his sessions, making him squirms as I place his hands on my breasts, sucking him hard, and then spreading my legs for him in his flatbed.
It wasn’t long before I was rubbing the inside of my thighs, but it wasn’t the thought of being stuffed by Chris’s leviathan that had my lower lips petaling. Something about my aching bladder had me at the edge, my entire mound, my entire body, humming in anticipation… as I remembered the lake water, how warm it was when I peed, and my heart clubbing my ribs from the inside.
By this point, my legs were shaking. I leaned forward with an audible groan to let the water out, lovely bath balm and all, while I pinched my nipples hard and ran my other hand through my slippery cleft, down to my little winking pucker and back up. And I filled the tub with the coldest water I could handle – my nipples hardened pretty well on their own after that. I sat there, leaning back and semi cross-legged as the water level climbed. With a copious quantity of spit, I lubed up my fingers, moved them just inside my tunnel to draw out more of my honey. My fingertips found my sensitive nub, and I began to circle and breathe.
The pressure in my bladder was excruciating, and I stopped thinking about Chris. I was thinking only of that golden liquid that was about to finally come out of me, about the shame I would feel as my filthy spray was soon to warm my body. About what a naughty, dirty girl I was. And I imagined that old man standing so close, just above me, holding that long piece of steel as I lost all control. Cool water splashed around my hand, and I arched my back to get my pussy up, so that I could stay lubed. My heart thundered as I moaned and worked my clit.
At first as I tried to unclench, I managed only a dribble. I felt it touch my hand, paused to admire its warmth. My cheeks flushed suddenly as the dibble became a hissing torrent. Tension in my body doubled as I pushed. It almost hurt, it felt so amazing. My nasty stream of pee hit the tile above the faucet, pale yellow nectar flowing down onto the rim, back down into the tub. I could feel my moan becoming something louder and completely uninhibited as I stuffed my fingers into my slick cunt. I rubbed firmly against the wall beneath my clit, trying to force the piss out of my body.
The climax took me instantly, and I could feel wave after wave coursing through me, along my muscles, along my skin, down my legs, up my back. I lowered my spraying cunt back into the water, my hand feeling the underwater jet from my urethra, the water becoming a cloud of yellow, almost hot on my skin compared to the cool water.
That day, I drank glass after glass of water. I called sick into work. And until my parents got home, I cycled between television and masturbating on the toilet. Sweet Lord, I had so many orgasms. My pussy ended up pretty raw and puffy by the end of it, and I couldn’t touch myself again for a few days.
But each day, whenever I would pee, I’d get the urge to reach down and touch the stream, to splash it up onto my clit and get fully off. I Anadolu Yakası escort bayan actually started to worry as it was nearing time to pack up and head to my new university life – what if this thing doesn’t go away? This was not like dreaming of Chris’s giant cock. There’s very little blowback from wanting intercourse. Water sports were a different story, not that I knew what it was called back then.
Well it hasn’t gone away, and my incognito fetish has gotten me into some trouble over the years. I’ve joined Lit to tell you about it. Some stories are going to be true… like this one, and when I tell you about finding Old Thicky’s Penthouse stash with my first real boyfriend (the stash is real!). Some stories will be fantasies, things I want to do, characters I want to be that get to enjoy a liberated life of erotic golden play with their partners. I can honestly say I’m looking forward to it.
PART TWO
At home, it was just me. Only child of working parents in rural America. Four to five cars would travel our street on a daily basis, and two of them were my parents. It was a bit of a shock, to say the least, going to college in the city.
The autumn of my freshman year, I found myself in a dormitory in Boston. I had to adjust to classes, getting food on my own, getting around without a car, and to having a roommate. And she was the biggest shock of all.
Her name was Claire, and she was a vocalist. (I was also a vocalist). Claire had this terrible, wonderful habit of walking around our room naked. “You don’t mind, do you? We all have the same shit, right?”
No! I mean, yeah, and it was awesome, but Claire must have thought I had the rosiest cheeks in the city, because I was always flushed around her. One never knew when she would pop in after class and just strip to her panties. Though we never really discussed it, because Claire transferred to a state school for accounting after that first semester, I firmly believe Claire was an exhibitionist, which was and still is something I admire.
Claire was pretty perfect. I mean, she was an inconsiderate, self-absorbed bitch, but other than that. Flowing chocolate hair, long lashes, honey eyes, and a body that had all the features I wanted. Her breasts were C cups. Mine were… bigger. Her nipples were small and pink and cute. Mine were… also bigger. And longer. She was athletic enough that her stomach had that little line at the edge of her obliques. I was a runner and swimmer, so I also had a flat stomach, but it’s soft, you know? When I sit on the floor, I might be a little doughy. (What? I like sugar. Fuck off).
She also had amazing eyebrows. Ladies, you know what I mean.
But my favorite of Claire’s perfections was her delicate little innie-pussy. Her mound swallowed most of it up, so there was just this peachy little crack, and emerging from the top was her little pink hood, and when she walked from the bathroom to her bed, I could sometimes catch a glimpse of her pretty little labia. She had what the boys in my dorm (they were co-ed) called – a golden pussy. I don’t know how they knew that, because she kept her romantic interests private from me which I found extremely ironic. That pussy looked clean, smelled clean (from afar, of course), and Claire waxed religiously.
I, on the other hand, did not walk around the room naked. For starters, I mentioned my boobs, right? Without a bra, they looked ridiculous. At least to me. I did like my figure otherwise, especially my runner’s legs and ass, but the real problem was my pussy. I had a pretty fat pussy. Puffy with big, meaty labia. So big, in fact, that I had to maintain a pretty sizable bush just to keep my lips from showing through bathing suits and tights. I had also been a lifeguard that summer, so I didn’t really have choice. At least my bush was fairly well toward blonde, or I would have looked like a monster down there.
There was no way I was going to be naked around perfectly primped Claire. Because if my appearance didn’t make her laugh, then she would have certainly said something about my scent. I was aroused constantly, and around Claire, it was worse. This is about the time I took to wearing a pantyliner every day, just to absorb my chemical reaction to my roommate. And she didn’t even seem to realize I always had my clothes on. Did I mention Claire was self-absorbed?
Something else was going on with me as well. If you read my last chapter, you’ll remember that I had only just developed my urine fetish at the end of summer. And as much as self pee exploration was lovely, it was lovelier still when Claire would go pee with the door open (she’d shit with the door open as well, but that was less awesome. Apparently that was normal in her house of three sisters.) I never looked, but I could hear her peeing. And when she would try to tell me something about her vocal teacher being whatever terrible thing he was that day, I would just mmhmm my response, because I almost always had a finger swirling escort bayan over my clit, even just for those few seconds I could hear her and visualize that warm piss streaming from between those pink parted ridges.
Two weeks before the end of the fall semester, I got back from class and she was in our bathroom with the door closed. This meant she was masturbating. I had to pee pretty badly. I could have gone right after class, but it was Wednesday, and all three of my classes were over before noon so why not pee in my room and then kick back and masturbate a little. Yeah, Claire had the same idea, apparently.
I banged on the door to explain that I’d been holding it since breakfast. I did secretly hope she would let me in to pee, and I could watch her masturbate while I relieved myself, but she just told me to go down the hall and ask the Jasons. Oh, right. There were two guys named Jason and Jason down the hall that didn’t seem to ever have class. Or just didn’t go.
Well the Jason’s were sweet on me, or Claire said they were, because she claims she was drinking with them one night, and they were both raving about my tits. I don’t think that’s conclusive, but I always felt self-conscious around them afterward. So I wasn’t about to pee in the Jasons’ room. But it was eleven AM which was prime time for most people to be in class, and the floor was pretty much vacant. I went down to the lounge to go, but that single occupant toilet had been the victim of something horrific, and I won’t have anything to do with number two. (Everyone should have a line. I don’t care what it is, just have one). So I ran up the stairs back to our room, and that bitch was still masturbating.
“Look!” I said, “There aren’t any other options! Can I just have a minute?”
“Jesus Christ, Ellie! Can’t a girl flick her bean in peace?” Told you. Masturbating.
“I’m going to piss myself! Finish after!”
“Don’t make me start all over again!”
Additional words were exchanged, but I ended up sliding down, the door against my back, my legs shaking, trying to hold on a bit longer. You know how this ends. Unfortunately, I was so mad and in so much pain that I couldn’t think straight let alone masturbate to the urine leaking out of me and soaking my panties, my khakis and our carpet.
When Claire finally opened the door, fully clothed, I was sitting in a giant wet spot in our carpet, crying. Still fully clothed.
“Oh my God!” she said, gasping. “Oh, Ellie, I’m so so sorry. Babe, get up. Come here, oh honey. Come in, take those off.”
Claire took me by the hand, in my red-faced shame, and pulled me to my feet. I can’t recall ever having been so embarrassed, but through my tears, as Claire unbuttoned my pants, my arousal blossomed through the shame, and it came out sort of like panic. I was crying harder, and my legs were shaking. And after she slid my wet pants and panties to my ankles, mentioning nothing about the smell of pee or my monstrous bush, she started the shower for me.
“You get in,” she said. “I’ll clean this up.”
So as I tried to gain my composure whilst removing my top, I felt my breasts drop. My nipples were extra sensitive, and I stood there, my fingers rolling my hardening peaks as I watched Claire’s perfect ass bobbing over a carpet soaked in my urine. I wanted to see her without her bottoms on. I wanted to see that perfect, golden pussy floating and slightly spread out while she leaned down to smell the mess I had made.
Before she could see my nipples had doubled in length, I got into the shower, closed the curtain, and grabbed my twat. Fingertips curved into my vagina and I scooted out of the shower spray to make sure my personal lubricant didn’t wash away. And I started to rub my little nub. I reflected upon the feeling as I peed my pants, of warm urine running out of my body without any ability to slow it, or any desire to. And I imagined Claire kneeling before me, her face just inches…
“Hey babe, I’m really sorry,” she said in her warm, resonant jazz voice. I loved her voice.
“It’s okay,” I intoned in my own, mousy, airy voice.
“I was… uh… really close. That’s not an excuse or anything. I just didn’t have any self control at that point”
“That makes two of us,” I said. We giggled together. All better.
“Sore subject maybe, but do you mind if I pop a squat and pee real quick?”
My voice actually squeaked. “Not!… Not at all. You know. Do your thing.”
I couldn’t hear her pants dropping, but I knew they were around her ankles. She was sitting on the toilet less than two feet away. “Thanks. I was going to let you in to use the toilet, so I was holding it. Sorry again.” The sound of tinkling started and I wished the shower were quieter! I resumed rapidly circling my clit. “I’ve never peed myself before.”
Dear Claire, please pee yourself. Do it in front of me. Let me see that dark spot bloom all over your jeans. Make me take your pants off and lick your twat clean.
“I assume this was a first for you?” she said.
Yes. That’s it. Push out those extra little dribbles, Claire. Make me taste you as you moan, your clit hardening between those ridges. Let me see your engorged vulva, order me to suck as much of it as possible into my mouth. Yes, finger my pussy while I swirl my tongue over your clit.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32