Pisstory Pt. 06: Life of the Artist

Partially hobbled by the jeans and boxer shorts round my ankles I did as I was told, watching her kick off her brogues and attempt to pull down the fishnet tights.

"Bastard things!" she spat, and ripped them open between her thighs, raising her leather skirt so I could see a pair of obviously wet, surprisingly conventional white cotton knickers, which she proceeded to lower and propelled with one foot into a corner of the cubicle.

Her bush was thick and dark, not unlike Marielle's but trimmed square and geometrically, as befitted an artist.

Then I noticed a thin string hanging from it.

Louise pulled at it and slowly extracted a tampon from inside herself. I'd never seen such a thing before. It was simultaneously weird and extraordinarily arousing.

She looked me in the eye, like a challenge, then inspected the expanded plug. There didn't appear to be any blood on it.

"Shame" she said "I'd've liked to have smeared you a bit. Perhaps even had you eat me out while I was bleeding. You'd've done that, wouldn't you? Unlike those uptight Frogs."

"Yes" I said, surprising myself by how decisive I sounded. "I would."

"Another time." She tossed the rag after her knickers into a far corner of the cubicle, then straddled me, pushing her sweatshirt up over braless tits, smearing the piss from her hand over and around her long, brown, erect nipples

"Suck them" she said. She reached down with both hands, held her cunt open, and started urinating in a great spraying hot gush all over my standing cock.

Anyone following my story thus far will know I was not unfamiliar with women pissing on me. I love the smell and taste of a girl's urine, its heat and sting, the range of flavours that arise from her last drink or meal, from her state of arousal, from the strength and depth of her individual hormonal make-up, from her sweatiness and whether or not she's washed lately. I love the way it combines with the thickness and odour of her cunt lubricant, of her arse, of her cum, of the built-up layers of dried and drying seepages and discharge on the crotch of her pants. I'd had girls piss on my face, over my chest, groin and legs, best of all in my mouth where I could savour the full range of their individual tastes, preferably with cunt lips, peehole and clit pressed against my own lips and tongue as I was flooded. Up until that point, however, I'd never experienced the full force of a female bladder emptying in high-pressure torrent over the sensitive tip and rigid shaft of my erect penis, enveloping it in heat and wetness, its fresh disreputable odour steaming upward to my nostrils and making me want to cum even as I wanted more and yet more.

I licked my own salty piss off Louise's nipples, sucking them into my mouth and nibbling them as she pissed thunderously over my cock, the sound of her gush counterpointing the rattle and clack of the ancient train over the tracks, the heat of her hitting my tip cooling as the urine poured down the length of my shaft, pooling in my pubic hair, seeping over my balls and dripping steadily from the underside of my scrotum.

"Fuck me" she said as she slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She dropped herself onto my prick, already-lubricated cunt gripping it as she descended, then rocking back and forward, up and down, so that it was her doing the fucking and I had little to worry about except not shooting my load too soon as she penetrated herself with me.

"Bite my tits! Shove your finger up my arse!"

She fucked with the rhythm of the train, the weak strip light above our head flickering occasionally, her tits and our joined crotches in alternate shadow and harsh illumination. I looked at her face, and where the white foundation had been brushed or sweated off her skin looked delicate. Her nose was freckled, her eyes gentle without the harsh steel spectacles. She seemed young, vulnerable. And fierce.

"My tits" she said. "My arse."

I took a good mouthful of one nipple, slowly increasing the pressure of my teeth above and below it.

She increased the pace of her fucking.

"That's it. Now, your middle finger up my arse. Deep."

I thrust it in. Her hole was already lubricated by the piss and cunt fluid that had seeped out of her. I could feel my cock through the membrane of her perineum.

"Bite!" she said. "Both tits!"

Then, as I did: "Two fingers. As far as they'll go!"

I'm not sure at what point she orgasmed first. When I finally got the message about my fingers and started fucking her arse with them to the same strokes as she was using on me she'd already started making a low keening sound, and her cunt was so wet I could hardly feel my cock against its sides. Then suddenly she stopped.

"Wait!"

Breathing shallowly, without raising herself from my lap, she leaned over and felt inside the jacket hanging on the handtowel box. She brought out Marielle's knickers.

"Sorry" she said "I'm going to have to use these." And she held the stained gusset to her nose as she recommenced pumping up and down on me, and I resumed fingerfucking her arse.

"She was a ripe little bint, this girlfriend of yours" she breathed. She started licking Marielle's cuntstains off the fabric, at which point I totally lost control and, pushing up from the sweat-slick toilet seat as far up her cunt as I could make myself go, I spunked deep inside her.

By the time we left the train toilet it stank not of anonymous urinators and smokers but of our own sweat, piss and cum. Louise sucked my cock clean while kneeling on the filthy floor. I wanted to do likewise for her cunt, but she said "Instead, give me these nasty posh knickers" and pulled on Marielle's pants when I agreed.

Her own she left with the discarded tampon and ripped tights under the dripping washbasin in the corner, a found-object installation or random gift for some fellow fetishist.

We were late into London Victoria. Undoubtedly too late to make my train home from Euston. By that stage it had become even more strange that I should even wish to go there, and I was relieved when Louise told me, without any discussion or representation on my part, that I would be staying at her studio that night.

We caught the last Northern Line train to Camden Town. In the thick snow, which had fallen across the entire south-east of England that night, even the standard after-hours madness of north London was muffled and restrained. Louise led me across a couple of snowploughed roads toward the canal, then along a towpath into a place of anonymous warehouses. She'd given up trying to drag her tartan bag behind her and was carrying it like an ordinary suitcase.

"Take this" she passed it to me as we turned round a dark corner. "I need a piss."

As I dropped it next to my canvas hold-all on the shallowest patch of snow I could see, she squatted, pulled Marielle's knickers aside, and slashed into a white drift, urinously fragrant steam rising about her.

"Don't bother"she said, reading my mind. "I'll suck you off when we get inside. It's too fucking cold out here, and there isn't far to go."

As she stood up and rearranged her skirt, she seemed to be paying considered attention to the cavity her hot piss had made in the pristine snow.

"Remind me about this tomorrow, will you darling?" she said.

Louise's studio was in the roof space of a long, low shedlike building that obviously once had something to do with the canal, although what was by now completely obscure. It was reached through a side door up a flight of steps knocked together in echoing plywood and slightly bizarre proportions for a staircase, each stage being both too narrow and too high for comfortable ascent. At the top Louise unlocked a door and switched on an electric light.

"Well, thank Christ that still works" she said.

Inside was surprisingly warm for such an austere-looking building.

"Dunno what they do downstairs" Louise explained. "Something nautical, I expect. Ship's chandler's, keelhaulers, vendors of bespoke belaying pins? Whatever it is they've got heating and I managed to get the roof insulated last year, thank Christ. C'mon. I'll show you where we're sleeping. Jesus, I'm knackered."

The room was long and thin, an area in the middle surrounded by what looked like spotlights on high upright stands, with other metal constructions bearing an array of cameras around a battered old leather sofa. Just before we got to it Louise stopped by an old-fashioned wooden coat stand, bent over, pulled down her and Marielle's knickers, and looped them over one of the hooks. There was now a distinct white semen stain on the exposed crotch of the garment.

"For the Shroud" Louise said.

"The Shroud?"

"I'll explain later. Right now I'm dying for a cup of tea."

Behind a plywood partition at the end of the room lay a double mattress covered by a duvet in a crisp white cotton cover with accompanying plump pillows. Louise clicked on a low bedside light on the floor.

"Get in" she said. "I'll make us some tea. Five minutes."

I didn't need persuading. It suddenly bore in on me that only one day previously I'd been energetically fucking and being fucked by Joe and Scylla in their squat on the outskirts of Paris, that since then I'd reacquainted myself with the disappointing Aubin girls and discovered the terrible news of Alana's suicide, then travelled across northern France and southern England to end up first in my new artist friend's enthusiastic cunt and then her mysterious studio. The promised blowjob wavered in front of my eyes, and I decided that on balance, given the circumstances, tea would probably be a better idea. I hadn't had a proper cup of English tea for nearly three months.

The last thing I definitely remember before I passed out was the cover of a large-format illustrated hardback book by the side of the bed, 'The Art of Otto Dix', whose cover bore a photo of a portrait I would have sworn was that of my hostess Louise Stearman.