From all fours I watched him approach, naked, erect and holding a tub of lube, which he gestured with and disappeared behind me.
I shook my head. “Use spit,” I said. “I want to taste my arse on your cock.”
I blushed as the words left my mouth and I thought about how, exactly, I’d become the sort of girl who got fucked in the arse and pissed on in hotel bathrooms.
I grinned.
We’d met on a dating site when I was 23. We lived at different ends of the country so only fucked once, five years ago, in a train-station toilet when we realised, by chance, we were both passing through. We barely said hello before he pulled me into a dirty cubicle in the men’s toilet, lifted up my skirt, ripped my tights, fucked my cunt and stuffed two fingers in my arse.
It was filthy – and efficient. We left after 15 minutes and made our connections.
Only a month or so later, I stumbled into a vanilla, long-term relationship and I cut off all contact with him and – for the most part – that side of me. I often thought about the things we talked about, much of which I’d never tried – pissing, rimming, fisting and worse – when I was alone, but never acted it on it.
The boyfriend was neither a nice guy nor a good lover and, when we split, I didn’t waste any time getting back in touch with you know who. To my delight he was single and still a pervert, so within a day or two we’d booked and checked in to in a room in a swanky hotel.
I dressed the part – or rather the cliché – in heels, seamed stockings and a tight, short skirt (all in black), no knickers and a white top, with buttons I didn’t really use, and waited for him on the bed.
The door went and I played it cool with a succinct ‘Hello’, and spread my legs. ‘Hi Jane,’ he said, removing his shirt before the door had even slammed.
He ate and fucked my cunt and we chatted – a little bit about life, mainly about the things we’d always wanted to do to each other – and watched the nastiest, hottest porn either of us could find – ‘I want that,’ I murmured a few times – and drank until our few inhibitions drifted off.
The sex and the fantasies got dirtier as the night went on. Several drinks in, he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me in the bathroom. Obediently, I stepped into the tub in high heels and knelt. I pulled down my skirt, took off my blouse and bra, threw them on the floor, and watched, almost hypnotised, as he held his cock and began to piss on my chest. It ran down my stomach and onto my legs, soaking my stockings.
Within a second I dipped my head and, opening my mouth, tasted piss for the first time. I let it fill my mouth until it nearly overflowed and gulped again and again. I felt dirtier and more aroused than I ever had before and I rubbed my cunt and took his cock in my mouth, sucked the last drips of piss up, and felt it stiffen.
‘Your turn,’ he said. I nodded and sat him down, squatted over his throbbing cock, and pissed on it, proceeding to suck it clean. He forced my head down until I gagged and then pulled it up and beyond it, my mouth skipping over his balls and on to his piss-soaked arsehole, where I pushed my tongue in.
An hour later, exhausted, I was sucking his cock clean again – this time after he’d pulled it out of my aching arse – my stockings beginning to dry to my legs, my years of sex with the lights out very much behind me.
We wouldn’t wait until five years. There was plenty left to try… |
