Pissing Kay

"Now lick me dry," she said, grabbing my hair and forcing my face between her legs. I was still feeling fucked from the night before, but knew it was futile to try to resist her, so I licked at her pussy, tasting the salty remnants of her piss on my tongue, and before long we were fucking again, and were still fucking when we heard my mother's key turn in the front door.

I collapsed, sated, listening to my mother moving around the house, wondering when the thunder would roll. Several minutes passed: then there was a polite tap on the door, and my mother stood in the doorway, holding out at arms length, as though they were something too disgusting to handle - Kay's discarded jeans and knickers.

"It isn't usual for guests to leave their underwear in their host's living room," she said sniffily. Then she dropped the items on the floor and withdrew.

Under the bedclothes Kay spluttered with laughter, until even I couldn't but help see the funny side.

There was an awkward silence through dinner, after which conversation was somewhat stilted - but so far my mother had not discovered the mess in her bedroom drawer. I still had a vague sort of plan to rescue her piss-soaked clothing and put it in the washing machine, but when my mother retired to bed there was no further opportunity.

I slept fitfully, dreading what would happen when my mother discovered the mess, wondering how much I could defend Kay, whether I would be forced to take sides, how I could avoid upsetting anyone, and suchlike. But when Kay and I surfaced a strange thing happened. My mother, who seemed to have forgotten or forgiven the business with the jeans and knickers, was sitting in the kitchen looking puzzled.

"I think I must be going doolally," she told us. "I put a load of washing in my bedroom drawer without drying it. It was still soaking wet. It must have been there a while because it was starting to smell. I can't remember doing it at all. Isn't that peculiar?"

As we sat there listening to the hum of the washing machine I gripped Kay's knee under the kitchen table, warning her on no account to say anything. And thankfully she managed for once to restrain herself - at least until we were safely on our way home again.

"Just what is it with you and pissing?" I asked Kay once when we were lying in bed. "I know you told me about your first job and your boss's briefcase. But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"I don't know - it's just so wonderful isn't it?" she said. "Pissing, I mean. You know Whitecastle Hill?" This was a hill that dominated the west side or town. "I used to go up there in the summer, lie on my back with my knickers off and watch my piss arcing away into the grass, glistening in the sunshine. It just felt heavenly. Naughty and natural at the same time. I used to imagine my piss raining down on the town: people running for cover, and my piss forming a deluge, then a lake, flooding the town, everyone drowning in my piss. Do you think that's weird?"

"Crazy" I said.

"One day," Kay continued, "when I was still living with mum and dad, I came home and the house was empty. I needed a piss. I was standing in the kitchen, but instead of going to the bathroom I heard this voice in my head, saying: What would happen if you pissed on the kitchen floor? I was sort of horrified and fascinated at the same time. What if I did piss on the kitchen floor? Then it became like a dare - something I had to do. So I took off my skirt and knickers and stood against the kitchen units, looking at the lino and thinking: I can piss here: I'm going to piss here. At first I couldn't do it: even though I tried I couldn't let go. We're so conditioned that way. But I had to do it - otherwise I'd have lost the dare. So I closed my eyes and tried to relax and imagine I was on the loo. And then it came - a trickle of piss. At first I couldn't believe I was doing it: I forced myself to stop: then I thought, fuck it, and just let loose. Half of it was going down my legs, the rest was splashing down onto the lino between my legs, and the longer it went on the more abandoned I was, just letting it loose, watching this giant puddle form on the kitchen floor.

"When I had emptied myself, and saw this great pool of piss - my piss - on the kitchen floor do you know how I felt? I felt a million dollars. I felt like I'd just passed a maths exam, or broken the four minute mile. Like I'd broken some taboo that had been restricting me all my life. Do you know what I mean? It's like, we're conditioned from childhood that piss is dirty: good girls pee in their potties, clean girls piss on the lavatory. It goes so deep you think if you do something like piss on the kitchen floor the sky will fall in.

"Then you do piss on the kitchen floor; and the sky doesn't fall in. Instead you feel fantastic. Liberated.

"So I stood there, leaning against the kitchen units, looking at this pool of piss, amazed at myself, proud of myself. And I felt randy. Not just that I wanted a rub, but that I deserved a rub, for what I'd just done. So I started rubbing myself, right there, standing up in the kitchen - and believe you and me I had one mother of an orgasm.

"After that I got out the mop and bucket and cleaned everything up. It was a hot day, the floor dried quickly. And when my mum and dad came home everything went on as normal, no-one had any idea of what I had done: it was my little secret, my warm wet little secret no-one else knew about."

"Bloody hell," I said.

"That's not all," said Kay, who was revealing more about her past than she had ever done before. "I kept getting these notions in my head: an idea would come to me out of nowhere, and it was like I had to carry it out. Sometimes they were trivial. Like one afternoon I was sitting on the loo about to piss when I saw a bath towel folded on the side of the bath. I wonder what it would be like to piss into that bath towel? I thought. And next minute I'd got up off the loo and was pissing into the bath towel clamped between my legs. And what a lovely feeling it was, warm and wet and sensual. Maybe it was a throwback to the days when I wet my nappy as a baby, I don't know. I know it felt good, and I know I had a lovely rub afterwards, rubbing the piss-soaked bath towel between my legs until I came.

"Sometimes these voices were more challenging though. One time I was in the park, and I needed a piss. "The park loos are smelly; do it in your pants." Again it was like a voice in my head telling me what I had to do. This time I wasn't so sure: doing it at home was one thing, but doing it in the park where there were lots of people?

"But as I said, it was like a challenge I couldn't back out of. I kept walking round, looking for a good spot. By then my bladder was bursting. It was a Saturday afternoon and the park was full of people: old people, families, kids. I tried sitting on a bench, but somehow that didn't count, I had to do it standing up. In the end I leaned back against the trunk of a plane tree. Again, I couldn't do it at first - the old conditioning. But when I closed my eyes and forgot about other people, it was easy. I just let rip, watched the front of my jeans getting soaked, felt all this piss emptying out of me, soaking my knickers, wetting everywhere between my legs. I must say I was surprised at the volume: I sort of imagined there would just be a damp patch, everything soaked up by my jeans. But it was more like having a pint of beer poured over your crotch: by the end I was drenched: far from soaking everything up, my jeans were saturated, piss was dripping through them almost as though they weren't there.

"I came to an end and looked round. I'd just pissed myself in a public park. But the sky hadn't fallen in. The hygiene police hadn't come to arrest me: in fact no-one had noticed. And like in the kitchen I felt a mile high. I was so happy and pleased with myself. Instead of hurrying home like I'd intended I just carried on walking round the park, my piss-soaked jeans there for all to see. People must have noticed: but nobody said anything. Maybe they thought I'd been wading in the boating lake; or maybe they were just too polite. I was too high to care.

"After that I had a spate of pissing myself in public. In the town centre; in a supermarket; wherever the urge took me. Once a man sneered at me and told me I was disgusting. I just gave him the finger and he went quiet. Once a little boy asked his mother "Why has that lady got wet jeans?" and his mother just shushed him. The only time I felt guilty was once when I was waiting for the bus. A lady came up to me and said in this quiet, concerned voice that her daughter had had a problem with incontinence, and she understood what I must be feeling, and there was all sorts of help I could. She was being kind, I just couldn't tell her I'd wet myself deliberately, so I listened, agreeing with her, and then when our bus came I told her I was waiting for a different bus."

"How long did all this go on for?" I asked.

"Only about a year," Kay said. "Once I'd proved myself, once I'd broken all these taboos, the challenges seemed to stop. I didn't need to do them any more. I still did wet myself from time to time, because it always felt good - but then that just sort of wore off. I think it was when sex took over, and I found fucking was even more cathartic than pissing. But I still have to do it from time to time, especially when I get angry or stressed. Not in my pants necessarily - but somewhere transgressive: like in your mother's drawers. Someone once told me I was like those people who have to cut themselves: a pressure builds up in them that only a cut can relieve. Well with me it's a piss."

It was in moments like this, when Kay was reflective and self aware rather than driven by impulses and emotions, that I felt I understood her best and loved her most. But sadly these moments were all too rare, and it was never long before she was in the grip of some over-riding passion once more.

The next outburst came in the kitchen. By now we had moved into a tiny, dingy flat together, which comprised a kitchen and living room downstairs, and a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. We were preparing dinner, and Kay had spilt a drink and showed no inclination to mop it up.

"Oh for God's sake leave it," she snapped, when I mentioned the mess. "You sound like your mother, always going on about the mess. This is a shit-hole anyway."

It was true that the landlord never did any repairs, and that the furniture and fittings were not exactly state-of-the-art.

"It would do you good to piss on the floor," Kay went on. "Stop you being so up-tight. In fact go on: do it: piss on the floor - the lino's bloody horrible anyway."

"Maybe sometime," I sighed, trying to pacify her.

"No: not sometime, Now," Kay persisted, giving me one of her hard, uncompromising looks.

"I don't want to piss on the floor," I said.

By way of reply Kay tugged open the zip of my trousers and yanked them, along with my underpants, down to my ankles.

"Do it," she commanded. Then, softening just a little, she said:

"I'll do it as well, we can do it together."

Before I could reply her jeans and knickers were off, and she was standing in front of the cooker with her legs slightly apart.

I knew when she was in a mood like this the only way to keep the peace was to go along with her. Sighing inwardly I tugged off my trousers, pants and socks and put them carefully on a chair. I felt silly, standing in our kitchen with my dick hanging out. I made a half-hearted attempt to pee, but nothing happened.

"I can't do it," I said.

"Rubbish," said Kay. "You can and you will. Watch me."

I did watch her: I watched her arch her back slightly; I watched her lithe little body tauten; and I watched as a cascade of piss began to stream from between her lovely legs and splash onto the floor. I watched her face, too, relaxed and absorbed, as though what she was doing was entirely natural. Piss began to splash over her bare feet and ankles, then pool over the floor: she carried on pissing, seemingly oblivious, without a care. She rotated her hips a little, directing her stream, spreading the pool of liquid; at one point she thrust her hips forward so that her stream of piss jumped forwards too, and landed on my own feet, at which she gave a laugh. Eventually her stream wavered: the last dribbles ran down the insides of her smooth thighs.

"There you go," she said. "Now your turn."

I tried. I took hold of my dick, looked down at the floor, and tried to convince myself that since the place was already so wet, more piss would do little more harm. But nothing would come.

"Relax," said Kay. "Close your eyes and imagine you're in a urinal. Now breathe slowly and deeply: there's no hurry, take your time."

I did as she said, and gradually I did manage to relax, and put the state of the kitchen out of my mind. Still I couldn't quite go. Then suddenly I heard a tap turning and water splashing into the sink: I felt that tell-tale sensation in my bladder, and next thing I was pissing, weakly at first, then with abandon, my own piss splashing down onto the lino, joining the pool of piss which already lay there.

"That's it," exclaimed Kay in delight. "Go for it, let it all flow."

Once my flow was established I opened my eyes, and watched the steaming liquid splash down. Part of me was relieved that I had managed to do it; another part was disgusted, and wondering what the hell I was doing and why.

"Go on, spray it around," Kay encouraged me.

More to please her than for my own pleasure I waved my dick around and directed my jet in different direction. Some splashed over Kay's feet, and I pulled back and apologised.

"Go on," she cried, "piss over my feet: piss over my legs."

So saying she stepped towards me and stood right in front of me, such that my piss cascaded onto her thighs and streamed down her legs.

"Higher," she said, laughing: and I found my piss hitting her bare tummy, just inches away, and running down over her bare hips and legs.

"Beautiful," Kay exclaimed, revelling in the warmth, almost purring as the disgusting yellow fluid streamed over her.

"There," she said when I'd finished. "Don't you feel better for that?"

"I suppose," I said, wondering just what kind of madhouse I was living in.

"Feel how wet I am," she invited.

"I can see how wet you are," I said.

"Not there silly: here," she said, grabbing my hand and clamping it between her legs.

She was indeed wet: not with the sticky wetness of piss, but rather the slippery wetness of someone intensely aroused.

"Come on," she said, dragging me into the living room, unconcerned that she was dripping piss everywhere.

Then seconds later she was on her back on the living room carpet, her legs drawn up in a W shape, and I was inside her, fucking her, feeling her clammy, piss-soaked tummy against me, holding her piss-soaked arse in my hands, hearing her moan and cry, until I emptied my load inside her, no longer caring about the pervasive smell of piss in the flat.

After that I hoped I had done sufficient to satisfy Kay that I was not completely inhibited, and that she would not try to co-opt me further into doing the things she alone really enjoyed. And that seemed to be the case, for she never again challenged me to piss on the floor, or anywhere else unorthodox. But that incident brought to the surface another issue Kay had, which was her hatred of our flat. I had no great love of it myself, but was prepared to make the best of a bad job, and had been conditioned all my life to respect other people's property, however shoddy that property might be. But Kay had none of my scruples; she treated the place with less and less respect, until one evening she finally snapped. I was in the kitchen at the time, when I heard a stream of curses coming from upstairs. It seemed the heater on the shower had broken whilst Kay was in the middle of taking a shower. I came out to see her standing completely naked at the top of the stairs, still shouting.

"Right: that is IT," she yelled.

And then she started to piss: just standing as she was on the top stair she leaned back, and before I knew what was happening an arc of piss was sailing down, rising and falling, landing on the stair-carpet, glancing over the stairs at different heights, soaking into first one step then another, gathering force until it was powering down to where I stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Bloody hell Kay," I said, for it was one thing to piss on the kitchen lino which could easily be mopped clean: "The landlord's carpet..."

"Fuck the landlord's carpet," she screamed, her piss continuing to cascade down the stairs.

In some ways it was a fine sight: an angry, beautiful girl, standing naked at the top of a staircase, letting go, pissing with complete abandon out over the stairs. But uppermost in my mind was the worry as to how we were going to get the carpet clean and get rid of the smell.

"God, I feel better for that," Kay said when she had finished. And that at least I was thankful for. But when I went to the kitchen to fetch a bucket and some carpet cleaner she told me to leave it.

"Let the place stink of piss," she said. "What do I care?"

It was clear we had to find a new flat, and luckily a friend put us onto a place, and we gave notice to quit. I wanted to leave everything in reasonable order, but Kay, once we had signed the new lease and given notice, was unstoppable, determined to desecrate every inch of what she described as our shithouse of a flat. During our last few days I don't think she pissed in the lavatory above a couple of times: instead she would let go wherever she happened to be: on the carpet in the living room or the bedroom; on the kitchen and bathroom floors; in the shower and the wash-basin. Even though I had known her some time I was constantly amazed at her total lack of inhibition. One evening, for instance, we were watching television when she just drew up her legs and nonchalantly pissed through her knickers onto the sofa cushions as though this was the most natural thing in the world. Another time she wandered from the bedroom down to the living room pissing the whole time, leaving a streaming wet trail, with such seeming indifference I wondered if she even knew what she was doing.

"I'm going to leave my mark everywhere on this doss house," she declared; and I knew there was no point in trying to reason with her.

The place stank: Kay didn't care.

"We'll be out of here soon," was all she said.

On our last night we were lying in bed, looking forward to the morrow.

"Let's do some thing special," Kay said. "Something really dirty to celebrate."

"Like what?" I asked.

She turned to me, put her arms around me, and rubbed up against me sensually.

"Why don't we wet the bed?" she said into my ear.

I screwed up my face:

"Because it's the landlord's bed," I said. "Because we've got to sleep in it tonight, and it will be wet and smelly and cold."

"You're so boring," she said. "Always thinking ahead. Don't you ever want to do anything exciting?"

"Being cold and wet isn't exciting," I said.

"Oh, fuck you," said Kay, turning away. "Do what you like. Sleep on the sofa if you want to: I'm going to wet the bed."

The sofa was already saturated with piss. So I stayed where I was and watched as Kay drew up her knees, making a little tent out of the bedclothes. They were our bedclothes, I pointed out, not the landlord's.

"Fuck the bedclothes," said Kay. "They'll wash."

I'd tried, once or twice, to piss whilst lying on my back. It was impossible. But Kay had no such difficulties, and within seconds she was releasing small spurts of piss, which sank into the mattress just inches below her fanny. She wriggled a bit, adjusted her position, drew her knees even higher: then to my amazement she was really doing it, letting loose a full-flowing river of piss deep inside the cave of the bed. I watched, transfixed. Steam was rising, and in the confined space the smell of her piss mingling with the sheets and the mattress filled my nostrils, strong and pungent. The sound was different from when she pissed on the sofa or carpet: that, too, was somehow more contained and intense. The pool of piss began to spread, piss was flowing from her faster than the mattress could absorb it, spreading sideways and upwards underneath her bare arse. Kay herself was breathing heavily, and letting out sighs and gasps, more as though she was having an orgasm than a piss. The pool spread further upwards, underneath her back, spreading out so that I, too, was enveloped in her warm wet steamy yellow piss. Something about the smell took me back to childhood, triggering long lost memories of wetting the bed. Still Kay was pissing: I began to suspect she had planned this, and had deliberately held it in all through the evening. Now the whole bed was soaking, there was no chance of wriggling away to the edge to find a dry patch. The sheets above us had not escaped either: piss was dripping from them like water from the roof of a cave.