Pissed Off
By Jafin

I'd never pissed on a girl before. I'd never pissed on anybody. But
here we were beneath the bleachers at the homecoming football game, with
her imploring, "Piss on me."

She was on the ground amid the spent soft drink cups and empty popcorn
boxes, her pleated skirt hiked up over her thighs, looking at me with
those liquid brown eyes.

"Piss on me."

"Clothes on or clothes off?" I asked, unsure of what protocol fueled her
demand.

"Off."

"Who strips who?" This was new territory to me. We'd just met, seated
together at the homecoming. Classmates of a decade almost forgotten.

"Piss on me." Again the absurd demand.

Oh, I could piss all right. In fact, I needed to. Had needed to
through the second quarter, but had been unwilling to leave her side,
her legs rubbing against mine, her skirt inching ever so slowly upward,
my hand inching ever so slowly upward, watching the game, oblivious to
the plays on the field below.

At halftime I told her I needed to head for the head. She'd surprised
me, jumping up, taking my hand, leading me down to the ground below.
Under the bleachers, my bladder full to capacity, she'd laid down,
pulled up her skirt so I could see the crimson panties covering her wert
pussy she'd ordered, "Piss on me."

Her sweater was white and expensive. Her tits pushed upward, drawing my
gaze like a magnet. Her mouth was an open invitation for sex. But
piss?

I'd never seen her naked. I remembered her from science class years
before, flirting, teasing, a little thigh here, a bit of cleavage there,
a hand brushing against a cock there. I'd jacked off to the memories a
hundred time. But piss?

"Sit up."

She did. I pulled up the sweater, tugged it over her head, her hair
tumbling out like a flooded river cascade. I yanked at the red bra,
freeing tits I'd only dreamed about, better than in my dreams, dark pink
aureolas, jutting twin nipple atop crested mounds of passion. I saw the
darkening sex rush of pigment on her throat, creeping down her chest. I
admired her rounded smooth belly, fuller than before, more exotic in its
womanliness. No skinny girl now, she was woman, woman ripe and ready
for the taking. I wanted to fuck; needed to piss.

"Stand up."

She did, smiling at my confusion, guiding my fumbling hands to the side
button, the slippery zipper of her skirt. It fell to her feet.

Wearing only those blazing scarlet panties I beheld her in worshipful
awe. My mouth went slack. I was frozen in time, memorizing every trace
of her form, planning future masturbatory heights.

She broke the spell, lunging at my zipper, tugging free my dick,
flicking its bobbing head, laughing at its dance in the October air.

"Piss on me."

She threw off her panties and lay down, humping her most beautiful
blonde pussy up at me, tugging at the lips, showing me her inside
recesses.

The battle between the need to fuck, to ejaculate and to piss raged in
my loins. I didn't know if I could piss, despite the signals from my
bladder.

"Now!"

Miraculously a thick heavy stream erupted from my dancing cock. I
sprayed her tits. I drenched her belly. I spouted onto her face, into
her mouth, her eyes, her hair. I unloaded onto her blonde triangle of
tangled hairs. I hosed her legs, first one and then the other. I
dripped into her hair. I laughed with relief, with release, with ease.

She rolled over in the dust and emerged like a chocolate ginger bread
woman, brown and coated, sweet to the eye.

Laughing, she recovered her clothes, thwacked my softening cock twice
and stood up, and ran, clutching her garments against her nakedness, to
the women's room.

I waited outside, lost in lust and desire, for a long time. But I never
saw her again.





Jafin