pee

I was in one of those moods where everything feels sparkly, every sensation tingly, and every thought leads back to sex and how much I need to fulfill my desperate longing. If I see the corner of a table I imagine rubbing my pussy against it, if I see an orange traffic cone I imagine lowering myself onto it, penetrating myself with the tip and seeing how much of it I can get inside me. In this state, the prospect of being allowed to masturbate to orgasm makes me feel like a little girl on Christmas morning, jumping around frantically, unable to wait to open my presents.

My Master had put me into this state by making me edge for days without allowing me to cum. And for the past four hours I had not even been allowed to pee… to be honest, I could barely tell one sensation of desperation from the other.

And now I had a task, which took me out of the house. I was not allowed to pee first, and I still didn’t know exactly when I would be allowed to cum… I knew I had to edge for another hour when I got back, but I also knew that I was due at the dinner table at 5pm for Sunday dinner with my brothers and extended family. I could barely stand it, but somehow I had set myself up for this, and the prospect of still feeling so desperate and tingly when I sit down to table was both agonizing and exciting. Everything is exciting when i’m in this crazy, giddy mood.

The humiliation of my immanent task was exciting. I had brought a spare pair of panties with me, and a ziploc sandwich bag. I was driving along the highway, ready to pull off at the nearest gas station and complete my task

This was a state highway, and the gas stations all had convenience stores and fast food available, along with reasonably well kept sanitation facilities. The women’s restrooms, at least, were likely to be fairly clean, but they were also likely to be crowded… crowded enough that other ladies would be actively waiting for the next available stall.

I had now parked, and made my way through the cheese dust popcorn and gummy bears and baseball caps. But now I had to pee so bad I could not help shifting my weight from one foot to another as I stood in line. The extra pair of panties were still in my purse, along with the ziploc. A stall opened up just in time, but it was the first stall and the least private one. I didn’t have time to wait for the next though… I was honestly about to wet myself.

The toilet seat was covered with pee. it was disgusting. I couldn’t believe it! someone had squatted over it without touching it and then sprayed wildly. this is not something you encounter everyday in the women’s bathroom… usually women are more polite about these things, more socially conscious. I was appalled, and I remembered the red-haired, freckled lady who had used the stall right before me. “Shame on her” I couldn’t help thinking, but I was in no position to judge. in fact, I hadn’t a split second to delay, even to scrunch up a fistful of TP and wipe the seat.

i just had to sit in it, sit directly in her yellow pee. And this would not have been exciting if I had not been edging for days, but in my state the humiliation of this moment sent a chill up my spine. I flipped up the back of my skirt, sat down in the red haired lady’s pee and pulled my panties down around my ankles. I knew that those standing in line could see them under the partial wall of the toilet stall, and I wanted them to see that I was wearing bright red bikini panties. and that the panties were soaked through the crotch.

i was starting to hyperventilate from the excitement as I quickly pulled my fresh pair from my purse. They would not be fresh for long… my instructions were to hold the panties under my stream until they were thoroughly soaked with pee, then tuck them into the ziploc bag and conceal them in my purse until I got safely back home. Once there I was supposed to hold the soaking panties to my nose and sniff my own cold peepee as I rubbed myself to orgasm, thinking about what a nasty girl I am to be doing these things so willingly. But I knew I would not be able to resist sucking on the fabric, at lest a little bit, just to taste my own pee as I reached my humiliating climax.

i don’t know why this sort of humiliation does it for me… I think of myself as a simple masochist, but it’s not the truth. I am as eager for humiliation and depravity as I am for pain, and anything to do with pee seems to scratch that particular itch in just the right place.

As a little girl, I had the experience of wetting myself in the car, and Daddy gave me a spanking for it in the bathroom of the next gas station. He did not want my brothers to see me in my shame, which was kind of him, but for some reason when we were alone and he was touching me intimately, even as part of a punishment, even back then, there was always an extra little charge, a little bit of electricity. I need to discuss this with my therapist: all the same it doesn’t matter, except that this particular task combined desperation and panty wetting with the semi-public tension of a gas-station bathroom, combined with memories of my Daddy’s spanking… all the ingredients for a perfect storm. And indeed I had immeasurable trouble holding myself back, keeping my hands from rubbing my naughty little pussy furiously, bringing myselfto an illicit orgasm that certainly would have resulted in a terrible punishment from Master.

But instead I lowered the fresh panties between my legs and let loose with my torrential stream. And this release was its own kind of heaven! I drenched the panties, turning them from powder blue to midnight blue in a matter of seconds.

When the stream abated, they were sopping wet, along with my hands, wrists, and upper thighs. There was nothing I could do that was remotely sanitary, so I relished the depravity as I shoveled the soaking mess into my sandwich bag and with slippery fingers zipped it closed as well as I could. Fearing admonishment from the waiting ladies I tucked the ziploc into my purse and wiped my hands on a wad of TP. I stood up, feeling my wet inner thighs, wet with my own pee from the mess I had made as I released my flow into the blue panties, but also feeling the wetness of the red haired lady’s pee, cold and clammy against my naughty behind.

And of course the other wetness, entirely different from but strangely adjacent to the first. I still had not cum, and everything was still sparkly like Christmas, and the disgust I was feeling registered only as depraved glee. I was giddy, but nervous. I had peed, but was still desperate. I simply had to hurry out of there.

i did not wash my hands. For some reason I could not bear to stay in the crowded restroom for one more second after exiting the stall. I basically flushed and flew out the door, wiping the pee from my hands against my skirt as I slithered back through the maze of junk food and keepsakes that supported the gas-mart. And I almost escaped the store, in fact I had already put my hand against the push bar to open the heavy glass exit, but suddenly I realized that I should buy myself a grape soda. For some reason, when I accomplish something difficult or harrowing, I am in the habit of rewarding myself with a can of grape soda. I am a very health conscious vegetarian, and I don’t generally indulge in such moronic food choices, but I make an exception for grape soda, preferably Fanta, but Welche’s will do, or really anything. So I turned back and snuck sheepishly towards the soda isle.

i turned left from the end stop of a narrow aisle towards where I imagined the beer stopped and the soda began. Rows and rows of refrigerated cans and bottles…

But instead of venturing forth I stopped, frozen in my tracks. Because there, in front of me, squatting down on her haunches to extract the last twelve-pack of heineken from a low shelf, was my red haired lady. I simply stared at her, admiring the way her legs splayed and her ankles lay flat on the ground in her low squat… and I also noticed a wet patch the size of a personal pizza darkening the gusset area of her low-cut jeans. I could not take my eyes off of her: she had been just as desperate as me, and she had not entirely managed to get everything through the goal posts and hit the target.

She stood up with her beer and walked right towards me, looking me in the face. “What?!” she said in a quiet but hostile tone as she pushed past me, proceeding down the aisle towards the cashier to pay for her heineken..

i never got my grape soda, but all through the drive home I kept wondering if she, too, was carrying a pair of soaking wet panties in her purse. And all through our family dinner, and afterwards with the women and their evening of aged port and liberal conversation, I kept my red-haired, freckle-faced lady in the back of my mind, wondering how the desperation experience might have been for her, and wondering, in my own hormone-induced imaginative fancy, what her pee might have tasted like, had I licked the seat or somehow been bold enough to ask her if I might taste it, directly, from her trashy, red-haired kooze.

painting of january cunis, by furdegree