Sexual Maturity

I have to pee I have to pee I have to pee. So bad. So bad that I feel like it’s going to come out of my ears and nose and eyes. So bad that I have to hold my breath because if I open my lungs for air the urine will come shooting out of my mouth, spouting pee all over me and all over the strange man who’s lying on top of me. His dick is inside me. It’s inside me and it’s slimy and it’s repeatedly pounding its into my overflowing bladder. And the face of whom this penis belongs to is making some seriously disturbing noises. I have had sex before but it’s never sounded like this. Is it normal for people to growl this loudly when they make love? I wonder.

I’m currently in the reclined passenger seat of a beat-up pick-up truck parked in the middle of an apple orchard in the middle of god-damned nowhere. Will he think it’s weird if I pee in the woods? I think. Or maybe into a bottle? Actually, I’m far too embarrassed to ask either, so instead I’ll just lie here and endure the pain until it gets so bad that I either die or piss myself, at which point I will just die of embarrassment anyway. Either way I’m doomed.

He, on the other hand, looks to be having a great time. Looking up at him he’s rather handsome. He has a beard—blonde with a few stray red hairs. I wanted his beard the minute I met him. I had never kissed a guy with a beard before, probably because I’m fifteen and most fifteen-year-old boys don’t have beards. Or sex for that matter. But this guy has a beard and a truck and a penis that’s way bigger then any I’ve seen before. His name is Matt and he’s twenty-seven and the second I laid eyes on him I wanted his hairy chest pressed up against my pointy tits and his man dick all over my face. And now that I’ve got it all I can think about is piss.

“I’ve got to pee,” I say, finally giving in to the pain. He smiles. He has sweat dripping down his face and one of those tan lines you get from being out in the sun with a T-shirt on.

“Pee in my mouth,” he says nonchalantly, as if he were asking me to pass the salt.

“Eww. No. That’s gross.”

“Why is it gross?” he asks in his unnaturally deep voice.

“I’m not going to pee in your mouth,” I cringe. The idea of this is so utterly disgusting I can barley fathom the fact that he’d ask me to do it in the first place. I mean, I’ve never even given head before. Surely you should at least give head before you pee on someone, right? I mean, for fifteen years old I’ve seen a good share of porno, and that’s always the way it goes. First the head, then the pissing.

“Well, if you’re not going to pee in my mouth then what about on my chest?” he asks teasingly, pulling at the hair on his nipples.

Now, I might be young, but I personally feel that my sexual maturity level is that of at least an eighteen year old, maybe even older. You see, ever since I can remember I have been obsessed with the idea of having sex. Even before I knew what it was. One of my very first sexual memories is of my first grade teacher, Mr. McGuire. He was about thirty, tall, skinny, and smiled a lot. While everyone else was dipping their faces in paint and making picture frames out of dried macaroni, I was fantasizing about grabbing Mr. McGuire by his pleated trousers and rubbing his giant body up against mine. I couldn’t explain why but all I knew was that I wanted to put him in my mouth. Years later I would discover the mystery of sex and all of my weird and perverted childhood desires suddenly made so much sense.

I lost my virginity six months ago in the football field of my high school to my fourteen-year-old boyfriend. It lasted approximately thirty-eight seconds. After that I had a string of less than satisfactory sex with lots of pre-pubescent boys. I knew the clumsy, dissatisfying sex I was having couldn’t be all there was to it. I soon realized I would never get the sex that I wanted from the Freshman boys I was hanging around with. I needed someone older. Someone with experience. Someone with a beard.

And that leaves me where I am now—fucking a farmer nearly twice my age that I met earlier today at my friend Christina’s family picnic, in a car that smells like a combination of weed and cheap cologne. And now he wants me to pee in his mouth. But, like I said, this is what I wanted. I mean, he’s an adult. This must be what adults do—they piss on each other. So, semi-reluctant but also admittedly kind of excited, I stutter, “Well… maybe on the chest is ok.”

“That a girl,” he smiles. “You’re pretty adventurous for your age. How old are you, like nineteen?” I knew it. I must just ooze sexual maturity.

Before I know it I have my skinny fifteen year old legs straddled across his beautiful man chest and I’m pissing. And it feels sooo good—partly because I have to pee so bad, but also partly because I suddenly feel like a grown-up. I can do whatever I want. I can fuck whoever I want, whenever I want, and if I want to pee on them, I will. He seems to be enjoying it as well. Freak.

An hour later I walk in the door of my house. As all of my old clothes accidentally got covered in piss, I’m wearing a ripped flannel shirt that the farmer found in his trunk and a pair of his dirty old jeans. My mother is on the couch watching the late showing of Oprah on the Oxygen channel.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” she asks, horrified.

“I fell in a puddle.”

“Then why the heck do you stink like cat piss?” she shrieks, using one hand to plug her nose and the other to fan the air in front of her face.

“Umm..iiidduuunnooomaaayyybeeeummmidddunno,” I mumble. Fast thinking.

“Well strip down and I’ll throw everything in the washing machine,” she says as she walks out of the room. My poor poor mother. If only she knew the truth.



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