A Young Person’s Introduction to pee fetish

It’s now about three years since we first met at
Claire’s 21st birthday party. It’s a clich , I know, but
it seems like such a long time ago. You seemed so shy
then – I guess I did too – and so bright. I love you,
Little Star.

I miss you so much. Ah, I can’t wait until your return
from Perth. I have a countdown of days on the fridge:
23. I feel like calling, but I know you’d like to get a
letter so I’ll finish this first.

Do you remember when we went away for the weekend just
after we started going out? I hope you do! I have a
photo of us near that lighthouse, holding hands and
smiling. You can tell from the smile what we’d been
doing that morning!

It was such a beautiful Saturday: cool, blue skies, you
were driving & we were eating apricots.

As we were going through the mountains you said you
needed to stop and pulled off into a picnic area. I
needed to pee too: the coffee had gone straight through
me. An intense green grass shoulder, wire fence, cows in
the distance. Nobody’s around, no cars are coming.

I unzip and pull back my foreskin. I’m still wet and
musky from sex in your bedroom before we left that
morning: I think we’d just had the b***d tests and done
The Talk, and so for the first time we’d had sex without
a condom. Oh. It was so good to touch you so intimately,
to feel every little fold of your cunt embracing me. (I
certainly understand the saying that protected sex is
like taking a shower in a raincoat.) So I had your
delicious juice drying on me, and I guess I was still
leaking out of you.

My piss splashes the ground around the fencepost.
Release, primal pleasure. I hose the ground, a little
boy again, saturating the red earth. I see you watching
from the driver’s seat and smile. It’s a little
embarrassing, but I suppose you’ve seen my body before.

You unbutton your jeans: soft little brown tummy, white
cotton G-string. I want to slide up your T-shirt, see
the mismatched bra, tweak your crinkly nipples – what a
one-track mind! I can only plead that it was our first
holiday together, and you’re the sexiest person I know.

So, you fold your knickers down, squat and balance – so
much easier to be a guy sometimes. A little puddle
moistens the dust and runs away. You make eye contact,
not bashful at all, just sit there pissing.

I’m getting hard. You always make me horny – I can just
see wiry blonde pubes and your spankable derriere – but
now the tension is heavier and somehow different. It’s a
natural bodily function I know, but… I don’t want to
look away.

***

In the early afternoon we arrive in Lorne. The beach is
beautiful, though in April it’s a little too cold to
swim. It has been an excellent trip. We went for a walk
through the park and picked wildflowers.

Lying in the sand dunes watching the sunset gently
cuddling each other. Very nice. Pleasure of being
outside, cool breeze, loose shorts, risk of discovery.

Neither of us mentions the moment by the side of the
road, but I think it started something.

Back in the guest house you excuse yourself to pee
before we go down to dinner and again do it shamelessly
with the door open, talking to me all the while about
plans for tomorrow.

I wondered if you were being suggestive but it would
have been the wrong time to ask. I felt turned on by the
tinkling sound; by the gentle way you wipe yourself – so
much like the way you masturbate; by your simple beauty.

You come over and stand with me. Ah, the way your
titties look naked: small, but somehow heavy, full of
feeling. I feel lucky to be with you – I still do. We’re
both looking into the mirror and I can see a smile in
your eyes. We’re very different: you’re ten inches
shorter, naturally olive and dark blonde; I am pale
skinned and hairy. I reckon we look fine in the mirror,
though. I think this weekend I started falling in love
with you.

***

I remember dinner was great, though I completely forgot
what we ate. The restaurant was quiet and dark, and we
looked out over the sea. We shared a $20 bottle of wine,
which was a lot of money when we were both students.

Our relationship was in that great stage where we knew
we would have sex and it would be great, but it was at
the same time still very new and exciting. So, during
dinner we were always brushing each other’s thighs and
such little teases.

The waitress was about 16, very cute and completely
understood what was happening – though perhaps not what
was going to happen later.

“How about a shower before bed, honey?”

We go into the little 60s guestroom and are at each
other like little animals even as the door is closing.
We both by nature kiss aggressively & hungrily, tongues
probing around each other’s teeth. You’re standing on
tippy-toes and holding the nape of my neck, and I was
squeezing your buttocks and shoulders.

We strip off, leaving our beach clothes lying on the
floor near the bed. I’m rock-hard and bounce jovially as
I take your hand and walk into the bathroom.

After a fairly cursory scrub of each other’s body with
sponge and shower gel – foreplay was not our strength at
that time – I turn my full attention to your lovely
breasts. You are my little pocket Venus: so small, but
perfectly shapely. I’ve never checked the size of your
bra, being always more interested in the way its white
lace frames your darker skin and in the sweet creamy
smell that lingers after you. Suffice to say they’re
just small enough that you can get by without support,
but when you do they jiggle and dance under your clothes
in the most delicious motion.

You snap me back from this mammary meditation by
breaking away to plant your hands on the shower wall and
wiggle your bottom at me.

Are you ready? I want you in me.

I stroke your rounded gold butt. I can see your hairy
mound underneath, with shower water streaming down. I
know you mean it when you say you’re ready, and I slide
into you immediately. Your vagina is obscenely slimy and
soft compared to the clinical green tiles, and we both
get off on the nasty, biological fascination of bodies.
We’re in a hard mood, too: you push back hard against
the wall and I grunt in and stretch you, driving you
through three moaning orgasms until I finally spend and
hug you tightly from behind, shuddering.

The hot water begins to run out, and you turn off the
taps and kiss me again on the shoulder.

Um, I need to pee again, you begin. Do you want to hop
out?

That’s a funny way to ask that question. What if I said
I didn’t want to hop out?

Well, I think that would be okay.

(We’re both so serious.)

So, you wink at me, spread your legs to the edge of the
shower and with two fingers part your lips and begin to
pee. I’d never really seen before where it comes out of
a girl, but now I see your piss jetting out between your
clitoris and vagina. It’s a light yellow color and
smells as you’d expect – not bad.

You hold my penis up and my piss splashes over our
chests and into my face.