My latest short story draft: Drenched in Gold (Patreon)

I've been working on a short story that's a bit of a departure from my usual stuff. This one, tentatively titled 'Drenched in Gold', is a watersports fantasy. 

So if you're just here for cuckolding erotica and not turned on by piss-play then feel free to just skip this one. But if you're interested take a look and let me know what you think.

I'm really interested in your feedback because this story is pretty different from my others. Not just because of the subject matter, but also because of the style I've gone for. It's light on plot, and there's no backstory, no character development. You don't find out anything about the people involved. It's a story that's designed to just focus on the moment - the feelings and the thoughts - like they exist in their own little universe.

The scenario is based on a real life experience. The action, sadly, is all just from my imagination, taking a momentary thought and building a fantasy from it.

It's currently unfinished because I'm not entirely sure how I want it to end. So this draft is most of the story, but it finishes abruptly, and I'll be adding a conclusion when I work out exactly what I want that to be. 

Soaked in Gold

I’m a tiny island of stillness in a boiling, writhing sea of human sensation. The music pumps in a relentless rhythm, and with every beat lights flash, momentarily illuminating a sparkle across every bare chest and shoulder. The sparkle could be glitter, or just sweat, but in the instant before the flash of light disappears again I can’t tell. It’s probably a combination of both.

The heat is like a solid object that comes in waves, hitting my face and wrapping itself around me. I can tell by the way my skin’s on fire that the molly must be starting to kick in. My heart’s starting to race, and I’m feeling like any second now it’s going to get away from me and fly off across the room, leaving me to crumple empty onto the floor amongst the dancing mass.

Was this wise? Fuck. Not at all. I don’t know where my friends are. I haven’t had molly in years and I don’t know if my body can still handle it. I don’t even know the guy who gave it to me; just because he was hot and friendly and generous, that didn’t mean I should have taken the pill he offered unquestioningly. What if this rushing heartbeat is the start of a heart attack, and I’m about to die all alone in a crowd of thousands? What if I’m going to be trapped in a terrifying hell, on the cusp of panic and breakdown, all night?

It’s so fucking hot in here. The thumping beat is so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside my head, but simultaneously just seems like the echo of a far off party. I’m being jostled from every side. Strands of synthetic wig hair stick in sweat where they touch my skin. The bare, slick arm of the shirtless man next to me keeps bumping against me, electrifying me every time it makes contact. I think I need to get out of here. Just for a few minutes, till I get a grip of myself. I need to calm down, and help myself enjoy this, before I’m completely trapped in a panic spiral.

I push my way through the crowds. So many men. I can vaguely comprehend that if I wasn’t having a total freakout right now I’d be living my fantasy, surrounded by hot, sweaty, semi-clad men. But there’ll be time for that in a bit, once I’m calm. Right? I fucking hope.

I’ll go to the toilets. Splash some water on my face. That’s a thing people do when they’re overheated and overwrought, right?

But as I finally manage to struggle free of the crowd I see the queue for the toilet, and it’s miles. Like, fifty people? Sixty people? Why the hell is it so long? I follow the row of people with my eyes, and see that they’re all waiting for a single unisex cubicle. Okay, so this isn’t going to work. I don’t think I can hold it together long enough to make it to the front of that queue.

So I keep walking towards the exit.

The moment I step through the threshold the heat evaporates from my skin like a flock of birds that have been scared off and taken flight. The air is suddenly less oppressive, the music less overwhelming. It’s almost quiet out here.

I know there’s no point going left. I tried that before, only to come face to face with a chain link fence and a security guard. He’d told me “you can leave, but you can’t get back. There’s a queue of about two hundred people waiting to get into here.” Everyone wanted to get into the Horden Pavillion because that’s where the main act would be - the secret, surprise main act that had been the subject of gossip for days and all but confirmed now, and was someone no one in their right mind would miss. I was one of the lucky ones; I was here. I couldn’t give up the place I’d been lucky enough to get.

So I walk right. Slowly, aimlessly, not really knowing what I want to find or how I’ll know when I find it. There are people standing around. My attention focuses razor sharp on different people around me, just for an instant. A girl throwing her head back, laughing. A shirtless twink covered in glitter and rainbow paint who crosses in front of me. A man leaning in to kiss his boyfriend, or his husband, or a stranger he’s just met. On each of them I focus intently for an instant and then lose my concentration.

The cold is electrifying now. The cool, faint breeze is giving me shivers that course over my whole body in waves and then disappear. Over and over.

I pull a cigarette and a lighter out of my pocket. I light up. It tastes worse than usual, but provides me with more relief than usual too. God, I feel so fucking weird. I need to sit down. There’s no seating out here though. So I wander over to the wall of the building lean my back against the wall, and let my legs slowly give out beneath me. The rough brick grates against my shoulders as I slide down the wall like I was a blob of something that had been splattered against it and acted upon by gravity.

My ass reaches the ground. I sit there, knees held to my chest, smoking my cigarette and letting my focus jump from person to person: a muscular man touching another muscular man’s arm as they talk; an otter with a piercing texting on his phone and looking pressed; a guy on his own, like me, knocking back a bottle of water, whose eyes catch mine for a second before my attention flies away again. The whole time by foot moves in time with the dull thud of dance music coming from inside the pavilion.

I look down. I fix onto a slow-moving puddle, shining in the light of the moon and the stadium floodlights. It’s feeling its way across the concrete trying to find the way downhill, expanding out like a delta then converging again as it starts to near the gutter.

My eyes follow it back to find its source. It winds like a river, a whole landscape in the space of maybe two metres, to where it begins, as gold trickling down the brick wall.

There are three of them. Older men. Bears. One is shirtless, hairy, with a solid chest and a belly that overhangs his jeans just a bit as he starts to do up his fly. One has big boots, like a builder. Or a logger. One has a checkered shirt, and has one arm leaning on the brick at shoulder height as the other hand holds his cock, letting out a steady stream of piss that hits the brick and trickles down to become the source of the tiny river I’ve found myself sitting beside.

The shirtless man steps away, and another man finds the empty gap between the wall. Younger, leaner. He draws his cock out of his shorts — it’s long, even though it’s flaccid — and unleashes a forceful stream that splashes against the brick, so much that he has to step a few inches back to avoid it. It cascades down the already wet red brick and joins the headwaters of my river, the head of which has now found its way to the gutter and is quickly being stolen away.

He’s finished. He shakes, and I can see a few glistening droplets of piss flying off it from the motion. He sees me looking at him. He gives me a knowing grin, like he’s on to me, before he puts his cock back in his shorts, turns, and leaves. For a second I’m confused about what he saw in my expression that he was reacting to. Then I realise: I’ve just been staring while he takes a piss. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring, or who else has noticed, or what they’ve thought. I’ve just been lost, watching the piss make its journey from man to gutter.

I shouldn’t be staring. I look away. I shake my head vigorously to get the thought of it out of my head. I look back at the river of urine snaking its way across the concrete to the gutter. Such a waste to see it all disappear.

When each man finishes, another one takes his place. I don’t know where they’re all coming from and I don’t know why they’ve all chosen this particular spot along the wall. Each of them steps up, gets his cock out, and lets out an inaudible sigh of relief as he relieves himself against the wall.

I’m staring again. I don’t know when I started.

I don’t want to stop staring.

A man nudges the man beside him, gestures to me with a tilt of his jaw. The two of them chuckle, with that same kind of knowing look as the previous guy, as though they see what I am. Now I understand what they’re laughing about.

The winding river of piss is getting wider, the more men feed it. It’s only a foot from my shoe now. The smell hits me — not strong, but just enough to notice. It brings a bunch of almost-memories to the front of my mind, not quite clear enough to identify. Not even events, just places, settings. A dank, dark public toilet block, the floor wet with messy puddles of piss, seedy men studying me for signs that I’m there for the same reason as them. A nightclub restroom, standing side-by-side with other men at the urinal, trying to overcome the stagefright, trying to overcome the urge to look down at their cocks. A locker-room, the slightest hint of urine just perceptible for brief moments before being overwhelmed by chlorine and shower gel. My first reaction is disgust — that’s what it’s supposed to be, right? It’s stale, the smell of the unclean and uncared for. But I breathe in deeply, trying to draw it in as much as I can, and in that moment it dawns on me that it’s also the smell of masculinity: primal, maybe toxic. I want to be marked with it.

The winding stream is almost touching my shoe now. I should move, before I end up covered in it. I don’t want to though. I look back up at the two men. They’re finishing. One’s already put his cock back in his trousers. The other is shaking the last amber droplets off the tip of his cock; when he sees me looking, he clutches it and gives it an exaggerated shake in my direction, for my benefit. I see a droplet fly and I follow it with my eyes as it hits the brick wall and is no more.

The man does his pants up, and gives me a grin. As he turns around, he touches the arm of the guy who’s waiting behind him for his spot, and leans in. I don’t quite hear exactly what he says to him, but it sounds like “Don’t waste it, he wants it.” He looks over at me, and the other man follows his gaze.

He’s shirtless, with a sweat-sheen from the heat of being inside the pavilion. His broad chest and shoulders are hairy; the hair covers his chest like a thick mat, thinner on his shoulders, up his neck, to where it meets a thick, dark beard. He reminds me of the first man who fucked me, in a sauna when I was eighteen.

He doesn’t face the wall like the others. He faces me directly, and he looks at me as he unbuckles his belt. The sound of the metal clinking does something to me, makes something inside me stir. He unzips his jeans, and reaches in. I’m staring, waiting to see what he pulls out. I realise it this time; I’m fully aware that I’m staring. I think my jaw is even hanging open, like a dog drooling over a treat. I swallow; my throat is dry. I realise I’m nervous.

His cock is thick, heavy. Uncut. Flanked by dark hair. He pulls it from his jeans and lets it sit there for a second. I can’t take my eyes off it.

He takes it in his hand. Aims it, like he’s going to piss. Aims it at me.

I look up at his face. He’s looking at me expectantly, impatiently. My thought processes are fuzzy and slow, but I realise that he’s waiting for my confirmation that this is what I want.

Is it?

My eyes survey the scene around me, just for a fraction of a second. No one seems to be paying any attention to me. Would it matter if they were?

I look at him again. I give a tiny nod, my permission.

For a second, nothing happens. He just stands there, looming over me. I stare at his flaccid, heavy, meaty cock in his hand, doing nothing at all. For a tiny moment I wonder if I’ve completely misunderstood.

Then it starts. I don’t know how much of it is the drugs and how much is the anticipation, but it seems like slow motion. I see the trail of pale platinum-coloured piss start to fall from the head of his cock. For an instant it just kind of dribbles, but an instant later the stream kicks in with force. The jet emerges, piercing through the air between us like a torpedo.

The moment it his me it feels like something pricking me, all concentrated in a single tiny point on my chest just below my clavicle. It’s like I’ve been shot with an electric arrow, channeling the tiny charge of a light switch — just enough to sting. It’s immediately followed by the sensation of warmth, right around that same spot. And then the feeling of warm water running down my chest and splashing tiny droplets all over my skin.

In the faint, cold breeze the warmth feels electric. It feels warmer than my skin; the warmth permeates my skin and absorbs into me. Rivulets of gentle heat trace their way down the skin of my chest, my shoulders, my abdomen.

I never expected it to feel like this. And I never expected it to make me so hard, so fast. I let go of my knees, unwrap my arms from around them. Stretch my legs out flat onto the ground wide in front of me. Letting him see the tent in my shorts. Showing him what he’s doing to me. And giving him access to more of my skin.

I feel warm, wet fabric clinging to my body. I look down the piss is hitting the fabric of my tank top and absorbing instantly, a growing patch of dark wet, pushed against my skin my the force of the stream.

And then suddenly it’s over. I feel the last little rivulets trickle down my skin and absorb into the fabric of my clothes. And a final splash as he expels those last little bits. I look up at his cock and watch the golden droplets scatter into the night as he shakes off his cock. His cock is thicker than it was when he started; he enjoyed it, too.

He stuffs his cock back into his jeans. I look up at his face. He’s grinning at me, in a way that’s kind of lecherous. His grin is telling me I’m dirty, and he appreciates it.

He steps away, and the exchange is over. That fleeting moment with someone I’ll probably never interact with again. A random stranger. One that I just let shower me in his piss.

When he moves I can see the line of men pissing against the wall again. Animals, marking the brick with their scent. I want all of it.

I look down: I hadn’t realised in the moment but I’d put my leg right into the little river of piss. I’ve disturbed it, dammed it. It’s going in all kinds of directions now, turned away from its course. My leg is soaked in its warmth.

A shadow. I look up. Another man is looming over me, instead of facing the wall. A daddy. Silver hair, black jeans. He’s bringing his cock out of his pants too, scrotum and all. How does he know?

I look around. He’s not the only one; I have an audience now. A few guys are waiting for the wall, ignoring me. But a few are looking at me, starting to gather. I see someone comment something to his buddy, something I’m too far away to hear. I see them laugh though.

The man in front of me is waiting for my signal. I look at his face, give him the nod, and close my eyes in preparation.

The liquid hits my chest, not as hard, not as sharp, as the previous dousing. It’s gentle, like water poured from a jug. It’s warm like the last one though, and strong. The smell comes a second after the physical sensation, and it hits me hard. It reeks like a stale, dirty urinal, a heady smell that envelopes me as the water runs down my skin.

Its landing point moves across my chest, my shoulders. My neck. My chin. I hold my mouth closed tight as it comes close to my lips, touches my lips. I wonder if I want to open my mouth and taste it. Not this one, it’s too strong. A few drops land on my lips, and then the libation is finished.

I open my eyes. He’s looking down at me, doing up his jeans. I open my mouth, run the tip of my tongue along my lips and collect those few tiny, salty drops. That’s strong enough for me, I’m glad I didn’t try to drink it. But the taste makes me want more.

He’s immediately replaced with another guy. Shirtless, in shorts that hug the shape of his ass and show off the bulge of his cock. He gives me a grin, and pulls out his cock. It looks thick, like it’s already starting to swell. Waiting for me must have turned him on. I watch as he pulls his foreskin back

He lets loose his stream, powerful and thick. It hits the fabric of my singlet and instantly absorbs into it. I close my eyes, and he understands the meaning of the gesture. In the dark his heavy stream hits my face and coats it. I sway my head around, making sure he gets every bit of my face.

It’s in my hair too, dripping down my forehead and collecting in my eyes. I realise that there’s a second stream: one in my face, and one pouring down on me from above, drenching my hair.

Then they’re both ended.

I open my eyes; my vision’s blurry and my eyes are stinging. I try to wipe my eyes off with hands that are just as covered with piss, and it doesn’t help much. The cock is still in front of me, the last droplets of piss still hanging on the end of it. I open my mouth, stick out my tongue, reach for it. I collect those droplets on the end of my tongue, and wrap my mouth around his cock to clean off every remnant of urine from it. Then I release it, and he grins at me.

I look around. There’s another man standing there on the other side of me, doing up his trousers. He was the one who doused my hair. He’s big, with a hairy belly and a leather vest that’s open at the front. He steps away without a gesture or a glance.

Two more are up. They’re mates, sharing the experience. Leathermen, early middle-aged, in good shape. The kind of men I always find myself staring at in the bars, the kind that I want to use me and discard me.

“Look at this little piss-pig,” one of them says to the other one.

“You want more?” the other one asked me.

I nod. So much more.

They offer up their cocks and unleash their streams. One on my chest, my shoulders, my already soaked tank top. The other straight onto my face. I close my eyes to stop it getting in them, but I keep my mouth open this time. I feel the splashes of droplets of piss on my lips and my tounge. I extend my tongue to get more.

The next moment, piss is streaming into my mouth. Unexpected, but welcome. The taste is severe, the feeling warm like tea that’s been left to sit until it’s almost no good, but still just good enough. I let it smother my tongue, course around my mouth, till there’s almost too much. Then I let it spill out again and run down my chin to join the rest of the piss cascading down my chest.

“O yeah,” one of them’s saying.

“Drink up.”

I let my mouth fill up, and then I swallow. It tastes vile, acidic. It makes me want to retch. I let my mouth fill up and I gulp down another sickly, perfect mouthful. I let more spill out of my mouth and run down my cheek.

It’s over. I open my eyes again. The men look satisfied, entertained. Turned on.

“Thanks,” one of them says to me with a wink.

“Thanks,” I echo back.

More. I want more.

The next guy steps up. He’s young. Gym toned and dressed to show it off. He gestures to his friend who looks a little hesitant for a second, and then steps up with a look of why not? on his face.

I push myself up from sitting to kneeling, so my back’s no longer against the brick wall. I can feel the front of my singlet is sopping, and starting to feel cold in the breeze. The back is dry though. I want it all over me. Not a single bit left undrenched.

That moment of anticipation as they aim their cocks at me and will their piss to emerge. Then rays of gold firing at me again. Hitting my shoulders, one on each side.

One of them’s laughing. “Shit bro, this is wild.”

A third stream unexpectedly hits me from the back, the warm piss running down my left shoulder and arm. I turn to look and there’s a third man. Grinning as his stream washes over me, starts to soak the last remaining dry fabric of my singlet.

They’re done. I touch the wet fabric, press it against my skin. It’s warm, but cooling fast. I press hard, feel the liquid seep out like I’m wringing a sponge. My hands wet now with the piss of who knows how many men.

The next one. It’s washing through my hair. Dripping down my ears, my neck, my face. I stick my tongue out just enough to catch the rank rivulets of it that are streaming down my face. That salty, stale taste.

“Open up, boy.” Another one. Older. Fifties? Lecherous, leering. He’s holding his cock in front of my face, waiting for me to comply. I comply. I open my mouth wide, stick my tongue out to catch every drop like a gutter. He tenses as he tries to get started — that moment of delay from when you let it start till when it reaches the end of its journey through your urethra — and a second later his dark, golden stream is pouring down on me, hitting my tongue. I take it in — god it’s fucking strong — and I gulp it down. “Yeah, take that piss,” he’s saying to me as he fills me up with it. I take it all, don’t let any escape this time.

Then he’s done. All I feel is cold breeze against my wet skin.

I reach for the bottom of my singlet, and slowly pull it up. The wet fabric is clinging to me so I have to peel it off like a second, piss-drenched skin. It’s cold now. Inch by inch I separate it from my body, pull it up, then over my head. I drop it to the ground next to me, heavy with its load of fluid.

Two more men are pulling their cocks out of their pants and unleashing thick streams all over me. They hit my chest, splashing the newly exposed skin. I feel it wash over me. I reach out and touch it, try to grab it mid-stream just as it hits me. Their piss is magic: when it hits me it feels like a solid object, but when I reach out to grab it, it disappears with my touch.

One tapers off, then the other. One’s shaking his meaty, hefty cock, and golden drops of piss are flying off it into the night air. I look up at him; he’s grinning at me. He takes a step closer, so his cock is right there in front of my face. I can see a golden droplet hanging on the tip of his cock, and I put my mouth to it to catch it before it falls. His salty, stale, piss-scented cock resting against my lips. I feel his dick pulse, get a little harder, and a few more droplets dribble out onto my lips. I open them, just a little, to let the piss in before it can escape down my chin.

He leaves it there for a few more seconds. He wants me to suck it, I can tell. But that’s not what I’m here for. So I just sit there, my lips absorbing those last few drops, until he takes his cock away and puts it back into his pants.

More piss is hitting me. Unexpectedly. I hadn’t even seen him there, the young, toned guy in short shorts covered in glitter, holding his long slender cock in his hand as he directs his stream all over my chest. I put a hand to my chest; I rub the piss all over me as it hits me. It’s not like water; it’s not simply wet. It has this slippery quality to it, like it’s liquid latex coating me. As it continues to rain down on me I rub it all over my exposed skin: my sternum, my nipples. That smooth piss feels like lube as I rub it over my hard nipples.

The glittery guy is putting his cock away, but his friend is next. He’s covered in glitter paint too — sparkling rose pink — but he looks older, more solid, more hairy. He has a long cock with a fat head. “Open wide,” he’s telling me. I do it, I open my mouth wide as he brings his cock head close. I want him to feed me. I look up at his face, I see that look of concentration as he tries to make it come. And then his face relaxes with that look of release as he starts to expel it. An instant later and it’s there, hitting my tongue, filling my mouth. It’s not strong, not concentrated. But the taste is there, strong enough. That taste makes me hard. I gulp it down and then it’s filling up my mouth again. Gulp again. Filling up more. I gulp, and I let it fill up, this time spilling out of my mouth and down my chin.

He grabs my chin. Not rough enough to hurt me, just rough enough to show me he’s in charge. Tilts it forward, my head back, to stop the piss spilling out. “Don’t want to waste any,” he tells me. His stream slows, stops. I gulp the last of it down. He lets go of my chin, gives me two pats on the cheek. “Good boy.”

He steps away, and for a moment there’s no one waiting to take over. It’s just me, kneeling on the concrete drenched in the piss of a dozen or so men. It’s funny how fast it becomes cold, when it’s so warm in that instant when it hits me. I shiver as the breeze hits the cold, wet piss all over me. I look at my shorts: they’re drenched too, every bit of the fabric soaked right through. I can feel the cold fabric clinging to my thighs and my balls.

My knees are sore now from kneeling on the concrete. I should get up. But I don’t want to get up. I just want to stay here all night, kneeling on the ground getting showered in the piss of a hundred men.

I don’t have to wait long; it’s not over yet. Two guys are coming over. They must have seen. Must have been intrigued but unsure. But now they look like they’re sure.

They stand over me. “You want it?” one of them asks.

I nod. Enthusiastically. I rub my slick, piss-soaked chest in anticipation.

They let their streams loose on me. Two at the same time, one all over my chest, rivulets running down to my shorts. The other in my hair, rivulets running into my eyes — stinging, I have to close them tight — and onto my waiting tongue. Salty. Strong. Fuck I’m hard.

It’s over. I open my stinging eyes. My other senses come back to me: the cold wind, the pain of my knees on the concrete. I watch as they shake their cocks off and put them back in their pants.

But there are more guys now. A group of four. Leatherman. They’re into it, I can see it in their eyes.

“What have we got here?” one of them asks as they all crowd around.

“Look at him, he’s fucking drenched.”

“You want more, piss pig?” They’re already unbuttoning, unzipping. They know I want it.

I nod though. And I vocalise it. “Yes.” I can hear the desperation in my voice.

“Open wide.”

I open wide. I look up at the one that said that. He’s maybe early forties. Dark beard that’s starting to turn grey around the edges. Solid, shirtless, a leather harness framing his chest. I want to do whatever he tells me.

He inhales deeply. Then with an exhale the piss starts to pour from his cock. It hits my tongue, the force makes it splash, spill out. I gulp to swallow some. It’s tastes like manliness. It’s pouring down my chin. I open wide again, let it fill up with ripe, hormone-laden gold. I swallow, take it all inside of me.

“Take that piss, boy,” he’s ordering me.

I feel my shorts filling up with liquid — like the feeling of pissing yourself. I look down, I see one of the other guys’ streams dousing the already sodden fabric of my shorts, soaking it to capacity.

“Fuck that’s hot,” someone’s saying. I don’t know who it is.

“Look at that fucking pig, he’s loving it.”

Another stream hits me square on my chest; I put my hand up to it, try in vain to catch it, but I disperse it so it sprays across my chest in a hundred tiny droplets. And another stream, all over my right shoulder, running down my chest and my back.

I swallow again. Then I drop my head into the line of fire, letting him soak my face just as his stream starts to trail off. I close my eyes and feel the last drips trace down my eyelids and my cheeks.

The other streams stop too. But I hear movement, another body approaching. I turn to him, mouth open wide. Open my eyes. Stare at his crotch. But he doesn’t get it out. I look up at him, confused, expectant. He’s in high-vis. He looks a little amused, a little embarrassed. “Sorry guys,” he says. He’s trying to project authority, but keep it causal. “You can’t do that here.”

Oh, shit. He’s security? I ‘m going to get kicked out of the party, tweaking and covered in piss.

For what seems like an endless moment, I start to panic, just a little. I wonder what the fuck I’ve gone and done, letting all these strangers piss all over me. In a public place, in front of hundreds of people. Is that a crime? Am I going to get banned from the venue?

But then I realise it was all totally fucking worth it. I’ve never felt anything like this. And kneeling here, drenched in golden piss, I feel incredible. Who fucking cares if I get banned. I’ve found my vocation, my enlightened bliss, as a urinal.

I look up at him. I say nothing. One of the other guys says, “Sorry, man.” One of the others says, “What do you expect us to do? There’s only one toilet cubicle inside!” The others laugh at that. Even the security guard seems to find that funny.

“Get up, mate,” the security guard tells me.

I try get up. My knees are fucking killing me. One of the guys grabs my arm, helps me up.

The guard looks unsure what to do. Reluctant. I feel like he doesn’t want to kick me out but he’s not that sure what else to do. “Look dude,” he says. “You can’t do that here.”

“It’s okay man, we understand.” It’s the guy who pissed in my mouth, the one with the harness on. He looks at me. Smiles, reassuringly. “How ‘bout we go dance for a bit?”

I’d go anywhere you want. As long as you piss in my mouth again.

I nod. “Sure. Let’s go.” I’m trying to sound casual. I’m not sure if I’m pulling it off.

The group swallows me up and takes them with them. The guard doesn’t try to suggest otherwise, so I guess it’s all fine. As we head back towards the pavilion I hear him call out, “Maybe you should get him cleaned up?” We all ignore him. I don’t want to get cleaned up; I want to stay piss-soaked like this all night, breathing in the stench of all those men who’ve marked me.

I’m pretty sure these guys I’m following don’t want me cleaned up either.

Inside the heat hits me like a wall. The music is pulsing and the sea of human forms is heaving like an ocean. Harness grabs my hand, leads me into the crowd, his friends all around us as we snake through the people. Each time someone moves and a gap appears, we fill it. Like liquid. We percolate through the crowd like piss draining through gravel. The hand holding mine is firm, strong. Warm.

We get into the middle of the crowd and all of a sudden our little group spills out into the middle of a bigger group that seems to recognise all the men I’m with. Harness gets inundated with hugs and fist bumps by men who are happy to see him returned. He turns to me, leans in and yells over the boom of the music, “These are my mates. You wanna stick with us?”

I nod. Please just piss in my mouth again.

He dances up against me. I start to sway a little too. I listen to the beat of the music, and before I know it I’m lost within it. My hips are swaying, my arms caressing my slick skin as I grind up against my harnessed saviour. He puts his hands on my hips, gently, and comes in close.

We dance like that, I don’t know how long for. In the steaming heat of the dance floor I can smell all the piss of a dozen men evaporating off me into a rank perfume. I fucking love it. It makes my wet cock tingle as I inhale it all in deeply. Harness kisses me. I kiss back. We’re making out. His hands are all over me, touching my skin. I think the piss has all dried up now, but my skin is still slick and wet with the sweat of the dance floor. He kisses my sweaty neck. I’ve never felt electricity like that before.

I don’t know how long I’m lost in him, the rest of the world muffled and distant like I’m underwater. But I come up, I look around. I see two of the other guys who were pissing on me earlier. One of them catches my eye, comes over, and leans in.

“You want some more?” he asks.

Of course I do.

I drop to my knees. He pulls out his cock. He releases his stream and showers my hair with it. I close my eyes, feel it running down out of my hair, down my face, my neck, my chest. I open them; I see his friends cheering.

And now it’s on. There on the dance floor, I’m the centre of their cluster. They pull out their cocks, one by one, and piss all over me. Around the outsides of our little group there are thousands of people oblivious to what we’re doing — just dancing, pressed up against each other. But here in our little cluster I’m at the centre, getting drenched. I open my mouth, I greedily gulp down all the piss I can, as fast as I can.

I get up, I dance. Harness is there again. I hold him; he kisses me. His tongue exploring my mouth, full of human urine. We dance, our torsos stuck together by the sticky residue coating my skin. Then someone else taps me on the shoulder. I get down and get showered again.

I don’t know how long it goes on like this. Alternating between dancing and being pissed on, as fast as the men can rehydrate.

Eventually harness tells me, “My turn.” He’s replenished, ready. Fuck I’ve been dying for this moment. I drop to my knees, obediently. Enthusiastically. Desperately. His is the piss I want the most...

That's as far as I got with the story. I have a rough idea of the ending, but it's not quite fully formed. Once I have it, I'll share it with you. In the meantime, hope you liked what you read.