Give me a pee

I honestly thought it would be apple juice. This is not apple juice. But I already told everyone I made the cheerleading team. My friends even threw a party. What is it going to look like if I back out now?

“Come on, you piss-sluts. If you don’t keep your toilet hole open, you can forget about taking a shower after this,” the head cheerleader announces, aiming her Super Soaker full of her cold pee at the row of naked girls on their knees in the locker showers. The colorful guns let the seniors stay far away from the splash zone, for a single droplet would tarnish their impeccable red and gold uniforms.

It’s just three of us rookies left. Two walked out when they were told what a first-year cheerleader’s job entailed. I stayed because I thought it was a joke. Two more had an epiphany in the last hour that maybe swallowing the football players’ piss so they didn’t have to leave the field during a game was not the glamorous cheerleading life they dreamt of. I stayed because I take a series of buses home, and doing it with my hair soaked and stinking of piss was less enticing than continuing to swallow. The promise of a shower was an effective carrot on a stick.

I don’t know how many liters I’ve drunk, enough to get a sloshing piss belly. The streams from the water guns hurt the back of my throat when they hit at full pressure. I gag whenever my tongue gets submerged in the bitter, acidic brew, gag when a jet punches my uvula like a speedbag, gag whenever I force myself to swallow a mouthful. But I haven’t thrown up yet. The truth is, I don’t trust the bucket our cheering overlords provided for this purpose. Why would they give us a receptacle when the shower drain between our legs would swirl it all away?

My neighbors are more trusting or more stupid. They threw up so much that their buckets look as full as my stomach feels.

“Little Tits and Medium Tits, your buckets are getting full. Drink up!” the head cheerleader says. I guess that makes me ‘Big Tits’?

Horrific realization etched in their faces, my fellow rookies struggle to lift their sloshing buckets of discarded kidney juice. Medium Tits brings the rim to her lips, the repulsive content kissing her closed lips repeatedly like the tide, but she cannot convince her mouth to open. The bucket lowers, and she gets up, head low, leaving wet footprints behind her walk of shame.

Little Tits has more motivation; she’s guzzling her bucket of piss like a party girl downs a beer. But from my side angle, I see her pretty face distorted by wrinkles of revulsion. I would root for her if I knew her name. You can do it, Little Tits doesn’t sound encouraging. She finishes the whole thing, but instead of smiling triumphantly, the gaze of her pale face stays locked on the bottom of the empty bucket. I look away at the first sign of throat movement; watching her refill the entire bucket would have made me fill mine. Just the guttural sounds of LT’s reset trigger a series of gags I can hardly keep under control.

The ewwws of the uniformed cheerleaders echo in the showers. “Pathetic,” one of them says, and I dare to look again. LT is dry-heaving over her refilled bucket, teardrops and pee drip from her mouth rippling on the foamy surface.

“Do I have to repeat myself, Little Tits? Your bucket is full. Drink up!”

Little Tits is broken. All she can do is stare into the yellow abyss.

“Alright, you’re done. Get out. Big Tits, it’s your time to shine. Drink what’s left, and your trial is over.”

“And I get a shower?” I ask, every word almost a liquid cry.

“You think we’re going to let you meet the players looking like an old urinal cake. You’ll get a shower, a uniform, we’ll even braid your fucking hair. Now drink up; they’re going to be here soon.”

A shower… Meeting the players… suddenly, the world doesn’t smell so bad. I’ve walked past the quarterback in the hallway this morning, and he’s positively dreamy. I lift Medium Tits’ abandoned bucket and slurp my first mouthful or regurgitated urine. A shiver rides up my spine, but a few deep breaths later, I’m gulping down throatfuls stopping only for small, dignified burps.

“Sorry…” is all I can think to say to the small-tittied girl still in a vicious dry heaving cycle as I steal her bucket to slurp the top layer on all four like a bitch. I have to close my eyes; this twice-thrown-up mix of piss and bile is too nasty to look at. Gulp, gulp, gulp… The only thing stopping the backwash is a constant flow into my expanding stomach.

I’m like a beached whale when my bucket makes a hollow plastic thud on the tile floor, the last mouthful refusing to go down until my stomach makes space. But, hey, it is technically inside my body, right? Apparently, the cheer team agrees, and one of them turns the shower knob, carefully avoiding my aura of stink. The initial burst of icy water doesn’t startle me; I welcome with open arms any clear, untainted water that doesn’t burn your eyes.

The cheerleading outfit doesn’t make me feel as sexy as I thought it would. It hugs my curves, but that includes the piss belly bulging between my top and skirt. But that will go away eventually, at least. It’s not like I’m going to spend every evening drinking piss, right? I can handle one game night every week when the season starts considering what I managed this evening.

They take me from one locker room to the other. The setting is already a disappointment. In my piss-induced fantasy, I greet the big strong players at a party, not in a boys’ toilet. I never knew how filthy it could get in here.

“On your knees,” I’m ordered.

You’d think pressing my knees against a dirty floor wouldn’t faze a girl who spent the last two hours drenched in piss, but I still hesitate before settling my knees between a discarded Band-Aid.

The dreamy quarterback comes in, his team following close behind. He wraps his arm around one of the cheerleaders and squeezes her butt under her skirt while they kiss. I’m a bit jealous, honestly. But better her than me; I can’t imagine the first impression kissing me would leave after what my mouth has been through this evening.

“So this is our field urinal this year?” He asks, looking down at me from a great height.

“Yeah, she’s not much to look at, but I bet you’ll like what she has under her shirt.”

“Oh, yeah? Let’s see them.

”Not much to look at? I’ve never been self-conscious about my looks before. If this is a psychological game to make me seek validation from my breasts… it worked. I’m proud instead of embarrassed when the quarterback lifts my shirt and nods his approval along with his forty-or-so teammates.

“She’ll do,” he says, feeling the weight and density of my breasts with his warm fingers. “So, is she ready to start training? We’re about ready to burst here.

”I’m ready to burst, myself. The fullness subliminally intensifies the moment I understand why I’m on my knees in the boy’s bathroom surrounded by full bladders.

“Have at her,” his girlfriend says before turning to me. “You’re wearing this uniform every day, and you’re not allowed to wash it, so make sure you don’t spill a drop. You’re on the team, but you’re still nothing more than a urinal. Remember that.”

Sheesh. What’s with the endless animosity. I’m trying my best here.

So it is with my boobs out, my mouth open, and my eyebrows raised that I begin my training. My real training, I guess. Warm piss is a completely different beast. Urine is one of the few things in life where freshness makes it more disgusting. The smell and taste are on a whole different scale of intensity. But, I’ve come so far, swallowed so much… As long as my stomach’s ready to stretch a little more, I consume.

Boys can sure pee for a long time. The first stream doesn’t end when a second one joins in. The corners of my mouth hurt from keeping it open so wide, but I have to give them a big target if I don’t want piss splashing against my chin, running down my neck, and soaking the collar of my rolled-up shirt. A third stream hit me in the eye before adjusting to my mouth. With subtle head movements, I guide the pee from eye to mouth like a tilting marble game. My throat can barely keep up with the rate at which urine pools on my tongue.

“I need a break,” I want to say after not even ten minutes, jaw sore, stomach straining, my own bladder ready to explode. But I don’t have a chance to gurgle out a single word. The moment piss stops filling my mouth, a cock takes its place on my tongue.

“Suck it clean, piss toilet. I want that cock shiny and drip-free when it comes out.” The quarterback’s girlfriend is the only girl left in the room if you don’t count the toilets, but she finds time to bark orders when she’s not tonguing my dream guy.

I never had a penis in my mouth before. The taste of old sweat is not a refreshing change from the urine permeating my tongue. If someone had told me this morning that I would see and taste the penis of every boy on the football team, I would have never believed it. It’s an interesting story to tell at parties, I guess. By the time each player has given their best impersonation of a racehorse down my throat, I feel like my body is 90% pee. I thought I had my eyes closed, but they’re not.

“I can’t see…”

“Yeah, piss toilets often complain about blindness after drinking too much piss. It’ll fix itself in a few hours. Now, listen to me. This bathroom is where you’re going to spend most of your time this year. From 6 AM to 9 PM, you’re either in class or in here with your boobs out. If we ever catch you anywhere else or drinking anything other than piss, you’re off the team. Understand?”

I nod. Because I understand, not because I’m thrilled about it.

“It won’t just be the football team visiting you. Every boy in school will be instructed to use the locker room bathroom and to hold their pee for you as much as possible. This is so that on game day, we know you’ll be used to it enough not to screw it up and cost us the game.”

I nod again. My head is swimming. I just want to lay down on the nasty floor and process my pee in peace.

Gameday. While my teammates shake their pompoms and flash their panties with high kicks, my knees are in the cold mud next to the players’ bench. There is plenty of room on the bench, so I’m not sure why I can’t just sit. Maybe because all of my training was on my knees and they don’t want to throw me off.

A player walks up to me. I’m nervous. This is my first time in a real-life urinal situation. My parents came to see my first game, and now they are watching their daughter tilt her head up and welcome a steaming stream of piss down her throat. Probably not what they imagined I would be doing, but the least I can do is do it well. My nipples are rock hard from the cold. The warmth of the piss down my esophagus is a blessing for once. I cradle the penis with my mouth while the player finishes and suck the urethra dry before giving it a good sponge bath with my tongue. Then I wait for the next player… I feel so useless when I’m not drinking.

The whistle blows, the players bump helmets… Is that it? They barely used me at all. Sure, the training is grueling, but being a field urinal is a breeze! I wouldn’t mind doing it in the NFL.