CN – piss, degradation
He was a boy and he was mine and he was soft and gentle and Welsh. Called Huw, physicist or physiotherapist, he wore a lab coat for work anyway and he liked a Turkish shave, and to pound my arse and piss on me, although not at the same time.
Maybe I should begin at the beginning, but the beginning is standard teenage university stuff, missed connections and dry fucks on single beds, signing your name in the wardrobe on the last day and craning your neck for one last glimpse of him before the car turned the corner and you’d only see him once more at graduation, from a distance, taking photos with his parents. There’s your beginning, and it’s shit.
The middle, we’re thirty now – hospital lanyards around our necks, making confused eye contact in the canteen. He seems taller, thinner, his hair redder and he wears glasses now. I’m still the chunky mathematician, medical accountant, a head full of checks and balances and a memory of a nineteen year old Huw standing in the doorway of the shared toilet on my floor, watching me wet myself for his amusement.
His cock was the first I ever touched, gingerly with just the tips of my fingers and he tucked it back into his boxers anyway, we kept watching TV, eating crisps, avoiding the weird heat between us. The pissing episode came later, we weren’t fucking, hadn’t fucked ever, but he stayed over a lot and before bed proper I tread heavily to the loo and my knickers are around my ankles. I didn’t close the door, it’s late in the evening and the season and the floor mostly deserted or else zombie-drunks who wouldn’t see me anyway and now he’s in front of me, watching me, asking me to lean back, telling me to lean back, hips raised.
“Put them back on.” the stream of piss I halt, and reach down to my feet, stand, the knickers back on, sit and look up at him, thighs pressed close, the smell of ammonia acrid.
“Go on.” that voice so soft, so sweet. Hips tilt up and the fabric pulses, darkens as I relieve myself under his gaze. Thoughtful. I finish and have no clue of etiquette – remove the drenched underthings to wipe, only to put them back on? Discard them to the wash basket?
He isn’t finished. The toilet cubicle is across from the bathroom. He points.
There’s a puddle on the porcelain, the ghost of a previous cleansing. I sit, as if the water were warm, swirled with bubbles.
“I want to see you wank.”
I don’t ask why. I don’t ask why, in soiled knickers in an empty bath at 2am. He’s never told me he fancies me. I’m not not turned on. I’m not not wet. I’m not not wet, either.
I spit on my fingers and it must be for show, another fluid. Four fingers crammed under the elastic of my pants, rubbing. My feet slide against the drying sides of the bath.
He doesn’t ask if he can piss on me, the same way he didn’t ask me if I fancied pissing myself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like this, don’t want it. Won’t need it again.
“Let me see your cunt.”
I don’t think he can see the curve of my vulva in these shadows under a cheap bare bulb but he doesn’t really want to see it, I don’t think. I’ve provided an open receptacle for him though.
It’s the second time I’ve seen his cock and he’s angling the soft, inoffensive flesh at my tits. The piss streams down over my belly and through the gap. Splashes bounce off my clit but he’s mostly warmth and flood. A lot. More than I could have expected. Wiping the residue off in my hair. Passing his cock in front of my lips because he knows I want to suck it. He gets hard quick, replaces my hand in my knickers with his own. His moans are sweet like baby birds, chaste and thrilling. Two of his fingers are inside me.
“Shit, if I’d known how much this would turn you on, I would have done it years ago.” and later he’d know that wetness isn’t arousal, isn’t consent, but he’s right about this now, right about this strange turn of event pushing so many buttons it’s no wonder the lift is flying from floor to floor, up and down, cartwheeling through sensations and emotions.
When he comes on my face, he’s almost tearful, under the yellow bathroom light.
I’m too wound up to come. What is this night?
“Let me run you a bath.”
My sweet physicist or physiotherapist removes his t shirt and has me stand on it as he rinses out the tub, runs the hot and cold water together, and swirls the bath with bubbles. He holds me close as the water rises, to keep me warm. Under the suds he cleans the dry marks from my face and shoulders. Washes my hair, and conditions it, too.
We fall asleep with his nose snug against the nape of my neck and I have no clue who we are or what this is.