Making It Look Casual (Patreon)

I wrote again.

Strife was already a little drunk when she stepped up to the flank of the beachside bar, cool wind whistling through her curls. With Moth at her side, settling into a stool and chatting with the bartender to order their third round, Strife felt delightfully impervious to any of the woes of the world. 

It was this dangerous, invincible mood that led to her worst decisions. Strife couldn’t help it. She was even on vacation! Far from home, all of her worst ideas felt delicious and achievable. The moment a drop of alcohol entered the equation, she’d essentially signed her deal with the devil.

She watched her sweet boyfriend befriend the bartender, thinking indulgently of the taste of his mouth and how it felt to squeeze his dick in her hand. Thought of once squatting over him in the bathtub and pissing hard onto his muzzle. When he instinctively shut his mouth and furrowed his brows, she’d wrenched his mouth open, lowered her pussy over his maw, and sprayed directly onto his tongue and against his flexing throat as he choked. Piss had gone everywhere. Moth arced his hips and slapped thrice against the tub for mercy. 

Strife glanced around for witnesses without really meaning to. Her pussy was throbbing and her bladder was full. When it was time to break the seal, which she’d been desperately resisting, she’d meant to relieve herself in the ocean when the urge overcame her, focusing on her good clean day of fun. That version of Strife was long dead and buried. She had to piss so badly it was making her wildly horny and equally unwise, daydreaming of petty crimes. 

The bartender was blocked from her view by an inconveniently placed margarita machine, she’d had to crane around to even see if there was anyone behind the bar, but Moth could see both the bartender and her well.

She dwelled on him drunkenly. His own curls were defined with saltwater and dusted with sand, dark eyes outlined with creases from squinting at the sun. In the sunlight, his pale fur glowed alabaster. Here, in the shade, he was blue. Her adorable boyfriend. So handsome. She just wanted to squish his stupid face. 

On to the scenery. The dots that were distant strangers on the beach were no threat to her plan.  The dining guests at the beachfront restaurant that hovered over the white beach like a hen on her eggs may get a show if they looked closely this way. The thought gave her an indulgent, purring thrill that filled her body warmly and her muscles tightened pleasurably, so it counted in no way as a detractor to the idea she’d hatched. 

Someone might film her if they were so bothered.  Strife was so powerfully turned on by the thought she almost forgot herself and reached a hand to her own breast, disguised in a sober instant as adjusting her bikini top. 

She followed the strap up to where it tied around her neck, twirling her finger through the bunched strings, and played with her hair. The wind tickled the back of her neck and it was just enough. Just enough to draw a feather across her bladder, to make up her mind. 

Strife relaxed, enjoying the tingling shifting of releasing muscle as she focused on letting out a little bit. Strife, as a staunch piss professional, knew well that she could safely urinate a small amount without making much of a mess at all. A reasonable amount of mess, a few stray droplets down the thigh or a wet spot on the panties. Since she was in an already wet bikini, there was essentially no risk at all. 

Strife let out a dribble and felt a thrill at the wet heat that filled her bottoms. Warm, like a cupped hand pressed against her pussy, and wetness that flashed warning signs to her civilized brain. Her bikini bottoms trapped liquid oddly, meaning she was in her own personal warm puddle. 

Strife rested her arms on the bar, leaning forward and crossing her legs. Very casual indeed. Squeezing her thighs together made a squelching noise she was mostly sure only she heard and forced beads of urine free. They ran down her thighs, some falling and some set as droplets on a stray fur curl. 

 A frozen margarita was in front of her now and she smiled at Moth, who smiled back with his amber eyes aglow with affection, and took a long sip. 

“I’m gonna pee myself,” she told him in a whisper he knew instantly as conspiratorial, like she was letting him in on a secret. 

Moth’s inner ears flared dark pink and she watched a mix of several emotions thunderstorm across his face. He laughed first, though she saw arousal sear sharply afterwards by the way he licked his lips and flitted his eyes over her. Moth knew she was serious, which accounted for a final flash of panic. He settled on a very measured joking-but-serious tight smile. 

“Do not pee yourself,” he muttered, leaning in. He looked at her margarita and she snatched it up before he thought to revoke it. His hand flexed uselessly against his thigh, too late to the draw, and so he pointed it at her as if to be firm. 

Strife was past bargaining. And she would certainly not be bargaining with a man she’s used as a urinal. 

“I’ll make it look casual,” she assured him.

“Do not— don’t do it at all, actually,” Moth tried. 

Strife let out a hot stream of urine that saturated and filled every fiber of her bottoms, delicious new heat enveloping her pussy like an instant reward. With a full spray, her pee collected in droplets only for a moment before forming a thick stream that poured from her shining, darkened bottoms. It caught in her sealed thighs and pooled. Her thighs were thick enough to contain it… until it began streaming in thin gleaming lines down her calves and ankles. 

“I’m peeing,” Strife told him. To torture him. To force him to tear his eyes away from her face pleading to confirm.

His gaze held grief, which she understood to share two feelings of acceptance and yet agony over the instant boner he was burdened with. And, of course, the possible other consequences. Moth turned his head to the bar. Strife knew, even drunk, by watching the minute relief in his face, that the bartender had walked out of range. 

Feeling as if she had been given righteous permission, Strife spread her legs. Trapped urine fell from her thighs in a loud splatter across the wooden floorboards laid out around the bar, but it was nothing compared to the thunderous pattering of her fresh hot stream.

Moth’s ears pinned as he cringed at the noise, cute fangs making the expression oh-so-charming to her. 

She was pissing through her bottoms now like there was no fabric layer. The stream was thick and messy, catching and breaking as it fell unevenly from her bottoms. It felt so fucking good. 

Strife throbbed from her pussy up to her twitching tail, tightening for an instant enough to cut off her stream before it resumed thickly. Her bottoms were so saturated there was no visible difference in the drizzling at all. 

It was not enough for her still-aching bladder. 

To let it simply fall out of her would get her nowhere when it came to speed, which Strife would establish as crucial in her soon-to-be bestseller ‘how to piss anywhere.’ She had come up with the idea for the book in that same microsecond. Alcohol made time feel thick like molasses to Strife, who lived in each little velvety moment thinking many thoughts and being very horny. Her new idea was to piss hard and fast. For efficiency, she would write in the book…

She bore down and forced out a powerwashing spray down onto the deck. Moth was agape. She played with her hair and chewed on her straw… but she eventually couldn’t resist. Strife peeked down between her now slightly bent knees to admire the gushing fucking waterfall between her legs. 

It was a concentrated yellow piss, visibly golden as it fell in shimmering curtains in the summer air. It spattered on the smooth floor everywhere. Droplets were on the bottom of the bar and Moth’s stool. Her thighs were soaked and dripping. The puddle that reached the sand left a darkened patch, clumps of wet sand in random patches around it.

The scent of wolfdog piss flickered here and there, carried off by the strong breeze. The sound of her full force pissing was but a distant whisper in the wind…

Not really. Even she wasn’t drunk enough to ignore the sound of someone spraying a garden hose on a wooden deck. 

Every part of Strife screamed at her. She needed to stop, she needed to move, she was going to get in serious trouble if nothing changed this instant! Ignoring that base, primal terror lit Strife ablaze with desire as she relieved herself like an animal right at the bar. She felt like an animal. Her flagged tail throbbed uncontrollably, too taken with the pleasure to even wag with the stupid joy she was feeling. Flagging alone was one of the most obvious i’m currently urinating signals known to all tailed kind, if it weren’t clear she was slightly squatting and of course visibly spraying urine through her bottoms. 

Anyone who saw her would know what she was doing. Her pussy throbbed, her clit obvious to her against the fabric of her bottoms. She wanted it rubbed, but Moth made a hand signal in sudden panic under the bar and his eyes got wild. 

Change, now, targets, move, no more noise— she stumbled backward until she was over the hot sand, splattering and spraying the whole way. She left a dark trail of wet sand that lightened quickly. Unbalanced already from the alcohol, she bent her knees and squatted to keep from falling completely, bracing herself on the beach. 

Strife pissed a dent into the soft, top layer of sand. Her urine bubbled and darkened, soaking and drying and rewetting as the sand gulped up her moisture. Urine trails had her thighs wet, stinging slightly from the ammonia of her processed drinks. Sand was sticking to her uncomfortably in some of the areas just wetted… but it was blessedly quiet in comparison to her showboating. Stopping wasn’t an option.

Moth was talking to the bartender, Strife couldn't quite make out the conversation over the sound of her pounding heart. Moth laughed, and the bartender shared it, the sound retreating, so she figured all was well. 

Strife stood and shuffled back over to the bar, dribbling and streaming as she did, sidling up to Moth’s side.

Heat came off his body and he was breathing hard. She saw in two glances that his dick was clearly straining against his tented trunks, and that the bartender had walked off presumably to get their check. 

While the bartender had his back turned, she impulsively wrenched aside her bottoms and forced the last of her bladder onto Moth’s leg and trunks. He winced at first, then held steady and took it like a good boy while he squeezed his aching dick, eyes fixed on her exposed pussy and dark with a decadent arousal. She blasted urine across his lap and hand, staining his pale fur lightly yellow as she wet it.

Her stream was waning, her relief at its peak, and she managed one last good squirt in a prime location— across the surface of the bar in front of Moth where condensation already left puddles. 

She was finally done, her flow a drip, her bladder blessedly empty. Strife stepped back out of sight of the bartender as he returned with the check, unable to look him in the eye, and fixed her bottoms. Her heart pounded. Her ears burned. She felt almost dizzy with the adrenaline, like she was going to pass out. 

Her puddle on the wood was immense and she could clearly tell it was pee. It took all her strength not to kick sand over it and hide the mess, but it made her far hornier to make herself leave it. The mortification of it was like pressing on a bruise. Delicious discomfort. 

Strife scoped the surroundings for any witnesses, trembling. Her heart exploded in a nearly orgasmic mix of fear and sexual pleasure when she saw a leopard man at the restaurant watching her from the railing. He had no phone, however, to have caught the action. Only a drink in his hand and the sort of smile that told her that her secret was safe with a fellow pervert.  

Grateful, she smiled back and pulled her top down so he could see a single breast, which she thought was tasteful. 

“Go get in the water,” Moth rumbled, stepping up to her side and pushing her forward onto the beach with an insistent hand on her lower back.

“I dunno,” Strife teased. “I’m kinda scared a tall hot wolf guy with a big dick might try to fuck me in there…” 

“No, just some hand stuff. I’m scared of getting saltwater up your holes or something. Feels wrong.”

“Google if it hurts to have sex in the ocean.”