A Bit Too Far

A few years ago, my boyfriend introduced me to the joy of pissing for someone; pissing with someone. For as long as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed pissing my clothes, or pissing somewhere I shouldn’t – but I never thought I’d find someone who wanted to be there with me. Needless to say, we had the time of our lives.

I’d straddle him in bed, rubbing against him, and soak him from chest to balls in piss. I’d hold myself all day so that the moment I got through the door at night, the crotch of my (always dark) jeans already slightly damp from the walk home forcing spurts into my knickers, I couldn’t help but let piss flow down my legs and into my shoes before the door was even closed behind me. In the shower, I’d straddle his thigh and watch my morning piss drench him.

Our sex life reached new heights. I was turned on by wetting myself, he was turned on by it, I was turned on because he was turned on. Jesus, that was some good sex. We couldn’t get enough of it. I only had to mention it for him to have a raging hard-on and me to be sopping wet.

However, he was never into shit. I can understand this – it’s smelly, it’s messy, it’s… well, it’s just a bit icky, right? The clean-up isn’t going to be fun even if you do it in the shower or bath, never mind anywhere else. With all that in mind, I was happy enough to stick with what we had. I mean sure, I was intrigued at the idea of shit. I’d done a bit of experimenting on my own and I’d enjoyed it. But I figured I was lucky to find a guy who was into piss, never mind shit, so I wasn’t going to complain!

Then one night. Oh dear.

We’d been to a beer festival. We’d drunk a hell of a lot. I’d also been forbidden from using the toilet all night. I was drunk, incredibly turned on and full to bursting. You know when you need to piss so badly, you get those shooting pains? That much. I tell my boyfriend it’s time to leave; even I have limits and pissing myself in the middle of a crowded room is beyond them. Either we leave now or I’m going to the ladies’ and there’s no more fun tonight.

He found our coats and had me out the door in thirty seconds.

It’s cold outside compared to in the pub, and we all know what that does to a full bladder! We walk home; it’s only five minutes and anyway, I wouldn’t trust myself in a taxi. Those guys charge you when you ruin their seats. Down the road, holding hands, he’s whispering filth in my ear that I’m only half listening to, distracted by my damp knickers, tears in my eyes, trying so unbelievably hard to contain my bladder until we reach home.

There! It’s there, we’re here, thank fuck. The floodgates begin to open now I’m so close; he opens the door and I stumble through and literally collapse on all fours on the stairs just inside, almost crying in relief as half a dozen pints of beer leave me, immediately soaking my entire outfit to the waist, trickling, splashing, then running down the wooden stairs and puddling in the hallway where my boyfriend is stood, watching.

After what feels like an eternity, I’m done. Still on all fours, breathing deeply, composing myself; my clothes are starting to cool when I feel my boyfriend move behind me. He’s kicked off his shoes and he’s standing in the puddle I’ve made in just his socks. He reaches round and and unfastens my jeans, then peels the sodden material down, just enough to expose me. A light slap. A growl: ‘You’re a fucking mess.’ Then he presses against me. Presses into me. He hasn’t removed his trousers, just undone his fly; my piss-soaked jeans quickly soak his clothes in turn as he grabs my hair in one hand and hauls me back so I’m half crouching, with him as deep inside me as he can be. I come almost immediately.

He pulls me off him, pushes me forward, forces himself into my arse. We both grunt. This may be the best sex we’ve ever had. Fuck. He’s merciless. One thrust-two-three-he pulls out, rubs himself against me. And – uh oh. Uh oh. A rumble in my stomach. a loosened arsehole. I try to push him away but he’s too into it, thinks I’m playing along, holds me to him.

My bowels go. Thick, sloppy shit. Down his dick, the front of his clothes, a puddle in my own knickers, pooled around my knees. I try to clench but there’s no stopping it; this has been brewing. My boyfriend has let go of me, wondering what the hell is going on. Still hobbled by my clothes around my knees, I half crawl, half scramble up the stairs on all fours, liquid shit oozing out behind me, utterly mortified, while he stands in the hallway looking bewildered. I make it to the bathroom, turn the shower on, and throw myself under the water still fully clothed, crying in humiliation, but achingly turned on.

I must have been stood there about half an hour before he came to join me. Stripped my clothes off, washed us both down. Hugged me. Reassured me: ‘These things happen. I’ve sorted the mess out.’ Joked: ‘You realise some people would pay a lot of money for what you just did?!’

Took me to bed, pinned me down and fucked me till I squirted, then cuddled me till we fell asleep.

We never experimented – or had accidents with – shit again; like I said, it just wasn’t his thing and let’s face it, it’s just impractical. But I like to think he enjoyed it a bit more than he would have imagined. I know I did.

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