longtimelistener

Thank you @gldenwetgoose that was a nice thread!

Just wanted to let you all know, after years of fruitless of googling, I finally stumbled on it this afternoon: 

https://www.literotica.com/s/staceys-boyfriend-wont-pee-on-her

Hi everyone,

I've searched all over for this story with all the key words I can think of and I have a feeling it's not on the internet anymore. But I thought I'd post here before I gave up. I read this story once, which I remember really pretty clearly. But sometimes it's sexier to read something someone else has written - plus I wanted to send it to someone.

There's a group of friends inner-tubing on a river in the states (I think) and the conversation turns to peeing, and it turns out that one of the girls on the trip wants her boyfriend, also on the trip, to piss on her, but he's not into it. The boyfriend ends up telling the narrator, who is super up for it, that he is free to piss on this girl. They try once in the afternoon in the bath tub but it's kind of awkward and neither gets much out of it. But then in the evening, after everyone's gone to bed, the two of them stay sitting by the campfire and they do it again. This time he takes a more dominant approach, telling her to get on her knees, touch herself etc, and it's electric.

Forever grateful to anyone who can remember where this was.

x

**Warning: this is a longish story with not all that much piss in it. It's an idea I've needed to get out of my system since last year, and it started out a lot more romantic - and sexier too - but as I've got older and wiser it's become harder to suspend my distaste re the "he kinda murders her and she's kinda into it" dynamic. And I think that the vampire's remorse, as he discovers desire and morality in the same instant, and possible resolutions to his ensuing existential crisis, are not really what you're all here for - so have ended the story somewhere in the middle of what might have been the denouement. If you do read, you'll find some female wetting (from fright), some infidelity, some public groping.**

Mina entered the Heath from the south. Her fiancé Jonathan had talked her into coming to drinks with his colleagues at Foxtons. But when they’d decided to continue the evening at a crazy golf course, she had had to make her excuses. Crazy golf, on this balmy, faded violet August night. She shook her head – time to stop thinking about Jonathan and focus on the cool air and filtered light of the avenue.

This hour after the sun’s exit, these fuzzy purple tones, could never be done justice photographically – was it some dynamic confection of different levels of exposure, as the eye adjusted to the coming darkness?

She took a left, thinking she’d stand on Viaduct Bridge and watch the ducks make their lazy rounds of the pond. Reaching the top, she found that she wouldn’t have the bridge to herself. A stranger was perched on the brick railings, turned towards her. He raised his hand in a tentative greeting. She advanced a few feet across the bridge and leaned out on the railings to watch the ducks. But she was distracted by the stranger’s presence, and couldn’t help turning to steal a glance. He was wearing a very old-fashioned suit, the jacket buttoned all the way up his chest.

He caught her looking and laughed - “It seems most people don’t know what to make of me here!” She relaxed and asked where he was from. He was visiting from Romania to market wines from the vineyard on his family’s estate. He said he’d be honoured if she would try some. A corked bottle was produced from his leather bag, and a delicate wine glass. She knew it was crazy to accept a drink from a stranger in the middle of this expansive woodland, but the situation was so strange that she had to go along with it. And if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t as though she’d never daydreamed of being approached like this when standing alone in contemplation of a view.

He asked her about herself, and something about his attention discomfited her. Ambiguities washed like tides behind the brown eyes, receding before she had the chance to read them: either innocence or detachment, either interest or appraisal. He was undeniably polite, but she felt that in his very attentiveness there was a kind of derision. It irritated her - what did he know? But still, she was talking like someone who had a lot to prove: the validity of her problems, the sincerity of her joys, her awareness of her own limitations.

Only gently prompted, she talked about her fiancé, about the squirming distaste and embarrassment she’d felt when she heard he'd asked her father's permission before proposing to her. The fact that they’d known each other since university and shared all their friends.

She took her hair down, a habit when she wanted to make herself more beautiful. He surprised her with his first comment about her appearance: he liked her hair up; she had a wonderful neck and jawline. She tied it back up, and sat facing the view with her chin raised and neck exposed. He felt his eyes on her, imagined his hands already twitching to touch her skin, and was aware of a glowing warmth beginning to emanate from between her legs.

Conversation turned to lighter matters, to allow both to sustain the power of speech while enjoying the blissful tension growing between them. Eye contact was accompanied by sly and searching smiles. Mina would find herself biting her lip unconsciously and have to look away. When she squeezed her crossed thighs together her cunt would throb in echo.

It was dark, except for the moon and the ambient glow of the streetlights. The stranger mentioned he’d found a hollow tree near the pond, with space for two to stand up inside. The wood inside had been worn smooth over years of hiding games and secret meetings. Mina said she’d love to see it. She couldn’t believe she was trotting down a path into the woods to betray her fiancé with this strange man. But the intensity of her arousal crowded out and distorted any moral concerns.

They climbed into the tree, which was indeed enchanting. Seats and footholds had been worked into the enclosing walls. She felt like a teenager, back to having trysts outside because she had no space of her own. She turned her back to him and pretended to study the smoothed wood, tracing it with her fingers.

She felt what she’d hoped for. Under her skirt, a thumb knuckle tracing a course up her arse crack, rucking her knickers. A set of long fingers gently squeezing her ass, the tips resting on bare flesh and causing ripples of electricity through her body. A middle and a ring finger sliding between her legs and over the engorged outline of her cunt, feeling the hot fresh dampness that had soaked the fabric through in anticipation of their encounter. She arched her back to push her cunt down against his hand, and shifted her hips slowly from side to side.

She eventually turned to face him. His expression had changed. What had been plausibly inquisitive and earnest was now surely greedy. He buried his face where her neck met her shoulder, brushing his lips back and forth. Why were they so cold? Where was the warmth from his breath? Then she felt the drag of something sharp on her skin.

***

Now was his moment. The reconnaissance - his aerial circuits of the Heath - and then the waiting, night after night, on the bridge. The wine, the flirtation. All was in service of the feast he finally had to himself. He traced the pulsing artery up her neck to where it split, and began to make a puncture.

He felt her body freeze in his arms. And then an unexpected patter on the floor.  She was wetting herself. This was why he hated people. Undignified, uncontrolled, childlike, even in the defining moments of their life. He’d listened and sympathised through all her vanity, passivity and pusillanimity, waiting for his time. And now this. Piss splashing on his shoes.

He pulled back, leaving two neat red globes to form on her neck. She was facing him but her eyes were blind with shock and incomprehension. The stream continued to fall between her open legs, now splashing loudly into the growing puddle at her feet.

Something he didn’t recognise was happening to him. He reached down, unbuttoning his trousers and taking his now hard length in his hands. Before he knew what he was doing, he placed it between her legs and felt the warmth of her fear - and the hollow reality of his betrayal.

Omg this was 😚👌

On 4/19/2020 at 8:57 PM, oliver2 said:

This is wonderful! Simultaneously arousing and heartwarming

Thanks very much! Ive felt kind of ambivalent about having/posting with this account so never got round to replying, but I really appreciated this 🙂

Summary : I (f) get pissed on in the bath by a lover (m)

A fantasy I’m posting here because I asked the subject of it how he felt about piss, and he’s not a fan (or even curious, sadly). On him and me: late twenties, locked down with our families in different countries, "met" on a dating app, may never meet in real life. Conversation skeeters between internet esoterica, ADHD frustrations, expressions of thirst that only make the cravings worse, and occasional affection. The following is more or less what I would’ve said to him if I'd got a different answer…

One thing you should know about me and piss is that it has very little to do with submission or domination (although power comes into it in some curious ways). It’s got more to do with the potential to access this primal, lawless, immediate, distilled spectrum of experience, free of all thought about the consequences of our actions. 

Because of this, my fetish has mostly manifested in reading fantasies and accounts of people pissing in public or antisocial or destructive places. It’s a little niche, but it just does something for me.

But these lonely times have given me a new appreciation of touch and proximity, so for the first time in a while I’m fantasising about getting pissed on.

We’d go out for a couple of drinks near my place in the afternoon to loosen you up and fill your bladder. When you needed to go you’d let me know – looking maybe a little awkward about it, having a hard time believing that this is what I want to hear. I’d savour the intimate knowledge of what was happening inside you; the vulnerability associated with your growing need; my responsibility to find the way home and open the door; the sweetness that you’re putting yourself in this position for me. I’d do my best to imagine the tingling signals in genitals I don’t have but sometimes wish I did. And I’d brush my nose against your cheek and kiss your ear. 

When we got home I’d get naked and crouch in the bathtub – plug in – and you’d stand over me, unbuckle your belt and pull out your dick. Arousal and nerves, and a sense of propriety, would leave you unable to piss for several seconds - and the two of us frozen in place. You’d close your eyes and concentrate, and a jet of piss would leave your dick, followed by another, landing on my chest. After a pause, a sharp, steady stream would issue from your beautiful cock.

After a few seconds the warm tangy smell would reach you and you’d realise what a mess you were making. But my smile of gratitude and delight in this defilement would reassure you. You’d step forward and press the upward-bended head of your cock against my cheek, so a plume of piss spread over my cheekbone and trickled behind my ear down the back of my neck, wetting my hair. Rubbing your cock around my face and paying attention to where your piss spread and landed, you’d stroke my jaw and touch my lower lip, spreading a blissed-out smile across my face.

Eventually your stream would slow, and you’d direct the last trickle back to my chest. I’d take your cock and kiss it, licking the drips from the end. Feeling the tickle of one more jet, you’d take the liberty of leaving your cock in my mouth and ejecting it unannounced. Already squirming with pleasure on the floor of the bath, I’d moan in enjoyment of my own adoration of you and the gorgeous cock that has shared your most intimate self with me, and swallow.