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The Story of J
The Gothic one was J. I was in a bookstore one day. The weather outside was balmy, a fine spring day. I wore jeans, tennies, a white dress shirt with fine green stripes, and a dark blue beret. I had sunglasses planted high on top of the beret as I skimmed through the magazines. I became aware, gradually, of a faint patchouli essence. Glancing over to my right, I saw a spiky head of black hair tinged with green and purple, a woman in her late twenties with multiply pierced ears, and under her large black coat lapels, a valley of cleavage between a pair of ripe, freckled breasts. "You are a natural redhead," I blurted.
She laughed. "What?" I was afraid some bruiser would come to thump on me, but she seemed unconcerned. She seemed pleasantly engaged. "What did you say?"
"Sorry, it's a guessing game. I looked at you, and guessed that you are a natural redhead."
"How would you know that?"
"Sixth sense." Actually, I noticed that she had a sprawl of orange freckles over her pale skin. "And I like redheads."
"Why is that?" she said with the same surprised, bantering air. "They're special. I don't think they are temperamental as people make them out to be."
"Thank you. Society has oppressed me all my life. You are a liberator."
"Well, at least a kind soul, I hope."
"You made me lose my train of thought." She glanced at the magazines in puzzlement. "I was just about to pick up a thing on architecture."
"What kind of thing?"
"It had these cool pillars you can put in your garden."
"This?" I held up a thick, expensive magazine with more advertising than content, and an image of a garden with a pool and a pair of white columns.
"Yes! Thanks!"
"Have you seen the Art and Architecture section? It's got more like this."
"Really? Where?" It was a kind, easy day. She was imposing at first, but there was sunshine behind that Gothic façade; and then a darker side, as I would find. But what would one expect from a woman with tricolored hair?
From the A&A section it was a short walk to the coffee bar for espressos, and from there a natural succession to her dark green British sports car (top down) and a pleasant cruise to a white condo complex choked in blue dogwood and pink cherry blossoms. "It's a day for letting go," she said as she turned the key in her apartment. She was a secretary by day, an architecture graduate student in the evenings, and a Gothic club jetter by night when she wasn't passed out from exhaustion.
"Three day weekends," she said. "I love them." Her place was small but spotless, and well laid out. Chrome chairs, leather couch and love seat, a few black and white vampire posters on the walls. The main color was red. The rest was mostly black and white. She kept the appropriate dark rock music growling on low as background music. The place was really sunny and cheery. She brought two low, wide glasses full of something red. "Campari and soda. Hope you like it. I'm out of cola."
I thanked her and sat rather stiffly on the white leather couch. "Put up your feet," she said. "Make yourself at home." I relaxed. "Would you like to go for a swim? The pool is heated."
"Oh sure, that would be great. I don't have a swim suit."
"I think I can find you something from my ex." She laughed as she left the room. A few minutes later, the spiky hair leaned from a doorway, and a pair of light blue trunks came sailing toward me. I snatched them from the air. I changed into them—with a little belt tightening, they fit reasonably well, enough not to come off under water on the first dive. A long ten minutes later, a very different looking J appeared. Gone was the spiky hair, now down to very short carrot-red hair. "I was right!"
"You were, which is why I like you," she said brightly as she strode past me. She carried a pair of towels on one arm, and wore a black bikini. She was smallish, trim, shapely. "Come on. Let's go swimming." We carried our drinks outside to a small patio. Leaving the drinks there, we walked down to a medium-sized pool shared by a dozen or so condos in a common courtyard.
We were alone in the pool area, except for an older couple finishing a session in the bubbling, steaming Jacuzzi nearby. J and I left our towels on the warm concrete and slipped into the water. As we warmed up, we played together—splashing, ducking, jumping, gradually touching each other more and more. Pretty soon, we were locked into a deep French kiss that just seemed to go on and on. She was not a complicated woman—yet.
We migrated to the Jacuzzi, which was sheltered from view by a high circular concrete wall. It was a twelve seater, controlled by a ten minute switch. We sat in our separate seats in the hot, chlorinated water. I felt a strong pulse of forced water coming out of a nozzle at my back. We leaned close and continued kissing. She laughed and said: "Want to see something cool?" I nodded, and she turned to kneel before the pulsing jet at her seat.
She pulled the crotch of her bikini bottom aside, and maneuvered so that the stream went directly against her vulva. I looked closer in fascination. Her labia were remarkable—large, brown, like underwater things with a life of their own. They were easily two fingers across at their widest. She motioned for me to help. I held her bikini crotch away from her vulva, while she pinched her labia in her fingers and held herself open. She closed her eyes and moaned as the hot stream squirted against her little bud. "Kiss me," she wailed faintly. I leaned close and tongued her. Her mouth vacuumed on mine, so that my tongue threatened to come out by the roots. Turned on, I reached down with my free hand and stuck my finger in her vagina. She pushed my hand away, because it interrupted the stream of water. "It's on my pee hole," she said, "and up and down my clit. There's nothing like it anywhere."
"Want to bet?"
She laughed a little throaty laugh. "You have something better?"
"When you are ready."
She moaned lightly. "I want to come." "Go on."
"I'm a little embarrassed."
"Why?"
"Because we don't know each other very well."
I kissed her mouth, and we each breathed raggedly with raw sexual energy. "We're getting to know each other quite well."
"Will you be nice to me?"
I slipped my hand down her back, along the crack of her ass, and got a finger into her vagina from below. "I'll be very nice."
"Yes, you are very nice." Her eyes were closed. "I hope nobody is coming."
"Only you, honey, and me soon after."
She uttered what can only be described as a mixture of a laugh, a bark, a hiccup, and a cry of orgasm. She shuddered, bowing, bowing, bowing, lower, as the spasms traveled through her. She gripped my hand and pressed that finger deep inside of her in a clumsy move. "Oh my God," she choked. "Oh, that's good." A moment later, we both sat innocently in our seats as a family with several small children came chattering and laughing into the Jacuzzi area. They regarded us with mild curiosity, and it was clear they had just by seconds missed the show of their lives.
I went with J to her patio, where we picked up those drinks and hurried into the house. We left them on a counter as she took my hand and hurried me up the stairs. Her bedroom was an octagonal room with a round bed in the middle. On the walls all around were posters of the dark life. She pulled down the drapes and turned on dim red lights. "I like to be looked at," she said. The soft Goth rock rumbled in the background. "I like to look," I said.
She pushed me onto the bed, where I sat up leaning on my elbows while she showed me her toys. Aside from the usual sorts of penetration tools in various sizes, shapes, and colors, she had an interesting set of objects in a black case lined with green velvet. "These are from Holland. Aren't they great?" As I watched, she took off her bikini top and bottom. I saw those significant labia again. "I want to suck on those," I said. She smiled. "Oh, you will, but first I want to show you this." She took two hooks from the case and pushed them through her labia. "I had them pierced," she said. On these hooks, she hung two smallish stainless steel chains, on the ends of which were two small stainless steel balls. "Now you can lick me," she said while standing before me with her legs apart and her arms akimbo. It was a domination pose, with her small conical breasts sticking out and the long brown nipples on them pointing over my head as I sank to my knees to inspect her more closely. There were more weights in the case, but I wasn't too into this and hoped she wouldn't stretch herself to the floor. She rocked lightly from side to side and the balls swung back and forth. "I'm stretching them. Every day I do this."
"What else do you do?"
"This." She rubbed herself, slowly at first, as if spreading juice around, then faster until her fingers were blurry. "Like to see me play?"
"Oh yes."
"Play with me. Make me horny. Make me come." Her voice was urgent, pleading.
I sat down under her. I turned her slightly so I could work my way under her, and I lay down on the rug. I nudged her until her cunt was directly over my face. She asked: "You want a golden shower?"
I had no idea what she meant. I was about to lick her. I was staring directly into her hole, enjoying the pink frilliness inside, and the view of her little knob hardening pinkly under its hood, when hot pee squirted from the tiny opening above her cunt hole. Startled, I tasted her salty fluid on my tongue. Sputtering, I rolled over and wiped it out of my eyes. "Did I hurt you?" she asked. I shook my head.
She removed the hooks and balls. She pulled on my ear. "Come here, I want to show you something." Taking me by the hand, she led me to the bathroom. "Look, I'll bet you didn't know women can do this. Most women don't know they can do this." Standing with her legs slightly apart, so that her buttocks looked part and grabbable as apples, she spread her cunt open and held her fingertips near her piss hole. "Watch, Peter." Out came a nice thick twirling rope of golden pee, just like from the tip of my dick. I couldn’t believe my eyes. "Then why don't women use urinals?"
"Because we like to remain mysterious to men. Maybe to ourselves." I watched as the heavy stream rushed into the toilet water just as if a dockworker were hanging his hose out over the harbor water. "Wasn't that fun?" She flushed, and we went back into the bedroom.
"One surprise after another," I said. She wiped my face with a clean, damp towel. "You weren't expecting that, were you?" I shook my head. "Did you like it?"
I replied: "Surprisingly, it wasn't terrible or anything. I like watching you pee. I'm just not sure I want you peeing on my face. I was just looking at that little hole when the pee came out all over my face."
"It's sterile," she said. "In India, people walk up to cows on the street and let them pee in their hands. Then they drink the pee, they wash their hair with it, they wash their faces, even brush their teeth with cow pee. It's sacred. And guess what, pee from a healthy person or cow is sterile."
"All the more reason for us to pee on each other," I said.
She dabbed at my eyes. "I'm sorry I startled you. Maybe later you'll want to try it again. Some people get hooked on it and can't get enough." I was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she stood before me. She wrapped her arms around my head and pulled me to her so that I could kiss the space between her breasts. "Now you can lick me. I promise not to pee on you again."
I lay back on the bed and had her crawl over me. She lowered her cunt over my face so that her wide flaps dangled over my mouth. I blew on them. They wiggled in the air stream. J squealed with sensory delight. "Yeah!"
It may seem strange after so many adventures, but I was just at that moment becoming conscious of the exact physiognomy of a woman's complicated apparatus down there. Maybe a lot of women are afraid to touch themselves and know less about their genitals than they should. I have made love to women who feel they should lie passively—what someone I know referred to as the Starfish Syndrome.
So here I was, with a woman who was not afraid to explore and pleasure herself, and feel no guilt about it—and for the first time really staring her sex organs in the face, so to speak. Our instinct to reproduce is hardwired into us. It is the strongest instinct we have—on a par with survival.
That's why, when I could have been home reading a good book or watching a movie, I was staring at this vivacious little redhead's piss hole and turned on as a three year old by a pile of wooden blocks. The best part was, her instincts made her turned on that I was turned on. She writhed low, rubbing her labia back and forth over my lips. "Lick them. Suck them. I love them. I like to play with them when I'm alone."
"Oh..." I groaned, "I love them too." I sucked on them, nibbled them, gently bit them, licked them from bottom to top. I paused only to lick her pee hole, which made her shriek with pleasure. I could feel the orgasm vibrations rippling through her body again. I put my fingers in her cunt and pulled out all the juice there, and started masturbating myself. I kept getting more of her mucusy juice that made my fingers slippery as I tightened my grip on my head and pumped up and down until it began to spurt. She came about the same time—wracked with shuddering contractions that almost made her fall over backwards—and in the last moment, as she yelled out in pleasure, she couldn't help it. She squirted. I closed my eyes and went along for the ride, snorting and spouting as if someone had poured beer over me at a kegger. I felt the shower of warm pee in my hair and trickling down my face, and thought of the cows in India. Maybe they knew something we didn't. J and I cried out loud in unison as we came together.
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