FLASH FICTION : Urinator

I believe I was around twelve or thirteen when I started intentionally wetting my pants in public—especially in school—for pleasure. It was difficult at first, overcoming years of inhibitions set upon by my parents and society, but over time—with the help of my naturally rebellious disposition and strong distaste for societal norms—it gradually became easier, until I was at a point where pissing myself was perfectly natural. I loved all aspects of my little "accidents": the warm but cooling wetness soaking into my panties and running down my legs, sometimes forming a puddle over the ground below.

The reactions of those around me varied greatly. Some averted their eyes, perhaps discreetly cringing as their nostrils flared from the stench of piss. Others were much more forward with their scorn and disgust, either laughing and ridiculing me or yelling at me with great outrage for what I did, and how disgusting and unsanitary my act had been. I always thrived on the public humiliation, the anger and revulsion felt by others for what I did. It was enough to form yet another pleasurable wetness along my nether regions.

Occasionally, some of the guys around me felt aroused when I wet myself. Some were rather shy and bashful about it, while others were much more forward. These sorts of reactions might have been creepy when the men in question were over fifty. But if the guy was closer to my age and attractive enough, I was usually flattered, and would smile at them, blushing and giggling softly. However, I generally preferred negative reactions, for it was the humiliation of the act that was the most arousing for me.

My parents always greatly disapproved. My father mocked me like many others, while my mother scolded me, ranting about how a girl my age shouldn't be having so many accidents. This became less of a problem, however, once I turned eighteen and moved out of the house.

 

I was walking down the street one day with a full and throbbing bladder, ready to burst from the increasing pressure. I was twenty at the time, with blue eyes, long green hair, freckles sprinkling over my fair skin, and was dressed in sandals, a black leather jacket, and a denim skirt. It was a busy Monday morning, with dense crowds of people hustling and bustling their way to work, which made it the perfect time to let loose.

I walked slowly amid the large crowd, squeezing my legs tightly shut as I hunched over, trembling, with both hands clenched tightly around my crotch. Although this was a battle I wanted to lose, the struggle was still an integral part of the festivities, seeing just how long I can hold on, despite the exquisitely excruciating pain of my throbbing bladder. Eventually, the dam opened, and an outpouring of urine drenched my panties, pouring down my legs as it rained upon the sidewalk, forming a thickening puddle by my feet.

As the urine flowed down into the storm drain, the ground began to shake and as the tremors wracked my body, I was barely able to stifle a sudden cry of alarm as my heartbeat doubled, then tripled. Through the grates of the storm drain, a black, almost phallic tentacle lathered in a clear mucous slithered outward. My eyes rose in horror as I recoiled from the very sight of the monstrosity, but it was too late, for the tentacle had already coiled around my ankle, and began to slide its way up my leg. It had the texture of a piece of meat that had been taken out of the freezer a few hours ago, still cold, yet thawing, softening. The icy hairs on its flank tickled my thigh, causing me to shiver and break out in gooseflesh. Heaving and gasping, I cried out for help, yet the crowd continued walking past me, completely oblivious to my plight. The tip of the tendril at first probed my labia through my urine-soaked panties. It quickly slipped beneath my panties. At first, I felt someone's icy breath against my vagina, before a hardening yet curved erection plunged into my vagina, sending not waves of pleasure, but great, ripping pain with each brutal thrust.

My lips parted with a wretched moan of disgust and shame, followed by a shrill cry of agony as I fell to the ground, my entire body convulsing. Once more I screamed: "Someone help me! Please, get this fucking thing off me!" But the crowd continued to walk away, some stepping over my quivering, convulsing body as if it were an instinctive movement, a hunch that that was what they should do, but they otherwise remained seemingly oblivious to my plight.

When finally it was over, the tentacle slowly disappeared back into the storm drain, lurking once more as an unknown abomination in the city sewers. My panties and denim skirt were somehow completely dry of urine and I was left, curled in a fetal ball, crying and screaming hysterically. By now, a few people did notice my presence, but no one offered to help or gave any reaction whatsoever, perhaps assuming that I must be some drunken whore who needed to sleep it off, or possibly some psycho-bitch who would claw out their eyes in a deranged fit of rage. In time, my voice became hoarse, yet even with a sore throat I continued to scream, unable to stop as tears poured from my frightened eyes, until finally my vocal cords threatened to give out entirely.

 

Since that horrific incident, I have pissed my pants a couple more times, and the reactions of the people around me remained the same, but the magic was gone. The humiliation aspect was just that: embarrassing and shameful, rather than naughty and erotic. Even worse, if I so much as tinkle in my pants, I feel a sense of mounting panic, reminded once more of my harrowing ordeal, feeling as though I am experiencing it all over again. Because of this, I am now forced to urinate only in bathrooms, like boring normal people do, and each time I do so, I sigh with a feeling of great loss, knowing that a part of me has died.

 

The end

April 03, 2006