Night Watering (Patreon)

Strife and Dema voyage home from the bar. Dema can't find her keys in time when they reach home. Shenanigans ensue. Intoxication/drunkenness, desperation, making weird things your toilet. Voted on by Straight From the Tap and written in a feverish haze. 2.9k words.

“I thought you said your place wasn’t that far away!” Strife hissed through gritted teeth. “You lying bitch!” 

“I didn’t really say it was close either. I just said I was too cheap to pay for the ride back when we can totally walk it,” Dema said cooly. She strode gracefully and calmly, posture precise and composed as she took step after step forward. Strife envied how well-assembled she looked.

“You look like an expensive prostitute,” she said. 

“Wow, thanks,” Dema scoffed, side-eyeing Strife. 

Strife knew how it sounded, so she gave Dema a helpless, tipsy look. “You know what I mean. Like a really nice one. You look so good in deep red. Gala ready. Gala–gala…” 

Dema laughed when her words turned to mush and did a little spin under the warm lights of the sleeping city streets. Her wine-red dress hugged her beautiful curves. Strife particularly liked how it folded underneath her apron belly. She wasn’t sure if Dema was even really aware that was happening, but it made Strife want to lick her clean, spine prickling with arousal. Strife imagined she’d taste salt and her mouth watered.

Strife spun too, mostly for the feel of the wind in her curls and the dizzying aftermath that made her brace herself on a closed storefront. She was in black jeans and a band tee though, not quite so club-ready but fully accessorized with all her favorite piercings and a bold eye look. She admired her reflection in the smudged glass window. 

“I’m hot too,” Strife said, to no one in particular. Dema’s soft laugh led her onward, because it came from several feet away and Strife feared her independent friend might abandon her. 

(In reality, that would never happen. But Dema’s pace suggested it would.)

“Soooo hot,” Dema agreed as Strife jogged to catch up, smoothing her dark ponytail over her shoulder and looking forward.

The pilgrimage continued. The streets were not entirely unpopulated, mostly packs of tipsy friends laughing and chatting harmlessly. Some offered little hellos. They traversed past the glowing hearths of still-open convenience stores, which Dema tugged Strife past by the hand to prevent her from going in and demanding all of their sour gummies. 

Neither of them stopped in for a pee, but they both thought about it.

They’d went round for round, matched evenly in drinks, though Dema held hers like a champion and Strife felt like she was playing a hyperrealistic release of GTA. Though they carried themselves differently as they stumbled home in the beautiful, glittering city with its pale purple clouds drifting over a pearly moon, they both felt that primordial urge for relief. 

The pair of them had silently settled on waiting until they got back to Dema’s. It was standard, really, to try to avoid using the gross bar toilets.

Well, it was standard when she went out with Dema. Dema hated public bathrooms, bar bathrooms most of all, and had her heart set on holding it until she could use the safety of her home. Personally, Strife liked to play little games in bar toilets when she was in the mood.

Her mind wandered warmly, her belly filling with sticky arousal as she thought back to previous adventures. Once a dive bar bathroom had a line and no empty stalls. Strife, in a strike of drunk inspiration, stepped out of the line and climbed atop the bathroom trashcan by the sinks. She took her pants down and rained piss into the pile of damp paper towels within it while four other women gawked at her. To her delight then, another woman broke ranks to urinate into one of the sinks.

Last month, she’d entered a private bar bathroom to find it was in pristine condition. It’s metal surfaces gleamed like mirrors, there was no graffiti or stray toilet paper anywhere, and its porcelain was shiny and new. It was probably the nicest she’d ever seen. With the near-perfect place to herself, the devil crawled up out of her.

Strife’s pussy throbbed as she relived it. She was deeply ashamed of it, actually. It had kept her up some nights. But it also made her extremely wet and horny. Both feelings existed in a delicious mix in her gut. 

She’d looked at that wonderful bathroom, took her panties off, and piss marked every inch of it. She’d sprayed across the length of the floor and up each of the walls in dripping arcs, hosed down the toilet, sink, and door handles so that no part of it was safe to touch. She climbed up and pissed into the gurgling sink drain, then leaned back, spread her pussy, and blasted the mirror... She even pulled all the paper towels out of the machine and wetted them all with her yellow, stinking wolfdog piss. To finish off, she’d taken all the toilet paper rolls in the room and squatted over them. She filled each with the remnants of her bladder, making them heavy, sodden, and yellow. Utterly useless, their thin layers sealing and melting together into hot pulp. She’d been back to the bar twice and no one had ever stopped her, so she figured she got away with it. 

“I told you about how I peed all over that bathroom once, right?” Strife slurred, her tongue loosened with liquor. 

“Oh yeah, I couldn’t forget that story. I keep imagining being the employee sent to clean it. I guess it would mop up fine. But I’d be pissed,” Dema snorted. 

“I feel so bad. I’m going to hell,” Strife said mournfully.

“Probably. I know your ass is gonna do it again too.”

Strife didn’t have anything to say to that, because it was true. Her panties were damp and she was starting to have to pee quite badly. She wondered how badly Dema had to pee. She then took a moment to shame herself for how much she thought about pee. 

“Almost there,” Dema said, about ten minutes later, as they rounded into the more residential neighborhoods. These were small houses, mostly occupied by a population of college-aged renters, with pretty gardens in the front. Some had manicured lawns, others had masses of wildflowers. Strife admired both as she drew in a deep breath, tasting the greenery on the wind. 

“Finally,” Strife complained.

They slowed in front of a cute blue house with a blooming mix of wildflowers and ripening vegetables in the front yard. Dema walked carefully up a stone pathway up a staircase and onto her deck. Strife followed, peering curiously at her friend’s decorations and furniture.

The welcome mat simply read “Go Away” in a fancy text. There was a pair of rocking chairs set up around a little table on the deck, surrounded by potted plants that threatened to overwhelm the space. A metal sun decoration hung on the house, probably thrifted from what she knew about Dema, and Strife squinted out at the dark garden to see if she could see any other quirky objects. 

“Shit.” 

Strife pricked a floppy ear in Dema’s direction idly while she identified a cherubic face in the garden. “Hm? Do you have gnomes? Why the hell do you have gnomes?” 

“I can’t find my keeeey,” Dema whined. Her facade of grace was cracking and she was starting to bow over, knees bending and trembling. 

Strife began to feel a similar mounting urgency, fear leaping in her chest as she realized this might actually be her problem too. “Well, it’s gotta be in your purse. Can’t be far…” Strife said unhelpfully, as if she could bargain with the universe to twist in their favor. 

“I can’t– shush, just hold on a second,” Dema said. She fully squatted and fit her palm against her pussy, head bowed in focus.

“You’re freaking me out!” Strife squeaked. She too began to squirm a little, crossing one leg in front of the other. 

“Shut up,” Dema said. “It’s like my body knows I’m right here..” 

Her voice was quiet and pathetic, high and tight in her throat. She hovered and crouched over her mat, unsteady, with her purse in her lap. Dema dug through it desperately, pawing over lipsticks, chapsticks, wallet, phone, and endless random shit that definitely didn’t need to be making her keys that much harder to find. 

They both sat in the relative quiet, hearts pounding in time. The only sound was Dema’s purse rustling and clicking as she sifted through items, interspersed with the distant chirps and cries of insects. 

“Come on,” Strife said softly, insistently, trying to emphasize her urgency. 

“Strife, I’m trying,” Dema snapped, her desperation clear in the sharp cut of her voice. Strife’s ears flattened in offense and she chewed her cheek. She crossed her legs tighter and squirmed, starting to reach and pull at her belt. 

Tense silence, broken with a worried groan.

“I can’t, I can’t find it,” Dema said, and the tone in her voice was growing soft and weak. She was losing and Strife knew it, and her pussy throbbed several times at the thought. Dema put her purse aside, abandoning trying to find the keys, and put her hands on her thighs and thought. 

Strife didn’t dare speak. 

“I have to pee in the garden,” Dema said, decisive. “Otherwise I’m peeing myself. And I… refuse to have to rinse myself off with a hose at the end of a night out.”

Strife’s stomach flipped with arousal. Her pussy was throbbing. She ground her clit into the seam of her jeans as she squeezed her thighs together. She could probably hold it, realistically. Strife had a pretty tough bladder, all things considered, and her capacity was impressive. However, a chance for Dema to piss… was a chance for Strife to also piss. Now it became part of feeding her beast, feeding her kink. 

“I have to go too,” Strife added quickly. 

Dema stood slowly, hand pressed tight to her pussy to hold her seal shut. She began to creep towards the steps at a snail’s pace, intending to make it to her cute garden. It wasn’t a very big garden, and Strife’s brain started to whir thinking about where she should let loose herself. 

Dema didn’t even respond. She was too focused. Each step down the stairs had her freezing and rocking into her palm, teeth gritted uncomfortably. Strife stepped after her and still reached the garden before she did, fully unbuckling her belt and loosening it in her pants loops. She grabbed the top of her jeans and worked them down over her round rump. Strife pushed her jeans all the way down her legs and eventually stepped out of them, peeling off her underwear and depositing it in the pile of her pants. 

She was nude from the waist down in Dema’s garden. The cool post-midnight breeze drew across her belly and thighs, cooling the heat of her pussy and reminding her just how wet she was. Strife didn’t realize she was being a bit obvious, the drinks obscuring her judgement, as she stared at Dema like a hot Winnie the Pooh. 

“You’re liking this,” Dema muttered, shaking her head. She made it to her garden bed, lowering herself terribly, achingly slowly over the dirt where her tomatoes sprouted up out of. Dema didn’t remove her hand though, not yet. 

“Where do you want me to go?” Strife asked instead of confessing. 

“I don’t care,” Dema gritted out, eyes shutting tight in focus. She was teaching a class in willpower now, flushed and sweating, hand cupped tight against her own panties. Strife began to understand that she was trying to think of how to to get her panties down fastest. The moment that hand was gone, she’d be blasting. 

Strife idly began to glance around for a place to pee, continually looking back to ensure she wasn’t missing a moment of Dema’s soon-to-be stream. There was a smug looking garden gnome leaning on a shovel to her right, the little face she’d glimpsed in the mix of plants earlier. 

As she stepped astride him, she heard a hiss and glanced over to catch Dema snatching her panties away from her starting stream. Strife squinted to focus her dizzy gaze on Dema’s adorable, plush pussy. A fat, clear jet of urine pounded the dirt underneath Dema, hissing and foaming. It puddled in the dirt, filling the bed with a growing, gleaming wet puddle that soaked and became more of a sloshy soup of piss and mud. 

Dema sighed softly, relieved, ears drooping as she relaxed all her muscles. Her tail hiked slowly higher and higher, twitching slightly and brushing a tomato sucker that caused the whole plant to shiver.

Strife, encouraged and aroused by the sight, squatted over Dema’s garden gnome and summoned up her own urine. A thin trickle fell in loose droplets from her, spattering one-two-three onto the gnome’s stupid fuckin hat. She pushed a little and sprayed down over the front of his cone hat, spilling over his grinning face. Strife licked her lips as urine collected in the sculpting of his smile, darkening and saturating his shitty paint job. 

A sharp gasp startled Strife, who tightened and her stream spurted out in a stiff, thin laser jet directly onto the gnome’s mouth and beard where it spattered into a hundred smaller drops. 

Dema was staring daggers at her, jaw hanging, fury in her eyes. “My gnome! Leave my fuckin– he’s my friend, stop pissing on him!!! Bad, bad dog!” Dema snarled, though she was pinned down to her spot and unable to stand up and do anything about it. She simply pissed harder into the soil, where she was penetrating a deep hole with her waters, and Strife understood what it looked like to Piss Angrily. 

Strife stumbled away from the gnome, ears flattened, frowning. “You said you didn’t care!” she said. She squeezed to stop her stream, though several droplets fell down her thighs in wet trails and hung off her curly fur.

“I expected you to have basic decency. You monster.” Dema folded her arms to make her point, though Strife knew that was not a comfortable position to hold naturally while she hovered over the mud puddle she was making. Strife was impressed by Dema’s dedication to spite.

Strife groaned and glanced around. There was a metal dish by the staircase with a few dead fallen leaves in it and clumps of dirt in it. Logic evaded her, as arousal and drunkenness and base urges took over. She saw a dish, a bowl, a container for her liquid. So she used it. 

Strife squatted, relaxed, and let out her full stream into the bowl. Instantly, it made a metallic ringing sound, which was deeply satisfying to Strife’s ears. Her pussy throbbed and her stream clipped before continuing to spray powerfully into its metal container. She watched between her legs as the leaves floated in her swirling yellow stream, caught by the force of her own little river. They spun and held foam and Strife smiled. The clumps of dirt spun, dove, and surfaced wildly as she pissed onto them. A long clear thread of slick fell from her pussy and joined the mixture of leaves and urine. 

“You– oh my fucking god, are you serious?” Dema said, actually offended from the sounds and Strife looked up wild-eyed. 

“What, what is it now?” 

“You’re pissing in the food I leave out for the cats and raccoons!” Dema gestured wildly and unbalanced herself, having to shift her legs apart and brace herself with one hand on the wooden edge of her garden bed. She was still peeing, though much slower now with a thin stream that trickled into the slurry she’d made. 

Ah. 

Strife realized then that the dirt chunks in the mix she’d made were in fact little bits of kibble. Now that she was really looking at it, and she did continue to pee into the bowl because it was already too late, she noticed they were thickening and softening as they soaked in her hot piss.

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not perfect!” Strife snapped. 

Strife stared at Dema, who let out one more spurt of clear urine before dripping to a finish. Dema stared at Strife, who pissed loudly and thunderously in a stainless steel dog bowl full of kibble and leaves. 

After a beat, they both broke into laughter. 

Dema shook her ass and pulled her panties back into place. She went to stand on the stairs, peering down at Strife continuing to urinate into the bowl. “You’re the worst. Like actually,” Dema said, leaning on the railing with her hand on her cheek. 

They both watched as Strife’s urine began to reach and lap at the top edges of the bowl, now totally filled with her mess mixture of food and piss. Streams fell over the edge and rolled down the sides, pooling onto the stone path. Dema helpfully bent over to gather Strife’s pants and underwear in her arms, saving them from treacherous trails. They watched the stream fill and follow the cracks, creeping all the way down to the sidewalk. 

“You know who would lap all this up? Kibble soaked in hot piss?” Strife asked, her heart aching, pussy throbbing. Her stream waned to several drops and her pussy clenched and tightened as she finished her piss, squeezing out another drip of arousal that fell into the still-spinning pool in the bowl. 

A beat, then they both spoke at once. 

“Moth.” 

They cackled like witches.