Streams of Pleasure

He doesn’t say when he’s going to do it.

Instead, he lubes up and fucks me again. Continuing the theme of life going on as if I’m not being intimately penetrated, I smoke and get higher. Mutant John truly is a master with the stuff, because at no point do I feel overwhelmed by it. I ask if I can check my makeup in the mirror over the sink, and he gently moves me sideways as he continues to shaft me.

I love to watch myself get fucked. Maybe it’s my visual imagination, maybe it’s narcissism, or maybe I can’t quite believe I’m doing the things I always dreamed of doing, and need proof of me actually doing them. Either way, the sight of my bob swinging either side of my slightly bloodshot eyes with the spectacular backdrop of a naked Mutant John as he pounds me takes my breath away so completely I forget the joint and it goes out.

I lay the stub on the sink, pull out the back-up lippy from my pocket and redo my mouth. I take my time, very conscious of the rush of drugs around my body, of the way my pussy is being used, and the slow, tickly slide of the oh-so-phallic lipstick as it moves across my pouting lips. I rub them together, take a hit of Blue Boys, and pull a comb from my inside pocket.

My black bob is, perhaps unsurprisingly, ruffled both from my sweaty exertions and from the attentions of Mutant John, who loves to stroke it. On a good day, particularly if that good day includes a pricey but regular visit to Dylan Rey’s hair salon in Tunbridge Wells High Street, the bob will retain its sleekly magical beauty.

Today, however, is not one of those days. The cheeky corner to the left of my mouth has kinked in the wrong direction, and the fringe, which must be dauntingly straight and perfect at all times, has gone a bit wonky. I comb the fringe as straight as it’s going to get under the circumstances, and I am just starting work on the corner when I feel an odd trickle, deep inside.

The ice bullet has long since melted, its slow dissolution easily absorbed, but the memory of its chill presence in my intimacy makes the new wet heat more intense in its vigorous contrast.

Mutant John’s grip on my hips tightens as he pulls me onto him.

“I’m filling you right up, Kelly Random,” he whispers.

His gaze is fixed on my wide eyes in the mirror. I register my open mouth, my hands on my bobbed hair, and the comb suspended mid-stroke.

Mutant John is still hard, although not quite as hard as he was. His erection will slow the flood of piss into me, which means he might get it all in rather than filling me so fast he pops out like cork.

And I want it. I want it all.

It’s like a douche or an enema: that strange feeling of a place being entered where things usually come out. Being fucked by a hard cock is different – that’s a solid presence I accommodate and get used to until it triggers an orgasm deep inside. Being piss-fucked is nothing like that. It’s more subtle, a hot quiet rush that grows like a liquid extension. It brings a lovely sense of pressure, of being inflated.

“Oh Kelly,” Mutant John says.

His face is open with astonished wonder. I want to turn around and kiss him, hold him, and thank him for this new intimate appreciation of me – but I also don’t want to break the connection. Things are happening deep inside me, the completion of a wet circuit that is connecting out of sight, on the very perimeters of sensitivity. I feel heavier down below, as if I have been entrusted with a precious weight of great and mysterious portent.

Mutant John has stopped thrusting, but the hot rush continues – damn, it’s hot! Full blood heat with no air contact to cool it. I’m warm already, and now I’m being heated inside as well. I make a token attempt to finish my hair, then put the comb back in my pocket. I think about another hit of poppers, or smoking more of that joint, even though it is clearly finished.

But I do not move. I want nothing other than for Mutant John to continue piss-fucking me. Distantly, I wonder how much I can take, and if I will swell up like a filled condom. I doubt I’ll burst, the lower intestine is some ridiculous length after all. Mutant John is a big man though, and proportional in every other way. Will his piss fill me so completely I will taste it bubbling up in the back of my throat?

I hope so.

As much as the fucking, I do not want this to stop.

But Mutant John’s face takes on a mournful aspect, and the lower stretchy feeling stops. He strokes my hips and nods.

“You’re full now, Kelly.”

I swallow, nervous suddenly. What will happen now?

Very slowly, Mutant John eases out. I clench around him, expecting a sudden hot rush down the back of my legs. No such thing happens, and I stand there, stunned and slightly frozen, unsure what is happening to me, or what has happened. Scared to move in case I burst, or a gallon of organic fluid erupts over the nice clean tiled floor, I find I am out of breath, as if I have been holding it, although I don’t think I have.

Mutant John gently pulls my skirt down.

“Keep it all in,” he says.

Wary of upsetting the strange fluid balance inside me, I slowly turn to face him, feeling a strange and wonderful feeling of shock. I swallow, nervous, as if I’m balancing on a high wall, and then I nod to show my compliance. Conscious of a growing pressure, I keep my rose nice and tight.

“Walk across the hall and back,” Mutant John says.

“What if I can’t hold it in?”

Mutant John smiles with excitement at the prospect of me failing.

“I will make you lick it up,” he says.

Even though I don’t fancy that, I feel Big Clit twitch at the thought of being made to do it. I like to drink piss, but I’m certain that’s not all that will explode out of me. So perhaps it’s the thought of his hand around the back of my neck, forcing my face into the big puddle I’ve made…

Excitement makes me almost lose it, so I nod again and walk smartly out of the bathroom.

The hall is bigger than it needs to be, almost the same size as the lounge. What is it for? There is little natural light, and the doors to two bedrooms, the kitchen and the living room could have been closer together to make those rooms larger. Mutant John has managed it well enough, with as many cupboards as he can fit, but the doors prevent too much storage.

Something gurgles inside me, and I step across the hall. It has wood floorboards, sealed and polished although not recently. This décor means any puddle will spread fast and get down between the cracks. I will never be able to suck it all up, and what will happen then?

My tight-arsed gait is a cross between a leggy model at a fashion show and the Ministry of Silly Walks. It gets me to the other side of the continent-sized hallway, where I turn.

Mutant John watches me from the bathroom.

“Find the next piece of treasure, Kelly.”

My eyes widen.

“Come on my little piss-filled beauty, my heroine, my Mary-Jane Avatar. I have faith in you.”

There are four cupboards in the hallway, and a row of hooks with jackets and a coat on. I decide to use what is left of my critical reasoning, and deduce that he doesn’t want what I’m carrying all over the floor. Instead of going through one cupboard after another, I decide that he has hidden the third joint somewhere I need to reach up for, thus ensuring I don’t bend over. There’s a skylight, but I can’t reach that, while the cupboard-tops feel too obvious.

Let me think…

I am analysing the room, and not the man. Mutant John, for all his brutal male solidity and practical determination, is a lover of theatre. From his stalking of me through the woods to the book of Shakespeare, from his enjoyment of me putting on my makeup to the ritual of the treasure hunt, everything relies on a dramatic denouement. And like the joints he rolls so expertly, there is always a twist at the end.

I realise he was always going to piss-fuck me, if not exactly when he did then soon afterwards. His plan would have been to have me search the hallway, the pressure on my innards growing until I had to let it go. He also knows I am smart and determined, so there will be an element of cruel cunning in the resolution. Mutant John does not laugh much, and neither is he funny. However, that does not mean he lacks a sense of humour. It is just, unlike my pussy, very dry.

Then I figure the puzzle out: the third joint will be hidden near him.

He fills the bathroom doorway, his large cock still wet from its immersion in me. His face is carefully blank, which confirms my theory. I cross the hall back to him, reach up to the top of the bathroom doorframe, and close my hand on a long slim cylinder of grass, tight-wrapped in paper.

The pressure in me is greater now, gathering in urgency like a new gravity.

I ignore it, put the business end of the joint between my lips, take the Zippo from my pocket and light up.

Mutant John and I regard each other, both of us enjoying the outrageous incongruity of what we are doing. He makes no comment about how clever I have been, or how quickly I solved his task. Instead, he runs his fingers under the hem of my skirt until they touch the tip of my sex. I am mid-inhale when my breathing deepens, sucking more smoke down into my lungs, which are as eager for it now as Big Clit is for Mutant John’s brutal touch. I keep the smoke down, then slowly let it out, inhaling a few times so oxygen mixes with the dope and sends it spiralling through my system.

The weight of his piss gift is heavy now, but the pressure of it is turning me on, as are Mutant John’s darting touches under my skirt. I picture the back of my skirt getting soaked, which makes me gasp. Mutant John carries on stroking, and I inhale again. There is enough ash to tap off, so I hand the joint to Mutant John and nod at the sink. When he turns and flicks the ash down the plughole, I take out the Blue Boys and take a deep drag.

The poppers are a glorious counterpoint to the grass, both inspiring and relaxing. I feel deep inside this moment, when forces in me compete for my attention with different intensities of delight. Mutant John hands me the joint again. I put the poppers away.

“You know how you smelled me under my skirt earlier?” I say, and my voice could be echoing around a cathedral it feels so vast.

“Yes.”

“A lot has happened to me down there since then.”

“It has. Perhaps I should smell you under your skirt again.”

“Please do.”

He kneels. The pressure in my behind is vast now. I feel like I can control it, even though I am still standing in the hallway. If I let go, it will spray out and fill the place, and I will be forced to lick it up, which I do not want to do.

Mutant John takes his time, however. He contemplates the front of my skirt, then runs his hands across it, pressing the fabric against my sex. He puts his head to one side and squeezes me through the PVC.

“Oh fuck,” I say.

I concentrate very hard on my reflection in the mirror over the sink. My black bob has increased slightly in volume as my hair’s natural curl begins to exert itself. I try to let this lessening of my perfection distract me from the tight grip on my sex and the feel of it against the inside of the PVC skirt, but it’s no good.

I am weakening.

I remember the joint, and smoke again, but relaxation seems less of a good idea now. Licking my finger, I touch it to the ember and put it out. I stow the joint in my pocket as Mutant John lets go of me between the legs, bends to angle his head under my skirt, and inhales with the same intensity that I took down the smoke. When he breathes out, he sighs with pleasure, and I feel his warm breath tickle across me.

I gulp, feeling like a fertility sculpture – all gigantic tits, brutal face, and vast, world-bearing hips. Soon I will birth the flood from which life on Earth arose.

Mutant John puts his head under my skirt and takes me in his mouth. I start to shake. This is not fair, which makes no difference to how much I love it. Mutant John is as good at giving head as he is at rolling spliff, which is to say very good indeed. He does not bother with simply holding me in his mouth or sucking me. This time, he begins to work, up and down, the constraint of the small fragrant space beneath my skirt an inspiration to him. My thighs begin to shake, each vibration a pleasure.

I begin to picture the ecstatic deluge from my pussy, flooding everything and blinding me with its power. I clutch the doorframe and sway, sighing and moaning as Mutant John tucks in. His hands drift up the back on my legs and he begins to stroke my bottom. It is still tender from the spanking it got earlier, and now there is a new force working it from a different direction.

I accept the inevitable.

“You should probably aim me over the loo if you’re going to carry on doing that,” I gasp.

He lifts my skirt completely again and pulls back from my gleaming sex. He does not get up as he moves me towards the toilet.

I make it just in time.

…To be continued