The Girl Who Loved to Pee - Sex~Kitten.net

I suppose I've known other women who were as beautiful. But what's special about my Lydia is the way her eyes lock with mine, so as to make me feel sexually linked to her merely by being in the same room. Her very presence makes me feel warm, intimate, and naked. She's a kind, lustful spirit bursting with wholesome erotic energy—a raw sexuality that I've never encountered elsewhere. A biologist would probably tell you that I can smell her sex, unconsciously, from thirty feet away.

In addition to her general qualities of highly-charged magnetism, there is a specific thing about Lydia's sexuality that puts me over the top. You see, Lydia really likes to piss. If you'd seen her, just once, spraying the grass on a sunny day, her panties at her ankles, her head flung back to share her bliss with the sky, then you'd know what I mean.

For Lydia, the standard messages from her bladder several times each day do not represent a chore or an inconvenience. They represent opportunities for pleasure. As for our sex life—well, she certainly likes fucking. But what really lights her up is peeing in front of me. And being with me when I know that she's going to pee soon—or not so soon, if she's in a "holding it for fun" mood. After she's fully indulged her urinary eroticism and exhibitionism, the intercourse, we would both admit, is a joy that's terrific, but a touch anticlimactic.

Though I'd known Lydia for about a year before the night she peed beautifully into my lap at Sandra's party, our interactions had been minimal. Oh, I had been instantly infatuated with her, all right. But she was seeing someone else for most of that year; and so, on the all-too-rare occasions on which we happened to meet, I felt obliged to interpret her friendliness as mere friendliness.

The night of Sandra's party proved revealing almost from the start. Early in the evening, I happened to overhear Lydia talking with a friend. The conversation made it clear that Lydia and her boyfriend had broken up some months back, subsequent to when I'd last seen her. A few minutes later, while I remained within earshot, their conversation took another turn. As my jaw dropped and my erection rose, I heard Lydia mention to her friend that her idea of a nice way to indulge herself at home on a Friday night was to make herself a cup of coffee, throw a couple of towels on the floor, turn up the stereo . . . and then chill out drinking beer, slowly, until she wet her panties. From across the room, her eyes met mine just as she was finishing this testimonial—to which her friend responded with a predictable shriek of "Too much information!" It must have been clear to Lydia, from my expression, that I had heard everything . . . and had relished it.

So, about an hour later, when Lydia sought me out and quietly invited me to accompany her to Sandra's out-of-the-way upstairs bathroom, I knew more or less where things were headed. Watching her mini-skirted ass lead me up the stairs, I was already incredibly aroused.

She closed the door behind us, then kissed me with an ease that belied the fact that it was our first. "Hey, come down here with me," she urged. She danced me down to the tile floor and unzipped my jeans. As she squatted into position, I could now see that she wasn't wearing any underwear beneath her enticing mini-skirt. I reclined, and she deftly extricated my cock from my trousers. She scooted forward with surprising grace, looking lewd and elegant all at once, cunt exposed. She straddled my lap. She let go.

A paradise of warmth overcame me. I had never experienced anything quite like it, and it was wonderful. She peed for what seemed an eternity, and my cock quivered and twitched beneath her rain. I watched in fascination as the blond water gushed and dribbled out of her and her thighs trembled with the ecstasy of release. When she had finally finished, her crotch glistened with the last trickling drops, which clung magnetically to her intimate flesh as she shuddered in a quasi-orgasm of muscular relaxation.

"Don't wipe," I suggested huskily. She looked incredibly sexy with the drops of pee still ornamenting her feminine landscape, and I lifted her forward and began to lick her pussy dry. Evidently this felt very good to her; and, though she had soon been neatly tidied of pee, her other private wetness soon took its place. She clutched at my dick.

"Lydia . . . why didn't you look me up sooner?" I asked in a libidinous groan.

"I don't know. I guess I’m a little shy."

"You're not acting very shy now," I smiled.

"Hmm . . . No, I guess I'm not." With her free hand, she delicately touched my jeans where she had soaked them. Her eyes held a dazzling sexual charge.

She mounted me. We fucked at full-throttle to a shared explosion, my hands gripping her soft ass and the wet back edge of her skirt tickling the base of my shaft.

“You know, I was thinking of you when I was in bed this morning, with my fingers inside my pajama shorts,” she confided afterwards. "I was really hoping you'd be here tonight."

We went home together soon after—our clothes were not really what you'd call "presentable," though we were careful to make sure that Sandra's bathroom was—and we stayed up all night talking in bed . . . when we weren't otherwise occupied. Lydia told me a lot of things. In addition to the more conventional topics of personal experiences, interests, and ambitions, I learned all about how much she enjoyed "holding it," and how much she enjoyed releasing it. "I tingle when I tinkle," she explained.

Secure in her knowledge that I was deeply interested, she described for me, in delicious detail, what she did in her favorite sparkling, empty department store restrooms. Here, after deliberately spending hours browsing in a short skirt without visiting the toilet, she would hover just above the seat with her panties still on, wiggling sensuously in a moment of glorious tension and anticipation, until she was almost wetting . . . and then rip the panties down to her ankles and indulge in an orgasmic-quality release. And she painted a similarly-detailed picture of how at home, in the privacy of her bathroom or her back yard, she would leave the panties on and sensually water them under her skirt. Or soak herself in a pair of capris, after enjoying an orgy of leg-crossing. "There's something so cozy about just giving in and tinkling warmly into my snug-fitting sexy clothes, without having to pull anything down," she told me. Sometimes she would challenge herself by holding her pee in every position she could think of, eagerly awaiting whatever posture would provoke the flood on a given occasion.

And so, in the months that followed, my Friday evenings with Lydia would typically begin in a predictable, but most welcome manner—a ritualized prelude to whatever sexual adventures the weekend would bring. Lydia would show up in one of her sexiest dresses, and drink a couple of beers while we talked, listened to music, and danced. Finally, she would deliberately piss her knickers, while I hungrily observed the ecstasies this took her through. Then, with her hot breath on my face and my hand caressing her damp panties, she would earnestly urge me to fuck her little ass off.

As if the thought hadn't already occurred to me.

As I spent more and more time with Lydia, I was treated to plenty of evidence of—and participation in—her special passion. Sometimes, when her bladder was full, I'd watch her slowly undress and then, gorgeously naked, indulge herself in little pirouettes in front of the toilet. It was exquisite watching her savor each moment she could hold it. Then, when she was about to lose it, she would hop nimbly onto the seat like it was someone's warm, waiting lap, jiggle her delicious ass, and suddenly water the little pond beneath her. And, always considerate, she would gradually part her legs to improve the comprehensiveness of my view. With me present, she would engage in this intimate ballet as a performance; but it made it even sexier to know that she also did it when she was alone.

And I learned to expect the soft, erotic whimper that Lydia always made when she unclenched the muscles that held her bladder closed. And again when she had finished emptying it, after relishing the exit of every drop that flowed out of her.

Some days, I saw her do her first squirt of the morning right into a pair of shorty pajamas, as she stood proudly in the shower. And sometimes, if she was first to wake up, she would lie beside me in a short, sleeveless neglige, her thighs squeezed solidly together, cherishing her unreleased morning pee. When she was on the verge of leaking, she would wake me and lead me to the bathroom. She would then hand me her feather-duster and accompany me into the shower, knowing that my gentle tickles would begin, at her request, under her arms . . . whence they would progress to her crotch, her thighs spreading in welcome. Here, softly brushing her delicate feminine crack, my titillations would coax her waterworks open, having courted and won her . . . having saturated her entire sensory system with pleasure, prompting her to dance gingerly from foot to foot and sway her hips with enchanting gyrations.

On other occasions, she would undress completely in our living room and spend some minutes clutching her crotch, before finally escorting me to the bathroom. I would lift her onto the seat, her ass wriggling lasciviously in my hands. Sometimes she would sit there and continue to hold her piss, still wriggling, until I tickled her toes and the backs of her knees, and she at last, so sensuously, abandoned her muscular control.

And on summer Sunday evenings I'd watch her strip down to her T-shirt and panties, and step out into the secluded back yard with me. She would settle down on the grass with a beer and just wait, lying still and content, until she began involuntarily to rock with her inner waves. Meanwhile, she remained otherwise passive, even when her powerful stream finally bubbled out on both sides of the thin gusset that clung to her juncture. "It's the ultimate relaxation," she informed me after one such classic display on the lawn, as she gently pressed and stroked herself through a haze of bliss. I noted that she didn't stay very relaxed, though, as her increasingly-intense strokes across the wet gusset quickly evolved into the hottest masturbation I'd ever seen from the sidelines.

When we'd been together for about six months, Lydia and I embarked on our first road trip together. On the first day of this adventure, we found ourselves zipping along the Interstate in the arms of a beautiful, sunny morning.

"I'm going to want to stop and pee in a while," Lydia said after a couple of hours. Instantly, I went a little bit hard.

Within just a few miles, a service area was announced. "Shall I stop here?" I asked.

Lydia said not to. "No, don't pull over yet. I want to enjoy it for a bit."

I was aroused, but not surprised. I checked with her again when a rest area appeared, fifteen minutes later. "Keep going," she smiled. She squished herself up against the car door and half-knelt on the seat, her hand subtly pressing against herself and her toes bobbing over the edge. "I'll tell you when to stop," Lydia purred, rocking herself, her bare heels digging into the seat. She turned her head to look out the window at the gorgeous scenery.

It must have been another twenty miles before she spoke on the subject again. "Pull off here," she suddenly requested. We were in the middle of nowhere, but an exit ramp was coming up. I took it.

"You can stop anywhere," Lydia said. I pulled off the road alongside a mown but deserted field. The sun kissed the asphalt, and a warm, gentle breeze greeted us as we scrambled out of the car.

Lydia ran about fifty feet into the field. It was all I could do to keep up with her. She peeled her shorts and tossed them to me, grinning. Then she stretched out her hands and pulled me toward her.

"Ever been kissed hard by a girl who's about to wet herself?" As she beamed at me, I noticed how her black hair was setting off her glinting green eyes especially well this sunny morning. And how her bright aqua panties fit her deliciously.

"Not yet today," I answered truthfully.

"You'll have to let me know how it feels." She promptly grabbed me and kissed me hard, as promised, her bare, throbbing leg vibrating against my jeans.

Lydia giggled as she took a step backwards. Her thighs were pressed together and her hips were swaying sensuously. She began hopping gingerly up and down, her hand now shoved deep between her legs.

"It's so . . . beautiful . . . here." Lydia's speech was coming in short bursts, as her dance became frenzied. Suddenly she planted her feet immovably in the meadow, with her legs far apart. She removed her hand from her crotch and rested both palms on her thighs. Then she stood there in her cranberry jersey and aqua panties and peed for all she was worth, laughing with abandon. She slowly bent her knees down, then up, in an erotic rhythm, as a Niagara rushed through her.

While I watched the rain come down sweetly for me, without a cloud in the sky, I unzipped my jeans and openly fondled myself.

Lydia had just enough breath to talk. "Have you ever had your dick pulled by a woman who's pissing her ass off?" This time she didn't wait for an answer. As I stepped forward she took hold of my cock, while still busily watering the field beneath her.

She was still pissing hard when I came in her hand.

When she had finally finished, she smoothed the soaked panties into her crotch and rubbed herself till she screamed. We both stood there, shaking.

Lydia embraced me, her saturated panties pressing warmly against my cock. I knew I was in love with the girl who loved to pee, and that this was shaping up to be a very nice trip.

© Jeremy Edwards
Jeremy Edwards is the pseudonymic, erotic facet of a freelance muse-chaser whose other specialties include humor essays, stage farces, and alternative pop music. His greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment -- ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. His stories have appeared online at Clean Sheets and Oysters & Chocolate, and he also has material forthcoming at Ruthie's Club. Visit him at MySpace.