Pee or, to use its appropriate term for its context within this story, watersports (which I quite dislike as it sounds like a fun afternoon in Centre Parcs on a windsurf) hasn’t been overly present in my sexual fantasies or actualities. I can count the times on one hand, and all of these times were spontaneous, mostly due to a curiosity in my partner matched with my overwhelming enjoyment in helping others learn and discover more about themselves. I wouldn’t specify it as a specific kink of mine, yet being forced on my knees in the spacious shower of a well known luxury chain hotel and having my hair yanked backwards to watch as my partner peed on me did a thing or two for me. However it is not that experience I wish to retell today- that may be a story for another time. This story is set in a rather lovely albeit monochrome flat, on the banks of the Thames, looking out onto central London on a dark December evening.
Sometimes I forget people actually live in central London. Not just simply Zone 1 and 2, I mean the ‘actual London you see in the movies’. Near Westminster, Big Ben, looking out onto a Tower Bridge, on the banks of the Thames. But there I was, at his window, watching the boats go by as he swept away stray hairs falling from my updo, his fingers lingering on the back of my neck.
‘Another glass?’ he asked. Except he didn’t really ask, as a glass of champagne was in my hand before he received an answer. We talked about the art in his flat, and how I admired the way he’d sourced it for new and upcoming artists, and I enthused over the beautiful meal he’d cooked me in his very monochrome kitchen.
He knew exactly what he was doing. In the full knowledge that I’d be entranced by the view, and the splendour of this huge bustling place, he was shaping the evening with incredible ease. And his hand tracing the outer line of my thigh and the trim of the lace on my underwear shaped things further still.
‘It definitely feels like you’ve obeyed my orders’ he stated.
I could tell he tried to play it cool, be monotonous in his delivery, but there was a definite smirk behind the steely exterior. And he knew I would. How could I not? The box was wrapped so gorgeously when it arrived at my door two weeks previously, and I’m a sucker for new underwear.
‘… But I think I should just make sure.’ He continued, as he raised the back of my dress to see if he was correct. The boats were still going by, and there was nothing between us and the river. Luckily the boats were fast, because he was not in his inspection.
The yelp that came out of my mouth after his hand struck my arse made me jump a second time. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I knew what he liked, but I was too busy watching the lights, and wondering what the stars would look like if they were visible, trying to calculate where the plough would be.
I went to put my flute on the table, as I knew he rarely had the desire to stop at one stinging slap, but he grabbed my wrist as I moved and tightened his grip for a split second.
So I did. His hand would occasionally make contact with my (gradually pinker) arse as he tucked the back of my dress into the top of my pants, for ‘better access’. I realise I’m three glasses of champagne down, fuzzy and slightly needing a pee.
I decide the quicker I leave, the quicker I’ll be back, and turn on my heel towards the bathroom. I know I’ll get in trouble if I untuck the dress, so leave myself on show. But he’s there, again, with his hand around my wrist and I realise this is not part of the evening he has orchestrated.
We’d bonded over the fact he liked to hit my arse, and I liked it when he did so. I hoped the evening would continue as such but he was adamant I should keep drinking. Perhaps he wanted me to enjoy the bottles of whatever he’d bought for the evening.
The bladder and brain niggles quickly disappeared as he led me to his sofa by my wrist, and he sat down. My stomach knots when someone pats their laps and states ‘here’, and that’s exactly what he did. And, because I’m a very good girl (most of the time) I oblige, and only then it really begins.
I’m already slightly warm, and can feel the heat radiating with each of the strokes he administers so gently after each of the slaps he administers so harshly. I make a cute whimper when he starts, and as he continues I drift away and become silent, relying on a tap to his leg if it gets too much.
So it’s quite unusual when I start to whimper again, and my right leg starts to jiggle. I don’t realise what it is, at first, then it dawns on me. I’m three glasses of champagne in, fuzzy and really need to pee.
Words are hard at this point, but I manage a tiny squeak between the strokes.
‘I’m sorry but I really need to pee.’
It’s now not just my arse cheeks that are pink and flushed, and I feel small. But he begins to stroke my hair.
‘You’ve been very good, you have nothing to be sorry for.’ And I relax, knowing that I’ll be excused and soon this can continue. But his grip on my lower back tightens and suddenly I’m not so sure.
Each time he makes contact, my insides jump. I’m terrified, but so turned on: an intoxicating cocktail of humiliation, eagerness to please and desire to float away which is almost as potent as the alcohol I’ve already consumed. Each time I wonder how many more blows I can take.
That is until I’m wondering no more, and I know I’m going to burst. I’m using all of the brain energy I usually invest in whisking myself up to the clouds when I’m being beaten to avoid having an accident all over him, his likely expensive trousers and very expensive sofa. So I give him the tap on the knee, and he stops.
I’m being led into the bathroom by my wrist (although my pace has somewhat quickened), hopping over the new pants as they’ve slipped from my ankles, and the shower is turned on. Fuck, this is really not what I need. But luckily it happens quite quickly. He’s naked from the waist down, and his shirt is unbuttoned, and I’m forced onto my knees in front of him in his shower. It’s slightly painful on my knees, but I don’t care. My dress sticks to me under the cascade of water, and he shoves his cock into my mouth.
He fucks my throat for about ten seconds, holding my head in exactly the right place. He knows, and I know, that I’m about to gag. Then I’m in fucking trouble.
‘Look at me’ he says. And as I catch his eye, I feel it build in the back of my throat.
And, his timing is impeccable, as always. I gag and choke on him; he pulls out leaving a trail of saliva which is quickly washed away by the water. And I let go, and feel warmth cascade between my thighs. It’s probably all over my dress, and it’s pooling around my knees, but I really don’t care. And he continues to fuck my throat, over and over, until it’s not just my spit and pee that’s being washed away by the shower.