Pissing Kay

I want to tell you about an ex-girlfriend of mine, Kay, who was by far the wildest, most exciting, and also craziest girl I have ever been out with. In appearance think Suzy Quattro aged about 21: small, lithe, feisty, long blond hair, blue eyes, usually dressed in tight, sky-blue jeans and leather jacket, and with a wild-child personality to match. She spoke her mind, and couldn't care less who she offended or how much outrage she caused. Quite what she saw in me, a much more restrained and conventional person, I never really understood. Maybe it was a case of opposites attract.

For me the attraction was simple: she was stunningly attractive and she had a reputation for being an easy shag. Most of my friends were in awe of her and, knowing how wild and unpredictable she could be, advised me to keep well away. But I was driven more by my hormones than my brain: and after we'd drunkenly groped one-another at a disco, and then, at her instigation, fucked in an alleyway on the way to the bus stop, we began a relationship which surprisingly lasted nearly two years.

I knew she was someone who took no nonsense and who could easily fly off the handle: but the first time I experienced the crazier side of her personality was in a crowded pub one Christmas Eve. So crowded was the pub there was scarcely room to sit or stand, and Kay was perched on my knee, whilst next to me was sitting my friend Mike, with his girlfriend on his knee. I hadn't seen Mike for a while, and we were deep into a conversation about sport, when Kay swivelled my head towards her and told me it was about time I started paying more attention to her. I tried to talk to her for a while, but without really meaning to I soon drifted back into conversation with Mike.

The next thing I knew, a warm sensation was spreading over my lap. At first I was puzzled, just taking it for some extra warmth emanating from Kay's legs and bottom: but gradually I became aware that the warmth was distinctly wet. Had someone spilled some beer, I wondered? I shifted about, trying to make out what had been spilt and how it had ended up around my legs and crotch: then the penny dropped: Kay was actually pissing through her jeans onto my lap.

"What the hell?" I said.

Cool as anything she looked me in the eye:

"I warned you to pay me some attention," she said.

"Get off me," I said. I made a hopeless attempt to push her off, but she remained stubbornly planted on my lap, and in any case there was hardly room for her to stand.

"Are you sure you want me to get off?" asked Kay. "I will if you want everybody to think you've pissed your pants."

With that she did start to climb off me: very quickly I changed tack, and pulled her back onto my lap again. By now I was absolutely soaked in her piss. Her own jeans, too, all around her arse and thighs, were one dark spreading wet stain.

"Is something up?" asked Mike.

"No, no," I said. "Just a bit uncomfortable."

At which point Kay put her mouth against mine and began kissing me, extending her tongue deep into my mouth, ensuring I kept my full attention on her.

"You little bitch," I said, when I came up for air. Partly I was mad at her, and worrying how on earth I was going to get out of the pub without everyone staring at my wet trousers; and partly I was amazed at her audacity, and the fact that she could do such a thing in a public place.

"Aren't I just?" she replied. "What are you going to do about it?"

There was an element of challenge in her voice, and I felt the situation was on a knife-edge. We could easily have started a full-blown row in the pub, and I knew she'd have had no qualms about standing up and shouting at me, and drawing everybody's attention to the state of my trousers. Part of me, angry at having my lap pissed on, almost wanted a row. But I bit down my anger, and decided to take it as a sexual challenge, in the hope that the situation might be redeemed.

"You'll find out when we get out of here," I said.

"Right then, lets find out now," she shot back at me. With that she did get up off my lap, and began to force a passage through the throng. With a backward look of apology to Mick I hurried after her, desperately trying to press up behind her so no-one could see the state of my front. In this way we got out of the pub and into the street. There I grabbed her from behind, half in play and half in anger. She laughed and pulled away, seemingly careless of the dark wet patches which extended over her buttocks and down to her knees. Then she started to run up the street: I chased after her, my legs feeling cold and clammy, aware of the stink of urine in the air. I caught up with her at the entrance to the very same alley we had fucked in the first time we had met.

"So what are you going to do now you've caught me, piss-pants?" she challenged.

My blood was really up by now: I bundled her down the alley, pushed her against the wall, squatted down and in one forceful movement yanked down her soaking jeans and pants. It was difficult to get them over her feet: I struggled with the first leg, then gave up on the second and left her standing there with her jeans and pants trailing around one ankle. Then, breathing in the smell of piss from her thighs I forced first one then a second finger inside her, expecting to find her tight and sticky, and surprised at how wet and slippery she was. Then I yanked down my own piss-soaked trousers, lifted her up so that she was half resting against the wall and half supporting herself by clamping her legs around my thighs, and I fucked her hard and deep, only slightly put off by the volume of her cries and the freezing air, until we had both purged our anger at one-another in a fiery orgasm.

On that occasion things ended happily, and I managed to stave off the anger I knew she was capable of. But such was not always the case. One night we had left the pub and were walking to the bus stop when Kay abruptly decided she needed a piss. There was a swanky department store nearby, and she went into the entrance, which comprised three shallow marble steps, hitched up her skirt, took her knickers completely off, and started to piss. Very soon a stream of piss was pooling on the marble, and flowing down the steps. At that point a middle-aged couple appeared, caught sight of her and stopped in their tracks.

"Oh, that is disgusting," the woman said. The man said nothing but screwed up his nose in disapproval.

"Stop that at once," the woman threw out at Kay.

Kay continued to piss: without even bothering to try to cover herself she extended one arm, gave the woman a look of sheer malevolence and pointed her finger at her as though laying a curse.

"Go and suck your husband's shrivelled little cock you old witch," she said. The woman drew in her breath sharply, as if stunned: then grabbed her husband's arm and started to walk away. Kay yelled after her:

"Nobody tells me where I can and can't piss," she shouted after their departing backs.

She finished pissing, stood up with her knickers still in her hand, and glared after the couple, still furious.

"I'd a good mind to go after her and piss in her face," she snarled; and for a minute I thought there was going to be a terrible scene, but thankfully the couple turned the corner at the top of the road and disappeared out of sight.

That was the thing with Kay: I could never be sure of her moods and how she would react to situations. On another occasion we were on a train, approaching our stop, which was the penultimate stop before the end of the line. That day Kay was wearing a white blouse, with the top buttons undone. There was only one other passenger left, a middle-aged man sitting opposite us. For most of the journey he had been pretending to read his newspaper, whilst fastening surreptitious glances on Kay's cleavage. Although he had tried to disguise this, I was aware of it, and I knew Kay was aware of it also. I'd been bracing myself for fireworks for a while, and as we approached our stop Kay suddenly said to the man:

"Have you had a good eyeful yet?"

The man went red with embarrassment, and began to bluster denials. Just when I though Kay was going to swear at him she reached up, undid several more buttons of her blouse and in a single movement yanked down her bra and shook out both of her tits. She has beautiful breasts, very full and large for her size: the man gawped like a fish, his mouth open, his eyes locked on the sight before him.

"Go on, have a proper look," Kay was saying.

For several seconds the man gawped at her naked breasts: then, as the train slowed down, Kay slotted them back into her bra, and with a parting "Now go and have a good wank" stood up and led me to the door. Out on the platform I thought she was going to be furious: but instead she was laughing.

"That gave him more than he bargained for," she said. Then: "It's my tits he'll be picturing tonight when he's shagging his missus."

"You are amazing," was all I could say.

And yet on another occasion, when we had gone to a party and the host had been eyeing her lecherously half the night, she flipped the other way.

"I'm sick of the way he's ogling me," she said. And then she did something she'd done before when we'd been at a party and she had taken a dislike to the political views the hostess had been spouting: she pissed on the sofa. Without anyone knowing, without bothering to take off her jeans, she just sat there and pissed, seemingly indifferent to the fact that she was pissing through her own clothing, certainly indifferent to the mess she was leaving behind her.

It was these incidents, along with another occasion when she pissed on the seat of a bus because the driver was sharp with her when she had no change, that forced me to see that she had a strange thing about pissing, not infrequently using it as an expression of anger or revenge. So I waited until she was in a receptive mood, and asked her to enlighten me about it.

"I think the first time was when I had my first job," she told me. "It was in an office, with three other girls. After four days I was bored to death. Bored with the work; bored with them and their stupid conversation. On the fifth day I went in wearing the shortest, tartiest skirt I could find - just to shake things up a bit. Half an hour later the boss called me into his office, and told me not to dress like that again, it wasn't the image the firm wanted to project, blah blah. I almost told him to stick his job where the sun doesn't shine, but instead I let him rant on and kept my mouth shut. At lunchtime everyone went to the staff canteen: I made an excuse, waited until everyone had gone, then went into his office. There was a leather brief case beside his desk: it was full of his papers and stuff. So I took off my knickers, squatted over it and filled it with piss. All his papers were soaked: it was one of the most satisfying pisses I've had in my life. By the time I'd finished his stuff was swimming in piss. Then I went back into my office and waited. At first nothing happened: then about 4 o'clock he came through our door with a face like thunder and told us all to follow him into his office. The other girls were all wondering what was up. He lined us up, held open his brief case, and asked if anyone had poured liquid inside. The other girls all said no, and I said no as well: but he must have been able to tell from their faces that the others knew nothing about it. Anyway, he fixed on me and asked me was I sure I knew nothing about it? I said: "I didn't say that: I just said I hadn't poured anything in it."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What I said," I told him. "I didn't pour anything into your brief case I pissed in it."

You should have heard the gasps from the other girls. The boss looked at me in absolute disbelief. He told the other girls to leave: then he stared at me without speaking, like he was lost for words. Then he said:

"Get your belongings and get out of here. If you're still on the premises in five minutes time I shall call the Police."

"Go ahead," I said. "If you do I'll tell them you tried to grope me."

"Just get out!" he yelled.

So that was the end of my first job. I didn't regret it, I tell you: I'd have walked out anyway. But boy, did I enjoy pissing in that old fart's brief case. I often wonder if he managed to salvage any of his papers, or if he managed to wash it out."

It was when Kay told me this that I realised she wasn't just outrageous, but that she probably had a bit of a screw loose. At any rate, she was a loose cannon, fun most of the time, dangerous some of the time, such that when the time came that I could no longer put off a weekend visit to my mother I was determined that Kay should not come. She had never met my mother - they were like oil and water - and I was happy to keep it that way.

But Kay had other ideas. She didn't want to be left on her own all weekend; she didn't see why she shouldn't meet my mother; I wasn't ashamed of her was I? And in the end, much against my better judgement, I succumbed to pressure to take her with me.

My mother lives about a three hour drive away. On the journey, with Kay promising to behave, I was lulled into a sense of optimism. Within an hour of our arrival I realised how false that had been. My mother, who is obsessively house-proud, started almost at once.

"Don't sit in that chair sit in this chair; not on the edge you'll have the cushions out of shape; don't use that place mat use those in the drawer..." On and on it went, fussing and fretting, getting up to dust away an imaginary cobweb, adjusting shoes so that they rested exactly on the mat. By the evening Kay was all but ready to explode.

"How do you stand it?" she demanded of me. "How come you haven't murdered her yet?"

"I'm used to it, I just let it wash over me," I said. Then I thanked her for being so patient and keeping her feelings to herself.

"I can't keep it up much longer," she said. And sure enough, at 9pm she stood up abruptly, told my mother we were going to bed, and dragged me into our bedroom. Once there she practically tore off her clothes, threw herself backwards onto the bed, kicked her legs into the air and thrashed them down onto the bed over and again, and told me I had better fuck her harder than she had ever been fucked in her life.

I did my best to oblige - all the time mindful of my mother in the next room - whilst Kay yelled her head off and bit my arm when I tried to smother her cries. But mercifully my mother had the television turned up, and if she heard us she did not mention it.

Thus I managed to stave off another potential flash point. But the next day my mother started again, fussing and obsessing and generally driving us mad, until I thought Kay was going to hurl one of her porcelain ornaments at her. Somehow we survived until lunchtime, after which my mother had to go out.

As soon as she was through the door Kay let out a piercing scream which seemed to go on for ever.

"I can't stand it," she said. "All this good taste; all this neatness and prissiness. I want to smash it all up; I want to set fire to it; I want to piss on it."

As she said this last it was as though a light bulb had gone on in her head. She looked at me; her mouth fell open mutely; then she began to smile: seconds later she had dragged off her jeans and knickers and was standing in my mother's living room naked from the waist downwards.

"That's what I'm going to do," she said gleefully. "Piss on it."

"Kay; no; please," I said firmly. "This is my mother's bungalow."

But she didn't hear; or if she did hear she took no notice. Careless of who might be passing by or looking through the net curtains she climbed onto the top of the sofa, and squatted there with her legs apart.

"Not on my mother's sofa," I said, horrified. I made a move to grab her, but she jumped down and quickly scrambled up onto the table."

"On her table then," she said grinning devilishly.

"No - that's an antique table!" I protested. Again I made a grab for her and again she jumped down and twisted away from me, dancing round the room like a demon, he bare legs and arse twisting this way and that, her trimmed fanny exposed to anyone who might be passing outside the window.

"How about the piano then?" she cried, before proceeding to scramble up, first onto the keyboard then onto the top of my mother's Birchwood upright piano.

"This is it," she said, grinning down at me, squatting and touching her fanny with her finger as though about to start pissing.

"Oh Jesus," I said to myself. Thinking quickly I rushed out to the kitchen, my idea being to grab a washing-up bowl to catch her piss in and try to restrict the damage. But when I returned she jumped down, and evading me ran out into the hall and through the doorway into my mother's bedroom.

"What about on her bed?" she said, jumping up and squatting down on my mother's double bed. "All over this disgusting pink coverlet."

"Please Kay," I begged her. "The mattress will be soaked."

"So what?" said Kay. "Don't you like the idea of the old fusspot sleeping in my piss?"

She laughed at that, a manic laugh: but just when I though she was really about to soak my mother's bed, her eye was caught by the middle drawer in a chest of drawers, which was part-open. Again she jumped down, and darted over to the drawer, out of which she started pulling items of my mother's clothing.

"Look at this," she screeched, holding up a woollen thermal vest: "And this; and this. Have you ever seen anything so ghastly?"

One by one she held up pairs of my mother's large, old-fashioned pants; vast upholstered sexless bras; socks, vests and knickers. With a look of wonder on her face she stuffed them back into the drawer, and pulled it further open.

"This is it," she said gleefully.

She turned to face me, her back to the drawers, lifted her right leg and set it down on the open drawer, then slid back until she was half-standing half-squatting over the opening.

"God I'm going to enjoy this," she said.

"Kay - please," I begged her.

But it was too late: there was a hissing sound, and a jet of warm piss descended from between her legs into the open drawer.

"No," I shouted, stepping forward. But Kay stretched her arm out towards me and gave me a look which took me straight back to that time when she had pissed in the doorway of the department store, and had told the couple: "No-one tells me where I can and can't piss." Although she didn't speak these words now, her look spoke them for her, and I froze before it. Piss was streaming out of her now, unrestrained, uninhibited. I groaned and put my head in my hands: there was nothing now I could have done anyway: even if I had grabbed her and pulled her away, she was in full flow and would only have pissed on my mother's carpet. For a moment it was as though time was frozen: Kay poised above my mother's drawer; me poised with my head in my hands, hardly daring to watch her. The only sound and movement came from her piss, as it hissed down onto the various fabrics, saturating them, starting to flood the drawer.

Eventually it slowed to a trickle then, after a final flare, dwindled to nothing, leaving just a few drips on Kay's labia.

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kay seemed to come to, as though coming out of a trance.

"I've pissed on your mother's smalls," she said, almost as though she had surprised herself.

She eased herself off the drawer, and together we peered in at the sodden piss-soaked clothing.

"Oh hell," I said. "What am I going to do about that?"

"Nothing," said Kay, who was looking very pleased with herself. "You're going to leave them just as they are and come and fuck me."

She allowed me only to close the drawer before dragging me off to our bedroom.