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Urine September 11, 2010

Posted by Leah in Urine.

A reader comments on the urine fetish I have mentioned previously here, here, and here.

I detest the euphemisms “golden showers” and “watersports.” I find urine appealing for several reasons.

• It’s a dirty thing to do. We are trained from a young age that we should pee in private. The act is not the subject of conversation, even in the company of close friends. To sexualize urine produces a visceral thrill.

• It’s an intimate act. It demonstrates how I accept what my partner gives, how there aren’t any secrets between us. Even without drinking it, holding someone’s cock while he pees or pissing into the cup of someone’s hand excites me. I like it when a lover watches me on the can or has me squat and pee. I like doing it on the wooden floor and cleaning up the mess I have made afterwards.

• I like having his piss on my body. I like how the urine wets my hair and cascades down my face. I like it running between my breasts, down my abdomen, to my pussy. I like it coursing over my shoulders and back and buttocks. I like the feel of it as it flows into my cunt and anus and pours out again. I like how, when he has finished, it beads on the skin and seeps into my pores. I enjoy wallowing in a pool of my lover’s warm piss in the cold bathtub. I am wearing his smell.

• The taste is a rush. The first touch on the tongue is hot and acrid. Then the flavor turns sharp and bitter. The warmth of the urine fills my mouth. Often, I let the piss pool up and allow it to spill back out, over my chin and neck. I also swallow. I like gulping it down my throat, guzzling the stream that is sprayed between my lips, taking the heat into my belly.

• In the context of D/s, it’s a way of staking a claim the way animals mark territory. One time in Boston, about three blocks from home, the boyfriend pulled us into an alley. We had been out drinking. He needed to take a piss and couldn’t hold it until we reached the apartment. He made me kneel on the pavement and peed on me. He stood with his legs apart, penis in hand, and released. The urine shot from his cock with force, made a great parabola in the air between us, and splashed between my open shirt, onto my breasts. The warm, pungent piss fell over my chest and into my cleavage. He waved his cock from side to side, soaking my dressy white shirt, turning it yellow and see through. The scent of ammonia clouded around me as the flow diminished to a trickle, then stopped. He blotted the tip against my cheek once he had finished and helped me to my feet. I noticed that my nipples were peaked and showed through the bra. My pussy was drenched in arousal. As we walked home, he clutched my hand fiercely. I sensed that I was his. I stood straighter, letting my tits protrude with the sticky fabric clinging to me. I felt so beautiful.

Many of the same arguments I have made for urolagnia can be applied to coprophilia as well. Scat has no appeal for me whatsoever. It is one of my few hard limits. I love rimming though. Perhaps we are, all of us, an odd amalgam of sexual contradictions.