Categories: Gay, urination, authoritarian
This story is true and ongoing. Feedback encouraged!
thecocklustkid@yahoo.com
What I found on the side of the road was too good to betrue. So at first I didn't believe it, even after passing by multiple times.And then I didn't dare reach out and take out, though I desperately desired todo so.
It was the changing weather that spurred me to action atlast. The forecast said the wind chill was minus six degrees Fahrenheit, andthe only unknown was weather we'd be getting a mere four inches of snow orcloser to a foot. This was my last chance for a roadside pickup.
Making up my mind didn't relieve my anxieties though,instead they were multiplied. Someone might see me. It might indeed not be whatI hoped. It could be, had to be, some sort of trap.
It was full dark when I approached the spot--not 40 feet frommy front door!--as I'd waited, hoping the cover of night would bolster mycourage against being observed on the busy road. They were still there. In the darkit would be easy to pass without noticing.
They were grouped closely together in a small area, the pileof plastic bottles. Familiar brand, all: Poland Spring, vitamin water, Arizona.Clearly this wasn't a marketing campaign; none had their advertised contents. Amongthem was a plastic grocery bag, which when inspected, as suspected, had a fewmore bottles within.
The bottles were in foul condition, having apparently beenflung to the roadside by some passerby most likely from a car window. Or so thescene played out each time I tried to imagine their origins, a question thathad wormed away at my mind the past week. They were smudged with roadside debris,banged and dented, but nothing so foul as their contents.
It could only be piss. Their dark gold color wouldn'tdescribe many other drinks. The colors and opacity varied wildly from bottle tobottle, even in the dark. No other conclusion was possible; would someone haveemptied bottles to refill with apple juice with inexplicably different tones?
No. Much more believable that someone would piss in abottle. I'd even seen a bottle of piss on the roadside, elsewhere and ages agobefore. The baffling parts were: imagining the circumstances that would lead tosuch a sizable collection, understanding why they'd end up in a plastic bagflung out of a passing car, and... what divine providence could conspire to haveit happen practically at the steps of my apartment.
There in the cold dark, illuminated by each passing car, Iknelt and carefully loaded each bottle into the paper shopping bag I'd broughtwith me. Maybe passers-by would think I was civically cleaning theneighborhood, or scrounging for 5 cent bottle deposits. It didn't take long,and then I was home.
Inspecting each one, worried about possible leaks and notwanting any mess, I laid then out on a towel on the floor. There they werecounted for the first time, twelve bottles, a perfect dozen. Really. Perfect.
Even though watersports had been a top-three fetish all mylife, I had very little experience. One kind soul had let me drink from thetop, after weeks or months of cajoling, and determined they didn't want to doit again. Pity; my dick was rock hard from the very first drop. The taste, thesmell, the intimacy of providing the service, it was a homerun just as I'dimagined.
Some horny and lonely days, I'd quench my thirst by recyclingmy own piss. I had pissed on myself in the shower. And sometimes, in poorlymaintained public restrooms, I'd find myself aroused so suddenly it reminded meof a puberty that I'd spent awkwardly carrying binders and bags by my waist tohave some futile coverage when instant, inexplicable erections would embarrass meduring school.
But my kinky fantasies had never found much purchase in myvanilla relationships and life went on. Sometimes I wonder how many others areout there, in perfectly happy relationships with satisfying sex lives but neverexperiencing the circus of weird kink that kicks around their heads.
This opportunitycouldn't be missed. I'd weighed my doubts and found them unconvincing. Yes, it'sa disgusting idea to collect and consume old piss, yet that's part of theexcitement. Fresh from the source might be safer, less chance for bacteria tomultiply; but, myths aside, piss is never sterile if it has passed through aurethra, and sealed bottles of piss would not be much riskier. Yes, it would besafer to know your partner, their health conditions and so on; but the chance ofany serious complications from this particular activity is low.
Of course drinking alone is a red flag behavior, andfortunately I had a passable compromise. My vanilla boyfriend, maybe driven byrepeated failed efforts to engage various kinks with me, had long ago decided Icould have kinky friends online. Just no meet ups in person, no physicalcontact without an agreement from him, which was unlikely.
Before I'd left, I'd chatted with a friend via Skype,sharing my plans, bathing in his encouragement. And now I fired off a videocall to share the results. I had stripped down to my custom chastity cage andnothing else when I'd returned, my submissive and exhibitionist streakscentered. We admired the horde, and I its dragon was ready to begin.
Starting with a bottle filled to the brim, I drank. Simplewords, but such an experience. The smells in the room had already been drivingme wild. Even before opening this first bottle, just having it in hand I couldbegin to distinguish it, it's unique smell filling me with expectation, wonder,and thirst.
The dropping temperatures outside had chilled them thoroughlybut not to freezing yet. This was my first experience with ice cold piss, and Ishared my immediate reaction that it would be a sweet summertime treat.
The truth is that despite my best efforts to retain everymoment and experience, memory like life is fleeting and I'm sure I can't recallthe exact details of each bottle, each sip, each sensation. That night madequick work of the first three bottles. I was pleasantly shocked again and againby the distinctions. One bottle, I'm certain, belonged to a smoker, thefaintest odor of ash still lingering. Not itself a turn on for me but the actof discovery through urine was so surreal and fascinating.
One bottle was sweeter that any piss has a right to be. Isthis person healthy? Do they consume only candy? Maybe some syrupy remains ofthe bottles original contents had added to the flavor.
With the verbal encouragement (or was it more of a dominantcommand?) from my Skype pal, I chugged one of the bottle first ounce to last.This was closest to the single experience I'd had drinking from the tap, a rushof urine keeping my mouth full and swallowing just to keep up. A slower, moresavoring approach seemed like it would give me more out of these friends, butchugging too was a great way to learn their secrets.
The third bottle that night had barely started to freeze, apparentfrom the clinking sound of ice meeting the bottle as I lifted it. Afteremptying it of its liquid, I upended the bottle and tapped out the wafer-thinfrozen shards of piss. Another delight, I could suck on these, and then chewthem, entirely new ways to relate to the art.
By the third bottle, I found myself shivering and took amoment to collect. The 51 or so ounces of quite cold beverage had dropped mybody temperature, and I excused myself to take a shower to raise it back up.
It was clear I'd had as much as I could keep down at themoment. It felt like piss had filled my body right up to my lungs. When I coughedslightly while showering, it felt and tasted as though the slightest bit of pisscame back up with it.
My friend and I chatted some more, planning the remainder ofthis honeymoon. One bottle was emptied into an ice cube tray to wait in myfreezer. The others, I would make a couple videos to share over the next daysas I finished consuming them.
We chatted for a while about how it felt, describing itsvirtues. Maybe the weirdest outcome, for the next few hours or so I had thisalmost-dizzy, floating sensation, persisting straight until I slept. Had theexcitement gone to my head, and stayed there so long? Or maybe I had managed toget something of a contact high, surprisingly. After all, urine is tested forillicit substances so there must be some trace of it, though it's hard toimagine it would be enough to get into any real trouble. Whatever thechemistry, I was quite happy to be drunk on piss.
Friends, I can only say that it was a wondrous experiencefrom start to end. The distinctions were delightful, the thrill intoxicating. Idon't blame anyone who would doubt the story, but anyone who has read this farwill I hope one day win a similar kink-lottery.
My Skype pal and I discussed in particular how special andsignificant it seemed to never know my benefactors. In some ways, maybe thatreduces the hassle; kinky meetups carry a risk of not liking each other or somany other things going wrong. Maybe this was the purest commitment to thekink, to perform it regardless of those anonymous identities. Each serving was aself-contained mystery, learning what little I could from these tea leaves andimagining so much.
If it ever happens again, I won't hesitate. It's not likelyto though, not without so effort. We discussed my thoughts there as well: to havea real chance of it happening again, we'd have to enlist someone to leave theirpiss roadside, ready to consume. It seems to me there's not much incentive evenfor kinksters to do that, so I have suggested it would have to be a paidservice, a piss subscription. Admittedly there are logistics to iron out fromthere, but the idea excited us both. My friend immediately resolved to findsomeone open to this arrangement, and as of now it seems we've found a gaycouple who are interested.
I'm unsure which line item to use to budget the expense, butif it works I'm certain that paying strangers to abandon piss roadside will beworth the cost.