More bits of the puzzle

The Drummer asked if I had “any gentleman callers” scheduled for last weekend and I almost thankfully said no — I was more than fortunate the previous weekend, my period was almost due and his comments regarding jealousy still echoed as a reminder to be discerning. As things turn out, I said a few posts ago that I should make more female friends and since then invitations have arrived for birthdays, housewarmings and an engagement-cancellation party(!)* over the next few weeks and I’m trying to work out when I’ll have time for misbehaviour. The universe listened a little too closely to my complaints.

ArmyDude: I was planning to end things with him in the next week but — and this is the universe again — we have been placed in the same project team at work. Oh, goody. That’s another thing the women’s magazines don’t warn about when fucking workmates: how to choose the most suitable (or least worst) time to exit without bumping into each other after the bad news is dealt. It was going to be a long project but now it’s not because I’m in charge. I don’t know what’s happened to my desire for him; logically the reasons we were together haven’t changed but my desire for him sexually has decayed to reminiscences. He is the same but I am not.

One saving grace is the constant buzzing of his mobile phone when he’s been around — I have hope he is in the early stages of another fling. He also sent me some ‘new’ full body photos that were several weeks old and I suspect they’re leftovers from a profile he’s created on another site. I hope this is the case selflessly because I wish him nothing but fulfilment, and selfishly because if another is distracting him then potential backlash for me might be minimised.

Mr OMG: Of course, he’s gone again. I already knew beforehand that the quicker we got together, the quicker he’d disappear again. I sent him a testing-the-water message a few days after we met and he didn’t reply — the message contained a question that anyone with a pulse would respond to so that was silence enough for me to keep moving on. Last time I logged into the dating site he hadn’t blocked me but had closed his new account — again. Puzzling man.

Pleasure Freak: We still haven’t met since the first time. He blusters in with big ideas such as asking if I’d like to go with him to a mixed night at a gay sauna (sure, why not?) and if I’d like to watch another man suck his cock (again, sure, why not?) but disappears after we agree tentatively to meet and sends a message the following day asking what happened. I’m not investing any more mental sweat in him.

I might be due for a dry spell. There’s a young lion about town who’s interested in being dominated and hasn’t shied away from some of my ideas (even the concept of orgasm control, which scared away some of the others who didn’t discern the difference between assertiveness and dominance — I am educating the youth of today and possibly scaring them for life). He seems to want to see if I can manage to dominate him rather than choose to gift himself and this mindset seems topsy-turvy in the way I approach sub/dom mind games, but that’s a confusing essay for another day. I do like his pluck in saying I could either dominate him or have him fuck the daylights out of me — he may need to learn that both are possible at the same time.

I’ve been in contact with someone else but we have never got around to meeting because of distance and mismatching availability, but we have become quite close for two people who haven’t met after six months. He is enthusiastically bisexual according to some interesting action shots he sends occasionally and he’s responded positively to some of my more unusual photo requests — not everyone would humour my tiny evil side by coming in his hand, transferring semen to his mouth and sending a photo.

It was my turn to return the favour and yesterday he asked for a video of me pissing. May I say that was a challenging task for a person with only two hands and without an external organ. All I will say to aspiring water sport self-photographers is to take a B vitamin the night before for improved contrast against neutral shower tiles, and kneeling while leaning backwards seems to give the best angle with the least risk of spillage on recording equipment. I also recommend having somewhere to put the camera aside with the clean hand as there’s no use getting out of the shower until the mess is washed away. He sent glowing praise though and I have gained another skill I can’t put on my resume. We might catch up in a few weeks when he returns from elsewhere because I have plans for him.

* What gift might one buy for a newly-single man? I was thinking condoms, lube and a subscription to the dating site as a joke but he is a serial monogamist and already has a new girlfriend.


Hydrating

I was driving home from work when my phone started buzzing itself into a frenzy. ArmyDude had been contemplating a golden shower fantasy during the day and needed to share with someone. I stopped by the side of the road several times to ask teasing questions as his desire built and a scenario formed in his mind.

By the time I got home he had formulated a mutual all-over sprayfest in his shower, concluding with me sucking on his tainted cock. My internal editor didn’t approve the last part but his certainly did. Then again, if you saw and tasted the overpriced bowl of salty brown gunge I ate earlier for lunch, a few streaks of piss were hardly going to kill me. We exchanged a few more messages and he disappeared, presumably to wank himself calm as he was home alone.

Half an hour later the phone started rattling again. The Drummer and I were having dinner and I explained coyly about ArmyDude’s mission. (I still struggle with how much of another’s personal life to hold to my chest and how much a generous partner is entitled to know as my benefactor of sorts.)

The Drummer swallowed a mouthful of food, deliberated and said, “Go for it if he invites you. It doesn’t turn me on, but it’s sad he doesn’t have an outlet. Off you go.”

And off I went. It’s amazing how the likelihood of ArmyDude bending his no-home visits rule increased proportionally with the amount of bloodflow to his penis.

He pushed me against the corner of his shower stall and sent a fine jet across my belly. I protested playfully that the agreed scenario started with me straddling his crouched form and he wasn’t allowed to turn the tables. He pushed again and aimed upwards at my breasts. I reached between my legs to direct my first spray at his thighs but he stuck his tongue down my throat and distracted me too much to produce the goods. He sent sprays towards my neck as we were kssing, not misfiring a drop. I turned the shower taps to trigger my body to release an aching amount of urine and finally a steady trickle ran down my legs. ArmyDude was too excited to be passive and kneel and I captured handfuls of warm liquid and tipped them on his erection, massaging my waste into his cock.

We haven’t been able to catch up and see if reality matched his first timer’s expectations. Water sports remain on my silly fun rather than serious lust list but the reward afterwards was outstanding. After we showered he invigorated my wetness with his tongue and four fingers until I was squirming off the edge of the bed. After a few weeks of regular but brief and mainly-clothed contact at work, I bathed more indulgently in our skin-on-skin warmth with him on top and my legs wrapped around his waist.

Shower power

I have a cast iron bladder that never releases a drop until I send the message. I’ve pissed while hiding in gardens after drunken parties, been drop-perfect in tiny specimen jars for mid-stream urine tests, sprayed over people while perched on the edges of bathtubs and could probably write messages in the snow with my control and aim.

Wrong.

We were in the shower and tried to decide the etiquette of who would piss on whom first. Ladies before gentleman? Flip a coin? He or she who draws weapons first gets first shot? He ended up going first as my body rejected every one of my brain’s messages to send a jet of warm liquid across his thighs. Must have been some kind of urinary performance anxiety.

Thankfully he was ready for release and squirted copious amounts of body-warmth liquid across my front, with plenty in reserve to flow down my back and legs when I turned and leaned into the contrast of the cool white tiles.

He spread the joy around while I thought of positions to despoil his freshly-showered body. He knelt under me as I stood with one foot on the raised edge of the shower stall with the toes of my other foot gripping the tiles at tap level – not elegant but I doubt anything involved with flinging bodily waste around ever is.

Finally, the seal opened and I returned the favour with a stream that rippled from his shoulder blades down his back. He twisted to allow the spurts to cover his chest and splashed about in our combined liquids. Urine play doesn’t seem to turn me on sexually but I gain pleasure from the visual aspects and find a perverse kind of fun in getting grotty. There’s also a nice time warp game in play that one turn of the tap can erase all evidence of the scenario in seconds but the act remains firmly in my memory banks – everything is washed down the drain but I know only seconds ago I was in the same place smelling, seeing, feeling, probably giggling.

Later, I was still a bit out of sorts with new-person nerves and struggling to find my groove, but he found and did glorious things with my G-spot that left me like an incoherent turtle curled on the linen – and these past few months I’ve been beating my clit into submission. Silly me.

Of course there was a shower between.