Pissing Kay free porn video

I want to tell you about an ex-girlfriend of mine, Kay, who was by far the wildest, most exciting, and also craziest girl I have ever been out with. In appearance think Suzy Quattro aged about 21: small, lithe, feisty, long blond hair, blue eyes, usually dressed in tight, sky-blue jeans and leather jacket, and with a wild-c***d personality to match. She spoke her mind, and couldn't care less who she offended or how much outrage she caused. Quite what she saw in me, a much more restrained and conventional person, I never really understood. Maybe it was a case of opposites attract.

For me the attraction was simple: she was stunningly attractive and she had a reputation for being an easy shag. Most of my friends were in awe of her and, knowing how wild and unpredictable she could be, advised me to keep well away. But I was driven more by my hormones than my brain: and after we'd drunkenly groped one-another at a disco, and then, at her instigation, fucked in an alleyway on the way to the bus stop, we began a relationship which surprisingly lasted nearly two years.

I knew she was someone who took no nonsense and who could easily fly off the handle: but the first time I experienced the crazier side of her personality was in a crowded pub one Christmas Eve. So crowded was the pub there was scarcely room to sit or stand, and Kay was perched on my knee, whilst next to me was sitting my friend Mike, with his girlfriend on his knee. I hadn't seen Mike for a while, and we were deep into a conversation about sport, when Kay swivelled my head towards her and told me it was about time I started paying more attention to her. I tried to talk to her for a while, but without really meaning to I soon drifted back into conversation with Mike.

The next thing I knew, a warm sensation was spreading over my lap. At first I was puzzled, just taking it for some extra warmth emanating from Kay's legs and bottom: but gradually I became aware that the warmth was distinctly wet. Had someone spilled some beer, I wondered? I shifted about, trying to make out what had been spilt and how it had ended up around my legs and crotch: then the penny dropped: Kay was actually pissing through her jeans onto my lap.

"What the hell?" I said.

Cool as anything she looked me in the eye:

"I warned you to pay me some attention," she said.

"Get off me," I said. I made a hopeless attempt to push her off, but she remained stubbornly planted on my lap, and in any case there was hardly room for her to stand.

"Are you sure you want me to get off?" asked Kay. "I will if you want everybody to think you've pissed your pants."

With that she did start to climb off me: very quickly I changed tack, and pulled her back onto my lap again. By now I was absolutely soaked in her piss. Her own jeans, too, all around her arse and thighs, were one dark spreading wet stain.

"Is something up?" asked Mike.

"No, no," I said. "Just a bit uncomfortable."

At which point Kay put her mouth against mine and began kissing me, extending her tongue deep into my mouth, ensuring I kept my full attention on her.

"You little bitch," I said, when I came up for air. Partly I was mad at her, and worrying how on earth I was going to get out of the pub without everyone staring at my wet trousers; and partly I was amazed at her audacity, and the fact that she could do such a thing in a public place.

"Aren't I just?" she replied. "What are you going to do about it?"

There was an element of challenge in her voice, and I felt the situation was on a knife-edge. We could easily have started a full-blown row in the pub, and I knew she'd have had no qualms about standing up and shouting at me, and drawing everybody's attention to the state of my trousers. Part of me, angry at having my lap pissed on, almost wanted a row. But I bit down my anger, and decided to take it as a sexual challenge, in the hope that the situation might be redeemed.

"You'll find out when we get out of here," I said.

"Right then, lets find out now," she shot back at me. With that she did get up off my lap, and began to force a passage through the throng. With a backward look of apology to Mick I hurried after her, desperately trying to press up behind her so no-one could see the state of my front. In this way we got out of the pub and into the street. There I grabbed her from behind, half in play and half in anger. She laughed and pulled away, seemingly careless of the dark wet patches which extended over her buttocks and down to her knees. Then she started to run up the street: I chased after her, my legs feeling cold and clammy, aware of the stink of urine in the air. I caught up with her at the entrance to the very same alley we had fucked in the first time we had met.

"So what are you going to do now you've caught me, piss-pants?" she challenged.

My blood was really up by now: I bundled her down the alley, pushed her against the wall, squatted down and in one forceful movement yanked down her soaking jeans and pants. It was difficult to get them over her feet: I struggled with the first leg, then gave up on the second and left her standing there with her jeans and pants trailing around one ankle. Then, breathing in the smell of piss from her thighs I forced first one then a second finger inside her, expecting to find her tight and sticky, and surprised at how wet and slippery she was. Then I yanked down my own piss-soaked trousers, lifted her up so that she was half resting against the wall and half supporting herself by clamping her legs around my thighs, and I fucked her hard and deep, only slightly put off by the volume of her cries and the freezing air, until we had both purged our anger at one-another in a fiery orgasm.

On that occasion things ended happily, and I managed to stave off the anger I knew she was capable of. But such was not always the case. One night we had left the pub and were walking to the bus stop when Kay abruptly decided she needed a piss. There was a swanky department store nearby, and she went into the entrance, which comprised three shallow marble steps, hitched up her skirt, took her knickers completely off, and started to piss. Very soon a stream of piss was pooling on the marble, and flowing down the steps. At that point a middle-aged couple appeared, caught sight of her and stopped in their tracks.

"Oh, that is disgusting," the woman said. The man said nothing but screwed up his nose in disapproval.

"Stop that at once," the woman threw out at Kay.

Kay continued to piss: without even bothering to try to cover herself she extended one arm, gave the woman a look of sheer malevolence and pointed her finger at her as though laying a curse.

"Go and suck your husband's shrivelled little cock you old witch," she said. The woman drew in her breath sharply, as if stunned: then grabbed her husband's arm and started to walk away. Kay yelled after her:

"Nobody tells me where I can and can't piss," she shouted after their departing backs.

She finished pissing, stood up with her knickers still in her hand, and glared after the couple, still furious.

"I'd a good mind to go after her and piss in her face," she snarled; and for a minute I thought there was going to be a terrible scene, but thankfully the couple turned the corner at the top of the road and disappeared out of sight.

That was the thing with Kay: I could never be sure of her moods and how she would react to situations. On another occasion we were on a train, approaching our stop, which was the penultimate stop before the end of the line. That day Kay was wearing a white blouse, with the top buttons undone. There was only one other passenger left, a middle-aged man sitting opposite us. For most of the journey he had been pretending to read his newspaper, whilst fastening surreptitious glances on Kay's cleavage. Although he had tried to disguise this, I was aware of it, and I knew Kay was aware of it also. I'd been bracing myself for fireworks for a while, and as we approached our stop Kay suddenly said to the man:

"Have you had a good eyeful yet?"

The man went red with embarrassment, and began to bluster denials. Just when I though Kay was going to swear at him she reached up, undid several more buttons of her blouse and in a single movement yanked down her bra and shook out both of her tits. She has beautiful breasts, very full and large for her size: the man gawped like a fish, his mouth open, his eyes locked on the sight before him.

"Go on, have a proper look," Kay was saying.

For several seconds the man gawped at her naked breasts: then, as the train slowed down, Kay slotted them back into her bra, and with a parting "Now go and have a good wank" stood up and led me to the door. Out on the platform I thought she was going to be furious: but instead she was laughing.

"That gave him more than he bargained for," she said. Then: "It's my tits he'll be picturing tonight when he's shagging his missus."

"You are amazing," was all I could say.

And yet on another occasion, when we had gone to a party and the host had been eyeing her lecherously half the night, she flipped the other way.

"I'm sick of the way he's ogling me," she said. And then she did something she'd done before when we'd been at a party and she had taken a dislike to the political views the hostess had been spouting: she pissed on the sofa. Without anyone knowing, without bothering to take off her jeans, she just sat there and pissed, seemingly indifferent to the fact that she was pissing through her own clothing, certainly indifferent to the mess she was leaving behind her.

It was these incidents, along with another occasion when she pissed on the seat of a bus because the driver was sharp with her when she had no change, that forced me to see that she had a strange thing about pissing, not infrequently using it as an expression of anger or revenge. So I waited until she was in a receptive mood, and asked her to enlighten me about it.

"I think the first time was when I had my first job," she told me. "It was in an office, with three other girls. After four days I was bored to death. Bored with the work; bored with them and their stupid conversation. On the fifth day I went in wearing the shortest, tartiest skirt I could find - just to shake things up a bit. Half an hour later the boss called me into his office, and told me not to dress like that again, it wasn't the image the firm wanted to project, blah blah. I almost told him to stick his job where the sun doesn't shine, but instead I let him rant on and kept my mouth shut. At lunchtime everyone went to the staff canteen: I made an excuse, waited until everyone had gone, then went into his office. There was a leather brief case beside his desk: it was full of his papers and stuff. So I took off my knickers, squatted over it and filled it with piss. All his papers were soaked: it was one of the most satisfying pisses I've had in my life. By the time I'd finished his stuff was swimming in piss. Then I went back into my office and waited. At first nothing happened: then about 4 o'clock he came through our door with a face like thunder and told us all to follow him into his office. The other girls were all wondering what was up. He lined us up, held open his brief case, and asked if anyone had poured liquid inside. The other girls all said no, and I said no as well: but he must have been able to tell from their faces that the others knew nothing about it. Anyway, he fixed on me and asked me was I sure I knew nothing about it? I said: "I didn't say that: I just said I hadn't poured anything in it."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What I said," I told him. "I didn't pour anything into your brief case I pissed in it."

You should have heard the gasps from the other girls. The boss looked at me in absolute disbelief. He told the other girls to leave: then he stared at me without speaking, like he was lost for words. Then he said:

"Get your belongings and get out of here. If you're still on the premises in five minutes time I shall call the Police."

"Go ahead," I said. "If you do I'll tell them you tried to grope me."

"Just get out!" he yelled.

So that was the end of my first job. I didn't regret it, I tell you: I'd have walked out anyway. But boy, did I enjoy pissing in that old fart's brief case. I often wonder if he managed to salvage any of his papers, or if he managed to wash it out."

It was when Kay told me this that I realised she wasn't just outrageous, but that she probably had a bit of a screw loose. At any rate, she was a loose cannon, fun most of the time, dangerous some of the time, such that when the time came that I could no longer put off a weekend visit to my mother I was determined that Kay should not come. She had never met my mother - they were like oil and water - and I was happy to keep it that way.

But Kay had other ideas. She didn't want to be left on her own all weekend; she didn't see why she shouldn't meet my mother; I wasn't ashamed of her was I? And in the end, much against my better judgement, I succumbed to pressure to take her with me.

My mother lives about a three hour drive away. On the journey, with Kay promising to behave, I was lulled into a sense of optimism. Within an hour of our arrival I realised how false that had been. My mother, who is obsessively house-proud, started almost at once.

"Don't sit in that chair sit in this chair; not on the edge you'll have the cushions out of shape; don't use that place mat use those in the drawer..." On and on it went, fussing and fretting, getting up to dust away an imaginary cobweb, adjusting shoes so that they rested exactly on the mat. By the evening Kay was all but ready to explode.

"How do you stand it?" she demanded of me. "How come you haven't murdered her yet?"

"I'm used to it, I just let it wash over me," I said. Then I thanked her for being so patient and keeping her feelings to herself.

"I can't keep it up much longer," she said. And sure enough, at 9pm she stood up abruptly, told my mother we were going to bed, and dragged me into our bedroom. Once there she practically tore off her clothes, threw herself backwards onto the bed, kicked her legs into the air and thrashed them down onto the bed over and again, and told me I had better fuck her harder than she had ever been fucked in her life.

I did my best to oblige - all the time mindful of my mother in the next room - whilst Kay yelled her head off and bit my arm when I tried to smother her cries. But mercifully my mother had the television turned up, and if she heard us she did not mention it.

Thus I managed to stave off another potential flash point. But the next day my mother started again, fussing and obsessing and generally driving us mad, until I thought Kay was going to hurl one of her porcelain ornaments at her. Somehow we survived until lunchtime, after which my mother had to go out.

As soon as she was through the door Kay let out a piercing scream which seemed to go on for ever.

"I can't stand it," she said. "All this good taste; all this neatness and prissiness. I want to smash it all up; I want to set fire to it; I want to piss on it."

As she said this last it was as though a light bulb had gone on in her head. She looked at me; her mouth fell open mutely; then she began to smile: seconds later she had dragged off her jeans and knickers and was standing in my mother's living room naked from the waist downwards.

"That's what I'm going to do," she said gleefully. "Piss on it."

"Kay; no; please," I said firmly. "This is my mother's bungalow."

But she didn't hear; or if she did hear she took no notice. Careless of who might be passing by or looking through the net curtains she climbed onto the top of the sofa, and squatted there with her legs apart.

"Not on my mother's sofa," I said, horrified. I made a move to grab her, but she jumped down and quickly scrambled up onto the table."

"On her table then," she said grinning devilishly.

"No - that's an antique table!" I protested. Again I made a grab for her and again she jumped down and twisted away from me, dancing round the room like a demon, he bare legs and arse twisting this way and that, her trimmed fanny exposed to anyone who might be passing outside the window.

"How about the piano then?" she cried, before proceeding to scramble up, first onto the keyboard then onto the top of my mother's Birchwood upright piano.

"This is it," she said, grinning down at me, squatting and touching her fanny with her finger as though about to start pissing.

"Oh Jesus," I said to myself. Thinking quickly I rushed out to the kitchen, my idea being to grab a washing-up bowl to catch her piss in and try to restrict the damage. But when I returned she jumped down, and evading me ran out into the hall and through the doorway into my mother's bedroom.

"What about on her bed?" she said, jumping up and squatting down on my mother's double bed. "All over this disgusting pink coverlet."

"Please Kay," I begged her. "The mattress will be soaked."

"So what?" said Kay. "Don't you like the idea of the old fusspot sleeping in my piss?"

She laughed at that, a manic laugh: but just when I though she was really about to soak my mother's bed, her eye was caught by the middle drawer in a chest of drawers, which was part-open. Again she jumped down, and darted over to the drawer, out of which she started pulling items of my mother's clothing.

"Look at this," she screeched, holding up a woollen thermal vest: "And this; and this. Have you ever seen anything so ghastly?"

One by one she held up pairs of my mother's large, old-fashioned pants; vast upholstered sexless bras; socks, vests and knickers. With a look of wonder on her face she stuffed them back into the drawer, and pulled it further open.

"This is it," she said gleefully.

She turned to face me, her back to the drawers, lifted her right leg and set it down on the open drawer, then slid back until she was half-standing half-squatting over the opening.

"God I'm going to enjoy this," she said.

"Kay - please," I begged her.

But it was too late: there was a hissing sound, and a jet of warm piss descended from between her legs into the open drawer.

"No," I shouted, stepping forward. But Kay stretched her arm out towards me and gave me a look which took me straight back to that time when she had pissed in the doorway of the department store, and had told the couple: "No-one tells me where I can and can't piss." Although she didn't speak these words now, her look spoke them for her, and I froze before it. Piss was streaming out of her now, unrestrained, uninhibited. I groaned and put my head in my hands: there was nothing now I could have done anyway: even if I had grabbed her and pulled her away, she was in full flow and would only have pissed on my mother's carpet. For a moment it was as though time was frozen: Kay poised above my mother's drawer; me poised with my head in my hands, hardly daring to watch her. The only sound and movement came from her piss, as it hissed down onto the various fabrics, saturating them, starting to flood the drawer.

Eventually it slowed to a trickle then, after a final flare, dwindled to nothing, leaving just a few drips on Kay's labia.

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kay seemed to come to, as though coming out of a trance.

"I've pissed on your mother's smalls," she said, almost as though she had surprised herself.

She eased herself off the drawer, and together we peered in at the sodden piss-soaked clothing.

"Oh hell," I said. "What am I going to do about that?"

"Nothing," said Kay, who was looking very pleased with herself. "You're going to leave them just as they are and come and fuck me."

She allowed me only to close the drawer before dragging me off to our bedroom.

"Now lick me dry," she said, grabbing my hair and forcing my face between her legs. I was still feeling fucked from the night before, but knew it was futile to try to resist her, so I licked at her pussy, tasting the salty remnants of her piss on my tongue, and before long we were fucking again, and were still fucking when we heard my mother's key turn in the front door.

I collapsed, sated, listening to my mother moving around the house, wondering when the thunder would roll. Several minutes passed: then there was a polite tap on the door, and my mother stood in the doorway, holding out at arms length, as though they were something too disgusting to handle - Kay's discarded jeans and knickers.

"It isn't usual for guests to leave their underwear in their host's living room," she said sniffily. Then she dropped the items on the floor and withdrew.

Under the bedclothes Kay spluttered with laughter, until even I couldn't but help see the funny side.

There was an awkward silence through dinner, after which conversation was somewhat stilted - but so far my mother had not discovered the mess in her bedroom drawer. I still had a vague sort of plan to rescue her piss-soaked clothing and put it in the washing machine, but when my mother retired to bed there was no further opportunity.

I slept fitfully, dreading what would happen when my mother discovered the mess, wondering how much I could defend Kay, whether I would be forced to take sides, how I could avoid upsetting anyone, and suchlike. But when Kay and I surfaced a strange thing happened. My mother, who seemed to have forgotten or forgiven the business with the jeans and knickers, was sitting in the kitchen looking puzzled.

"I think I must be going doolally," she told us. "I put a load of washing in my bedroom drawer without drying it. It was still soaking wet. It must have been there a while because it was starting to smell. I can't remember doing it at all. Isn't that peculiar?"

As we sat there listening to the hum of the washing machine I gripped Kay's knee under the kitchen table, warning her on no account to say anything. And thankfully she managed for once to restrain herself - at least until we were safely on our way home again.

"Just what is it with you and pissing?" I asked Kay once when we were lying in bed. "I know you told me about your first job and your boss's briefcase. But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"I don't know - it's just so wonderful isn't it?" she said. "Pissing, I mean. You know Whitecastle Hill?" This was a hill that dominated the west side or town. "I used to go up there in the summer, lie on my back with my knickers off and watch my piss arcing away into the grass, glistening in the sunshine. It just felt heavenly. Naughty and natural at the same time. I used to imagine my piss raining down on the town: people running for cover, and my piss forming a deluge, then a lake, flooding the town, everyone drowning in my piss. Do you think that's weird?"

"Crazy" I said.

"One day," Kay continued, "when I was still living with mum and dad, I came home and the house was empty. I needed a piss. I was standing in the kitchen, but instead of going to the bathroom I heard this voice in my head, saying: What would happen if you pissed on the kitchen floor? I was sort of horrified and fascinated at the same time. What if I did piss on the kitchen floor? Then it became like a dare - something I had to do. So I took off my skirt and knickers and stood against the kitchen units, looking at the lino and thinking: I can piss here: I'm going to piss here. At first I couldn't do it: even though I tried I couldn't let go. We're so conditioned that way. But I had to do it - otherwise I'd have lost the dare. So I closed my eyes and tried to relax and imagine I was on the loo. And then it came - a trickle of piss. At first I couldn't believe I was doing it: I forced myself to stop: then I thought, fuck it, and just let loose. Half of it was going down my legs, the rest was splashing down onto the lino between my legs, and the longer it went on the more abandoned I was, just letting it loose, watching this giant puddle form on the kitchen floor.

"When I had emptied myself, and saw this great pool of piss - my piss - on the kitchen floor do you know how I felt? I felt a million dollars. I felt like I'd just passed a maths exam, or broken the four minute mile. Like I'd broken some taboo that had been restricting me all my life. Do you know what I mean? It's like, we're conditioned from c***dhood that piss is dirty: good girls pee in their potties, clean girls piss on the lavatory. It goes so deep you think if you do something like piss on the kitchen floor the sky will fall in.

"Then you do piss on the kitchen floor; and the sky doesn't fall in. Instead you feel fantastic. Liberated.

"So I stood there, leaning against the kitchen units, looking at this pool of piss, amazed at myself, proud of myself. And I felt randy. Not just that I wanted a rub, but that I deserved a rub, for what I'd just done. So I started rubbing myself, right there, standing up in the kitchen - and believe you and me I had one mother of an orgasm.

"After that I got out the mop and bucket and cleaned everything up. It was a hot day, the floor dried quickly. And when my mum and dad came home everything went on as normal, no-one had any idea of what I had done: it was my little secret, my warm wet little secret no-one else knew about."

"Bloody hell," I said.

"That's not all," said Kay, who was revealing more about her past than she had ever done before. "I kept getting these notions in my head: an idea would come to me out of nowhere, and it was like I had to carry it out. Sometimes they were trivial. Like one afternoon I was sitting on the loo about to piss when I saw a bath towel folded on the side of the bath. I wonder what it would be like to piss into that bath towel? I thought. And next minute I'd got up off the loo and was pissing into the bath towel clamped between my legs. And what a lovely feeling it was, warm and wet and sensual. Maybe it was a throwback to the days when I wet my nappy as a baby, I don't know. I know it felt good, and I know I had a lovely rub afterwards, rubbing the piss-soaked bath towel between my legs until I came.

"Sometimes these voices were more challenging though. One time I was in the park, and I needed a piss. "The park loos are smelly; do it in your pants." Again it was like a voice in my head telling me what I had to do. This time I wasn't so sure: doing it at home was one thing, but doing it in the park where there were lots of people?

"But as I said, it was like a challenge I couldn't back out of. I kept walking round, looking for a good spot. By then my bladder was bursting. It was a Saturday afternoon and the park was full of people: old people, families, k**s. I tried sitting on a bench, but somehow that didn't count, I had to do it standing up. In the end I leaned back against the trunk of a plane tree. Again, I couldn't do it at first - the old conditioning. But when I closed my eyes and forgot about other people, it was easy. I just let rip, watched the front of my jeans getting soaked, felt all this piss emptying out of me, soaking my knickers, wetting everywhere between my legs. I must say I was surprised at the volume: I sort of imagined there would just be a damp patch, everything soaked up by my jeans. But it was more like having a pint of beer poured over your crotch: by the end I was drenched: far from soaking everything up, my jeans were saturated, piss was dripping through them almost as though they weren't there.

"I came to an end and looked round. I'd just pissed myself in a public park. But the sky hadn't fallen in. The hygiene police hadn't come to arrest me: in fact no-one had noticed. And like in the kitchen I felt a mile high. I was so happy and pleased with myself. Instead of hurrying home like I'd intended I just carried on walking round the park, my piss-soaked jeans there for all to see. People must have noticed: but nobody said anything. Maybe they thought I'd been wading in the boating lake; or maybe they were just too polite. I was too high to care.

"After that I had a spate of pissing myself in public. In the town centre; in a supermarket; wherever the urge took me. Once a man sneered at me and told me I was disgusting. I just gave him the finger and he went quiet. Once a little boy asked his mother "Why has that lady got wet jeans?" and his mother just shushed him. The only time I felt guilty was once when I was waiting for the bus. A lady came up to me and said in this quiet, concerned voice that her daughter had had a problem with incontinence, and she understood what I must be feeling, and there was all sorts of help I could. She was being kind, I just couldn't tell her I'd wet myself deliberately, so I listened, agreeing with her, and then when our bus came I told her I was waiting for a different bus."

"How long did all this go on for?" I asked.

"Only about a year," Kay said. "Once I'd proved myself, once I'd broken all these taboos, the challenges seemed to stop. I didn't need to do them any more. I still did wet myself from time to time, because it always felt good - but then that just sort of wore off. I think it was when sex took over, and I found fucking was even more cathartic than pissing. But I still have to do it from time to time, especially when I get angry or stressed. Not in my pants necessarily - but somewhere transgressive: like in your mother's drawers. Someone once told me I was like those people who have to cut themselves: a pressure builds up in them that only a cut can relieve. Well with me it's a piss."

It was in moments like this, when Kay was reflective and self aware rather than driven by impulses and emotions, that I felt I understood her best and loved her most. But sadly these moments were all too rare, and it was never long before she was in the grip of some over-riding passion once more.

The next outburst came in the kitchen. By now we had moved into a tiny, dingy flat together, which comprised a kitchen and living room downstairs, and a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. We were preparing dinner, and Kay had spilt a drink and showed no inclination to mop it up.

"Oh for God's sake leave it," she snapped, when I mentioned the mess. "You sound like your mother, always going on about the mess. This is a shit-hole anyway."

It was true that the landlord never did any repairs, and that the furniture and fittings were not exactly state-of-the-art.

"It would do you good to piss on the floor," Kay went on. "Stop you being so up-tight. In fact go on: do it: piss on the floor - the lino's bloody horrible anyway."

"Maybe sometime," I sighed, trying to pacify her.

"No: not sometime, Now," Kay persisted, giving me one of her hard, uncompromising looks.

"I don't want to piss on the floor," I said.

By way of reply Kay tugged open the zip of my trousers and yanked them, along with my underpants, down to my ankles.

"Do it," she commanded. Then, softening just a little, she said:

"I'll do it as well, we can do it together."

Before I could reply her jeans and knickers were off, and she was standing in front of the cooker with her legs slightly apart.

I knew when she was in a mood like this the only way to keep the peace was to go along with her. Sighing inwardly I tugged off my trousers, pants and socks and put them carefully on a chair. I felt silly, standing in our kitchen with my dick hanging out. I made a half-hearted attempt to pee, but nothing happened.

"I can't do it," I said.

"Rubbish," said Kay. "You can and you will. Watch me."

I did watch her: I watched her arch her back slightly; I watched her lithe little body tauten; and I watched as a cascade of piss began to stream from between her lovely legs and splash onto the floor. I watched her face, too, relaxed and absorbed, as though what she was doing was entirely natural. Piss began to splash over her bare feet and ankles, then pool over the floor: she carried on pissing, seemingly oblivious, without a care. She rotated her hips a little, directing her stream, spreading the pool of liquid; at one point she thrust her hips forward so that her stream of piss jumped forwards too, and landed on my own feet, at which she gave a laugh. Eventually her stream wavered: the last dribbles ran down the insides of her smooth thighs.

"There you go," she said. "Now your turn."

I tried. I took hold of my dick, looked down at the floor, and tried to convince myself that since the place was already so wet, more piss would do little more harm. But nothing would come.

"Relax," said Kay. "Close your eyes and imagine you're in a urinal. Now breathe slowly and deeply: there's no hurry, take your time."

I did as she said, and gradually I did manage to relax, and put the state of the kitchen out of my mind. Still I couldn't quite go. Then suddenly I heard a tap turning and water splashing into the sink: I felt that tell-tale sensation in my bladder, and next thing I was pissing, weakly at first, then with abandon, my own piss splashing down onto the lino, joining the pool of piss which already lay there.

"That's it," exclaimed Kay in delight. "Go for it, let it all flow."

Once my flow was established I opened my eyes, and watched the steaming liquid splash down. Part of me was relieved that I had managed to do it; another part was disgusted, and wondering what the hell I was doing and why.

"Go on, spray it around," Kay encouraged me.

More to please her than for my own pleasure I waved my dick around and directed my jet in different direction. Some splashed over Kay's feet, and I pulled back and apologised.

"Go on," she cried, "piss over my feet: piss over my legs."

So saying she stepped towards me and stood right in front of me, such that my piss cascaded onto her thighs and streamed down her legs.

"Higher," she said, laughing: and I found my piss hitting her bare tummy, just inches away, and running down over her bare hips and legs.

"Beautiful," Kay exclaimed, revelling in the warmth, almost purring as the disgusting yellow fluid streamed over her.

"There," she said when I'd finished. "Don't you feel better for that?"

"I suppose," I said, wondering just what kind of madhouse I was living in.

"Feel how wet I am," she invited.

"I can see how wet you are," I said.

"Not there silly: here," she said, grabbing my hand and clamping it between her legs.

She was indeed wet: not with the sticky wetness of piss, but rather the slippery wetness of someone intensely aroused.

"Come on," she said, dragging me into the living room, unconcerned that she was dripping piss everywhere.

Then seconds later she was on her back on the living room carpet, her legs drawn up in a W shape, and I was inside her, fucking her, feeling her clammy, piss-soaked tummy against me, holding her piss-soaked arse in my hands, hearing her moan and cry, until I emptied my load inside her, no longer caring about the pervasive smell of piss in the flat.

After that I hoped I had done sufficient to satisfy Kay that I was not completely inhibited, and that she would not try to co-opt me further into doing the things she alone really enjoyed. And that seemed to be the case, for she never again challenged me to piss on the floor, or anywhere else unorthodox. But that incident brought to the surface another issue Kay had, which was her hatred of our flat. I had no great love of it myself, but was prepared to make the best of a bad job, and had been conditioned all my life to respect other people's property, however shoddy that property might be. But Kay had none of my scruples; she treated the place with less and less respect, until one evening she finally snapped. I was in the kitchen at the time, when I heard a stream of curses coming from upstairs. It seemed the heater on the shower had broken whilst Kay was in the middle of taking a shower. I came out to see her standing completely naked at the top of the stairs, still shouting.

"Right: that is IT," she yelled.

And then she started to piss: just standing as she was on the top stair she leaned back, and before I knew what was happening an arc of piss was sailing down, rising and falling, landing on the stair-carpet, glancing over the stairs at different heights, soaking into first one step then another, gathering force until it was powering down to where I stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Bloody hell Kay," I said, for it was one thing to piss on the kitchen lino which could easily be mopped clean: "The landlord's carpet..."

"Fuck the landlord's carpet," she screamed, her piss continuing to cascade down the stairs.

In some ways it was a fine sight: an angry, beautiful girl, standing naked at the top of a staircase, letting go, pissing with complete abandon out over the stairs. But uppermost in my mind was the worry as to how we were going to get the carpet clean and get rid of the smell.

"God, I feel better for that," Kay said when she had finished. And that at least I was thankful for. But when I went to the kitchen to fetch a bucket and some carpet cleaner she told me to leave it.

"Let the place stink of piss," she said. "What do I care?"

It was clear we had to find a new flat, and luckily a friend put us onto a place, and we gave notice to quit. I wanted to leave everything in reasonable order, but Kay, once we had signed the new lease and given notice, was unstoppable, determined to desecrate every inch of what she described as our shithouse of a flat. During our last few days I don't think she pissed in the lavatory above a couple of times: instead she would let go wherever she happened to be: on the carpet in the living room or the bedroom; on the kitchen and bathroom floors; in the shower and the wash-basin. Even though I had known her some time I was constantly amazed at her total lack of inhibition. One evening, for instance, we were watching television when she just drew up her legs and nonchalantly pissed through her knickers onto the sofa cushions as though this was the most natural thing in the world. Another time she wandered from the bedroom down to the living room pissing the whole time, leaving a streaming wet trail, with such seeming indifference I wondered if she even knew what she was doing.

"I'm going to leave my mark everywhere on this doss house," she declared; and I knew there was no point in trying to reason with her.

The place stank: Kay didn't care.

"We'll be out of here soon," was all she said.

On our last night we were lying in bed, looking forward to the morrow.

"Let's do some thing special," Kay said. "Something really dirty to celebrate."

"Like what?" I asked.

She turned to me, put her arms around me, and rubbed up against me sensually.

"Why don't we wet the bed?" she said into my ear.

I screwed up my face:

"Because it's the landlord's bed," I said. "Because we've got to sleep in it tonight, and it will be wet and smelly and cold."

"You're so boring," she said. "Always thinking ahead. Don't you ever want to do anything exciting?"

"Being cold and wet isn't exciting," I said.

"Oh, fuck you," said Kay, turning away. "Do what you like. Sleep on the sofa if you want to: I'm going to wet the bed."

The sofa was already saturated with piss. So I stayed where I was and watched as Kay drew up her knees, making a little tent out of the bedclothes. They were our bedclothes, I pointed out, not the landlord's.

"Fuck the bedclothes," said Kay. "They'll wash."

I'd tried, once or twice, to piss whilst lying on my back. It was impossible. But Kay had no such difficulties, and within seconds she was releasing small spurts of piss, which sank into the mattress just inches below her fanny. She wriggled a bit, adjusted her position, drew her knees even higher: then to my amazement she was really doing it, letting loose a full-flowing river of piss deep inside the cave of the bed. I watched, transfixed. Steam was rising, and in the confined space the smell of her piss mingling with the sheets and the mattress filled my nostrils, strong and pungent. The sound was different from when she pissed on the sofa or carpet: that, too, was somehow more contained and intense. The pool of piss began to spread, piss was flowing from her faster than the mattress could absorb it, spreading sideways and upwards underneath her bare arse. Kay herself was breathing heavily, and letting out sighs and gasps, more as though she was having an orgasm than a piss. The pool spread further upwards, underneath her back, spreading out so that I, too, was enveloped in her warm wet steamy yellow piss. Something about the smell took me back to c***dhood, triggering long lost memories of wetting the bed. Still Kay was pissing: I began to suspect she had planned this, and had deliberately held it in all through the evening. Now the whole bed was soaking, there was no chance of wriggling away to the edge to find a dry patch. The sheets above us had not escaped either: piss was dripping from them like water from the roof of a cave.

Curled up together in the cave of the bed, it was as though we were both inside a womb of piss, where all our senses were saturated by the feel and smell and even the taste of piss.

When Kay had finished, her eyes were closed and she had a beatific expression on her face. She began to stretch out, sensuously, like a cat; then she started roll on her back, mashing the piss-soaked mattress, rubbing her shoulders and back as a cat rolls in dust. That done she turned onto her stomach, and again began pressing herself into the piss-soaked mattress, rubbing her tits, her arms, and even her face, savouring every moment, extracting every atom of sensual pleasure from rolling herself in her own warm piss.

Then, without speaking, she started to rub herself up against me, rubbing her body against mine, dr****g her legs around me, drawing me to her, making sure that I, too, was covered and smothered in piss. Whatever my reservations about the bed, this was something I couldn't resist: I always loved it when she rubbed her whole body against me, letting me have my fill of her, of the smell and taste of her, her breasts, her mouth, her legs, her pussy and her arse. At one point she dived down, lowering her face into the wettest area of the bed, lying on top of me and presenting her piss-soaked mound for me to lick. I licked and sucked at her pissy saltiness, let my tongue roam over her bum-cheeks and into the tight little bud of her arse. Then I got two fingers inside her; she bucked and moaned and rode my fingers in rhythmic movements, gyrating her pelvis. Down in the bed I was aware of her sucking my penis, but I tried not to go with the sensations, concentrating instead on pleasuring her. Still something was not quite right: I tried inserting a third finger, then a fourth, stretching her, opening her right out; but she squirmed in a way which conveyed to me that was not what she wanted. Instead I probed at her little arsehole with the middle finger of my free hand. This time she bucked and pushed down on my finger, and made a muffled sound of pleasure. I took out my finger, coated it with saliva, then slid it just inside her sphincter once again. This time she went frantic, pushing down on my finger, clearly desperate for me to sink it inside.

So I slid it inside, down into the warm dark heart of anus, and twisted it gently, this way and that, not forgetting to work away inside her fanny with my other hand. Through the membrane which divided her fanny from her arsehole I could feel the fingers of each hand with the other hand. Down in the piss-soaked cave of the bed she was moaning now, thrusting and twisting her hips, such that it was hard to tell whether she was enjoying the friction of my fingers or desperately trying to escape them. But I knew of old how much she loved this, having my fingers up her fanny and her arsehole at the same time, and I carried on probing and twisting until all of a sudden she bucked her arse furiously into my face, and a scream came from deep down under the bedclothes as she reached her climax.

She was gasping for breath as though she had just run a marathon. Still I had three fingers inside her vagina and one up her arse, but I kept them still, now, as her movements subsided.

Slowly I pulled my finger out of her arse: the strong, musky smell of her filled my nostrils. I withdrew my fingers from her fanny, gently: then she swivelled round under the bedclothes and came up for air. Her hair was wet with sweat and piss, and strewn across her piss-streaked face. She put her lips to mine and as we kissed I rolled on top of her and she opened her legs. All the warmth had gone out of the piss by now, and the sheets felt clammy and wet as I slid inside her and we started to fuck. She came and came: one wild pissy orgasm after another, each one wringing more piss out of the mattress, until I could hold on no longer and emptied my load gratefully and ecstatically deep into her body.

Then we lay still, clutching each other in the piss-soaked sheets.

"Wasn't that just the best sex you ever had?" she breathed, before she fell asleep.

I couldn't deny it was great sex: but at 3am, when I woke up cold and wet and unable to escape the stench of stale piss, I wondered if it had been worth the price.

I could tell you more about Kay: about how she became more and more of a piss junkie; about how she demanded, when I told her I loved her, that I should prove it by drinking her piss; about how, in the end, our relationship deteriorated until we both acknowledged we were not right for each other.

But I'd rather end on a high: with Kay at her wildest and sexiest, asleep in my arms in a bed drenched with piss, her demons temporarily exorcised, her body and soul temporarily at peace.