Piss Icarus [The Fitting Room Incident] (Patreon)

My first piece of writing to share... I'm a little shy LMAO

Urgency surged in Strife, so sharp and concentrated that she felt her pelvic muscles shift. Her hand tightened around the green slurry of ice and matcha powder that remained of the latte she’d finished twenty minutes ago, the plastic keening as it bowed in her grasp. It was a fun game when she’d picked it up on impulse at the bookstore next door, a fun what if i reaaaally push my limits sort of thought. She’d already had to pee then, enough that when she got up to the counter her bladder ached as if to remind her that she had certainly been hydrated enough. 

But what was a bookstore browse without a treat in hand? And who was Strife, if not a quiet deviant who liked the way her bladder complained? In this outdoor shopping center there were plenty of bathrooms anyways, she had told herself, knowing full well she would refuse to use them. 

The bookstore had been a pleasurable discomfort as she picked over new horror novels. She squatted to browse the books on the lowest shelf and her need for relief clawed its way up her spine as her bladder compressed. Then, she’d felt fit to burst. She imagined, indulgently, that if she had been wearing a skirt today she might be able to relax and let out a little spray onto the carpet. She pictured the sweet release and the even sweeter heart-pounding excitement of the forbidden. The soft hiss of her stream as it would catch and pool in her panties… flooding them with her urgency so fiercely it would surely fight through the fabric and continue nearly unimpeded in force. 

Strife had even leaned over then, pressing it intentionally, relaxing her bladder… daring the dam to break. If she wasn’t careful, she’d make an awful stain on her pale jeans. Picturing it made her pussy throb, deliciously preventing any stray drops. So she quit her dreaming and instead stifled her base instincts, and eventually found a book with a flashy cover and a good hook to take home.

And she could’ve gone home, listening to that insistent needling in her belly.

Instead, she went to the next store, a big box thrift place that had seen better days. Strife remembered coming to this thrift joint maybe once or twice before. She remembered most that she’d found a band shirt from a tour she’d wanted badly to attend but was too cheap to fork over the ticket cost, which was cool. Strife also recalled quietly, and it was undeniable that it factored into her decision to browse, that they always had one changing room that they left full of clothing with an ‘out of order’ sign. She’d glimpsed it once when an employee left it open to dump an armful of likely donations onto the bench there. Terrible system, she’d thought then. 

Now, though, it was all she could think about. She could see, as she crept through aisles flicking through racks for hidden gems, the same white sign on the door. 

Strife’s heart pounded. Her pussy was so wet that her thighs slid and glided when she walked, and her free hand trembled as she shuffled hangers down their metal beams. The squealing of metal on metal was blotted out by the drone of voices and slightly too-loud country music. 

The place was packed, honestly. She was starting to get nervous that there may be too many eyes around. The queue for the registers doubled over on itself, and there were people almost everywhere she looked. Two middle aged does browsed blouses not far from her, and behind her she could hear a gaggle of college guys laughing about a shirt’s slogan. 

Strife had a flash of lust. She wished she could just calmly unbuckle her pants, slide them and her panties down her thighs, bend over and let loose. Strife wanted to spread her ass and show off her holes to strangers. She pulsed with want as she imagined those boys watching her urinate brazenly, imagined too that she might earn a hard fucking for it. She had dreams like that sometimes. She had daydreams like that constantly.

The latte was winning. Her stomach tightened, bladder aching painfully. A strong surge rushed through her and she pressed her thighs together, barely enough to stop the onslaught that was coming. Her pussy tingled with the sensation of urine collecting to be released, the subtle easing of weakening and burning muscles.

It snapped her from her horny daze. Strife grabbed a terrible tiger-striped blouse off the rack and sped towards the fitting rooms. It was the sort of hurried, confident stride one had when desperate but safely near to a bathroom. She’d make it. 

Not, of course, to the open and unoccupied restrooms on the opposite side of the store. Strife would instead make it to her bathroom, which was a stretch of small rooms against the rightmost wall.  Blessedly, there was no line for the fitting rooms, but they were all closed and securely locked with an occupant within. 

Save for that special room with the sign…

Strife stopped to survey, trying to focus over her need and her beating heart. Everyone in the vicinity was engrossed in browsing their racks, chatting with friends, holding up t-shirts in consideration. She saw no employees around, they must all be pinned down with the rush at the checkouts, and the cameras were positioned mostly at the front entrance. Strife suspected it was mainly to catch shoplifters making their escapes… if they were real cameras at all. Given the state of the store, she was doubtful. 

The air was stale in the building despite the blustering air conditioning that dripped into a bucket atop multiple layers of paper towels. A few of the fluorescent lights had burned out overhead, leaving parts of the store in a sickly dim light. Even these fitting rooms had finger smudges on the doors that a single wipedown could have fixed long before that shade of black was achieved. 

There was earnestly no way she would’ve bailed on this idea anyways, despite how she tried to spin it. It was far too late for that. 

Strife tore the paper ‘out of order’ sign off the door and opened it with the struggling hand that held the shirt and paper, sliding inside. Door shut. Lock pressed. There were no gaps in the fitting room doors here, it felt like she was in a too-warm fortress. She let her back rest against the door, heart going so hard that she could see her breasts tremble subtly with each beat. Strife was faced with the full length mirror in the room, which reflected her wild-eyed gaze, glossy with lust. Her own voyeur, Strife couldn’t help but smile at herself, at the situation. 

And oh, what a treasure trove!

She set her cup aside and tossed the ugly shirt and sign onto a pile of unsorted clothing, which was what took up most of the standing and sitting room. Only a circle of bare dark blue carpet was exposed in the center of the floor, everything else was covered in heaps of employee laziness. Better yet, the scent of an inoffensive detergent rose to her nose. All of this was freshly washed! 

Strife licked the black line of her lips and went for her belt, stripping it clear and setting it to her right on the bench. She decided arbitrarily that was where her clothes would go, the only safe spot in here.

Strife locked eyes with herself as she pulled her shirt off, admiring her small breasts and the rounded curve of her stomach. She ran her hands over her tits, thumbs grazing her nipples, and would have gotten quickly distracted if it weren’t for the fact that she had to pee right now!

Strife went for her jeans, struggling with the button. Her body knew what was to come and escalated this to a full scale emergency, forcing her to dance and squirm as she fought. 

“Oh my god,” she muttered, beading sweat. “I’m not seriously going to wet my—“

There! The button came loose. The zipper was wrenched down, and Strife grabbed her pants and ripped them down.

Unlike in her perfect imagination, she failed to grab her panties too and immediately began urinating in them. For a moment she was powerless to it, peeing hotly into her black underwear that immediately glistened, saturated, and began leaking and dripping into her pooled jeans. Choking back her squeak of panic, Strife swayed, trying to angle her hips away from her own pants. 

Panties were her enemy this day, because they held the flow just enough to make it stream down her thighs and again into her stupid fucking jeans!

Finally, Strife thought to pull them aside. Revealed, her flushed and slick pussy felt cool to the air as an arc of pale yellow piss burst free from it. She was so desperate all she could feel was sweet release, euphoric pleasure that almost drew a moan from deep inside of her. Her stream splattered across the floor heavily, first the carpet, then into a pile of clean laundry where its distracting noise quieted. Shirts and hoodies darkened, glistened, and then grew puddles of her yellow urine when the fabric had enough. 

Strife was so, so full though. It had only been a matter of seconds since she’d ducked into the fitting room. She knew from past experience that a similar hold to this one could mean filling a super sized cup to the brim and then some. She throbbed at the thought and her stream cut off a moment, dripping into her pants, before harshly resuming with a resounding hiss. 

She pushed, just slightly, and the yellow arc thickened into a wild spray and struck the mirror. Lemony droplets glittered down the surface and scattered everywhere, leaving darkened spots on every piece of clothing piled under the mirror. Strife loved seeing her revealed pussy and cute tits in the mirror, but wanted for more destruction.

She shuffled in her slightly damp pants to her left, using her fingertips to spread her pussy so her stream wouldn’t be caught and interrupted by her labia… though this was easier said than done. She was so turned on that she could barely get a good grip, and her right hand slid on slick flesh and she promptly urinated on it. 

Flicking droplets off her hand, she bore down and sent a true firehose of piss hurtling towards an unsuspecting pile of donated clothing. Delighted that a white shirt lay atop the pile, she focused her efforts in soaking it through. 

It yellowed and darkened, becoming so saturated that it relented to transparency. Strife began to see the pattern of a bright floral sundress showing through and felt awash with arousal and pride. She wiggled her hips for good measure, leaving a yellow signature across a long white sleeve. 

The scent of her wolfdog urine reached her nose, mixed with her thick heady arousal. It only fueled her, head a fog, the naughtiness of this churning her stomach into not-quite-nervous knots. Her nipples were hard against the cool air and she wanted to be fucked badly. 

Strife swung her hips to the right, piss droplets in her wake, to mark the other side. She ruined a blue tanktop, then a pair of duck socks, then— she turned too far and got caught on her bunched jeans. 

She stumbled, unable to stop urinating now even if she wanted to, onto the clothing covered bench where she’d set her shirt and belt. Strife was half-laying across it, pushing herself up on her hands with her legs still stretched out and stuck in her jeans. This time, she did yip when she glanced back and saw a hard jet of her piss arc across her black tee. 

“Ah, shit— shit!” she squealed, not even able to worry about being overheard, and pulled herself away from her own clothing.

In a panic, she only pissed harder, soaking half her shirt before her body obeyed and she moved her hips to sit squarely on the bench. The soft fabric beneath her ass immediately became hot and wet, but it was a terribly hydrophobic blanket. 

Beads of yellow rolled off it like marching soldiers, directly onto her poor shirt where they then became part of a shining wetness that mocked her. She shifted her hips further back onto the bench, trying to direct it away, and felt a responding wetness on the backs of her thighs as deserting droplets began pouring into her jeans. 

Fuck this! She nearly leapt off the bench.

Strife landed on the patch of exposed carpet with her pants around her knees and pussy downright kissing this probably filthy fucking floor. 

Disgust surged through her… and a hungry wave of pleasure matched it. The thought of paws and shoes and god knows what dirtying this floor over the years, questionably cleaned at best, turned her on in a way she didn’t fully understand. It made her think of humping a lover’s boot as her only means of pleasure, and it struck her as ridiculous and nonsensical and gross.

…and so hot.

Strife pressed her bare pussy flush to the carpet, where it was already wet, and engaged her muscles to push her stream. 

Hot piss thundered from her, heavy and defiant. Stray droplets marked her thighs. She wasn’t being quiet at all, her spray was loud and unmistakable, and it made her ears burn with embarrassment. She was certain someone would come to investigate, or flag an employee… and then she’d be caught. Her pussy throbbed at the thought. 

The dark blue carpet became black as it drank up her mess. It was a thin, cheap thing that was no match for more than a thimble of fluid. Though it tried its very hardest to swallow up her half-full bladder, soon she felt urine puddling around her ass and pussy. The hissing was soon accompanied by an awful, obvious splashing. 

Strife watched a dark, shining pool spread around her as her bladder emptied, relief tingling up and down her spine, arousal washing her. It smelled like piss in here, she’d have to trade out a shirt, and she had to hurry. 

Feeling as if an invisible timer had started, like this was some game, she was now feeling hopelessly pinned here. A slave to her urges, as she often was, sitting in her puddle like a pet that needed to be rehomed. Strife cursed herself, her bladder… she was still fucking peeing. 

Letting go of her panic, because she could do nothing useful with it, Strife let her head fall back and her eyes shut. She drew in a deep breath of her scent and focused on the increasing sensation of relief and emptiness. She sprayed harder, sending droplets everywhere, her puddle beginning to creep towards the door now. Strife started to think she should bill them for her power washing services. 

She drew a hand over her breast, feeling and cupping, then playing with the nipple. Her other hand, the one she’d already accidentally pissed on, got the ultimate prize of rubbing her slick clit with one smoothing finger. The direct contact threatened to overstimulate her, nerve-endings burning, but she pressed on. Her hard spray lessened to a thick trickle, then to a thin stream, and finally to drops.

When she finally finished, sitting fully emptied in her puddle, Strife’s right hand began to work furiously. She introduced three fingers and rubbed her clit firmly in a tight circle, just how she liked. She got herself to orgasm within ten seconds. 

It rolled over her like a summer thunderstorm, bringing about a low groan that came from the very root of her being. Her hips rolled, pleasure rippled through her in roiling waves. True overstimulation came for her, burning hot, and she drew her hand away and let her nerves fall soothed and quiet.

The situation dawned on her immediately. Her ass was very wet, and as she climbed to her feet, warm rivulets fell from her anew. 

With the stone cold efficiency of a pit team, she set to action. A pair of leggings became her towel, she mopped herself clean where she stilled gleamed and swiped over her pussy for good measure. Though it was tossed aside, she took a moment to admire the slick smear she left behind on it. Strife hunted for a dry black shirt, reassembled her outfit and said goodbye to her poor pissed-on shirt, and reached for the door. 

As her hand hovered over the knob, she hesitated. 

Strife turned and produced her phone from her speckled jeans, snapping a few delicious photos of the crime scene. Then she tossed clothing here and there, covering up obvious puddles, and threw her matcha cup into the big puddle on the floor. It would fool nobody, but it would buy time. 

Strife slipped out into the thrift store, feeling the thrill and excitement still boiling over in her belly. She moved confidently, nonchalant, poker-face fully in place even as a zebra woman’s hard stare scalded through her. The other woman had just emerged from the fitting room and surely, certainly, she’d heard it all. 

Without even bothering to spare her a glance, though, Strife just moved on. She moved to the front of the store, where the line persisted at the registers, and browsed thoughtlessly some pairs of jeans. She’d only linger for a minute or two more though, thinking entirely of how she would behave if the zebra woman confronted her, or if someone flagged her down. 

If she’d cry, pretend she didn’t make it and was truly and ultimately mortified. If she’d own it, which was less likely but what she truly wanted.

Thankfully, no such situation came to blows. She slipped out the front doors and into the blue and greens of spring, her heart still racing with the exhilaration.