Bike Ride Piss Play

Megan demonstrated a comfort with urinating outside since joining the Saturday bike group. The rides were all-morning, forty- or fifty-mile adventures, and though bathroom breaks were regularly built into each of the many different routes that the group rode, if Megan was caught between bathroom stops, she was quite comfortable with asking a fellow biker to lookout for her while she relieved herself in the cover of bushes at the side of the bike trail, or at the edge of a deserted parking lot.

She was a sprightly, petite, firecracker of a fifty-two year old, with more energy than many in the bike group had when they were twenty-two; a time in the distant past for all in the regular assortment of urban and suburban cyclopaths who frequented the Saturday Morning Moderate Group Ride.

Often wearing a neon-pink bike jersey, or other attire than enhanced the undeniable femininity of her casual triathlete's body, Megan sought-out and converted the other members of the bike group into friendship with the ease that only the youngest child from a conservative, midwestern family of ten children in the pre-internet-era could have learned or mustered.

Megan was often late, and so one morning in the heavy heat of late August, she rumbled in several minutes after the appointed start time, gratified to see that the group had not yet left.

Stan and Bobby were there, and Megan smiled and waved to them from her Lexus crossover that she sped recklessly into the local park's parking lot, recklessly but safely given the parking lot's emptiness so early on so hot of a later summer morning.

"Hi guys you are so sweet to wait for me!" Megan bubbled in perfect narcissist good mornings. "I'm so sorry I'm late, I'm such a ditz." Megan climbed down from her Lexus and started pulling her bike off the crossover's rear bike rack.

"Did I say that right, 'Ditz'?" Megan asked again to Stan and Bobby.

"Ditz," Bobby agreed, with a smile and good cheer. "You got it right."

Stan chuckled.

"Okay I'mma hurry, you guys are always so patient with me I don't wanna hold you up any more," Megan called to them as she fixed her bike into readiness and fixed her car into secureness and fixed her bike kit on her into neon-pink feminine strength and adorableness.

"No rush," called Stan. "They say the day's not gonna get much hotter than this."

"Where is everybody else?" Megan asked when she was ready to ride.

"Vacations, trips," Stan said.

"Too scared of the heat," Bobby added.

"What's your husband doing today? What's he up to?" Stan asked Megan.

"Oh, he's golfing already," Megan said. "Colin goes out in any weather except thunderstorms."

"Hardcore," Bobby observed.

"Sure," Megan said, and then Stan started that Saturday's ride.

There was small talk and complaining about the heat and humidity and the August blahs as they made their way down Orange Grove Boulevard to the long sloping roads down the valley, to the rivers. Sleepy and empty of traffic, empty of all but the most serious and most serene, the wide streets were safe and easy for bicyclists to clock fast speeds for most of the way.

But they had only gone ten miles when Megan spoke up.

"Sorry guys, I know we've just started," she said, a sense of growing urgency in her tone the longer she spoke, "but I really need to pee. I usually go in the toilets at the park before we start, but because I was late I skipped it, and I've already drank my first bottle because, you know, it's so hot and, so, I think I need to find a bathroom somewhere. Is there a gas station or a fast food place coming up?"

Bobby offered a solution.

"At the foot of this hill here," he said, "Do you need a toilet or just a bush?"

"Bush, hole in the ground, whatever," Megan replied.

What Bobby brought them to was a deserted parking lot behind one of the two-story office buildings-slash-artists' studios that lined Pasadena Avenue and backed up along the Gold Line tracks.

"I've peed against that wall before on our way home sometimes," Bobby said, pointing to the retaining wall at the end of the parking lot; the wall holding up the embankment atop which ran the Gold Line light rail tracks. "The office building or whatever this is, shields you from the street, so cars can't see you. No one is around at this time, so I think you're safe for sixty seconds or so, however long a pee you've been holding in takes."

"We'll turn our backs, of course," Stan said.

Megan shrugged. "Just hold my bike for sure, how about that?" she said, and Stan steadied her bike as she stepped towards the wall. He did not turn his head, and neither did Bobby.

Megan pulled down her black bike shorts to her knees, giving Stan and Bobby a quick glimpse of her smooth-waxed quinquagenarian sex. The shorts at her knees then blocked the view as Megan leaned her back against the wall, squatted and peed, wiggling her feet to expand her stance as her flow and her splatter began impacting the ground and she felt warm, minuscule droplets ricocheting onto the skin of her ankles and calves.

"Oh thank god," Megan exclaimed as the torrent of her pee started, and Stan and Bobby said nothing, rapt, craning their necks to see beyond the pulled-down black bike shorts obstructing their view of Megan's golden fountain.

"That feels so much better," Megan said, thirty-five seconds later. "Watch out for the puddle," she said, and giggled, stepping forward and starting to wiggle her spandex shorts up her thin thighs and boyish hips. Megan had never had children, with her husband or anyone.

"Need a tissue to dry with?" Stan offered, having produced his travel-sized pack of Kleenex tissues from his bike box tied behind his handlebars.

"Sure," Megan said, "thanks," but instead of taking the tissues, she stepped closer to Stan, holding the waistband of her spandex shorts in the same place where it was, just under the bare lips of her bare pussy, her pussy delicate and compact like Megan herself, and she arched her back to hold her bare pussy out to Stan, who in a second had taken out a tissue from his pack and was patting Megan's pussy dry.

"Mmmmmmm," Megan moaned.

Stan dried her thoroughly and efficiently, and though it lasted only a second or two, Megan enjoyed the softness and the pressure and the intimacy.

"There you go," he said, puling the soiled tissue away and crumpling it into a ball, tucked into the back pocket of his bike jersey, to be thrown out later.

"Thanks," Megan said, but before she could pull her bottoms back up finally, she felt Bobby's hand, with a tissue over it, doubling-over Stan's drying work with extra-slowness and extra-pressure, in no rush and taking his time to explore.

"Wanna make sure we got it all," Bobby said. "Don't want to leave you in any discomfort."

"You're so--so considerate," Megan said, pushing back on his hand, letting him feel her weight and her textures, her ridges and valleys, stammering because of how she enjoyed it more than she expected, even. Stan was eight years older, Bobby was twelve years younger than she, but this morning even more than usual did they feel to Megan as closer and closer than her own brothers, than her own blood, than any perfect contemporary born under the same sign in the same latitude and longitude and the same minute and the same hour.

Out here astrology is real, Meghan thought; and so maybe these men and I were born with the same moons rising and in retrograde despite all our different latitudes and longitudes and hours and minutes. I wonder, thought Meghan, I wonder, and all in a split second of reverie as Bobby's cotton-soft touch did not shy from her clitoris like Stan's had.

But then Bobby was taking his tissue-covered hand away and saying, "Gosh, now I've gotta go," with big emphasis on the "I've," and so Megan, her bottoms pulled back up, took hold of her bike back from Stan and Bobby's bike from him, and watched Bobby walk over to the wall, several feet down from the puddle of piss that Megan had left, but then Megan casually rested her bike and Bobby's bike against Stan, and Megan walked over to Bobby.

Bobby stood several feet back from the wall, his back to Megan and Stan. "Here," Megan said, "let me help you." Bobby looked down to feel and see Megan reaching into his tight bike shorts and taking out his penis. Megan and Bobby heard a noise and then looked over their shoulders to see Stan laying down all three bikes onto their sides, resting gently atop the parking lot's asphalt.

"Why don't you help both of us," Stan suggested, walking over to Megan's other side. When he got there, she reached into Stan's shorts and made a noise as she felt his jewelry. Stan wiggled down the tight waistband of his shorts to help her, and in seconds, Megan had Bobby's thick and circumcised cock in her left hand, and Stan's thin but long and uncircumcised cock in her right, the ring of Stan's Prince Albert piercing visible out the end of his penis and capturing much of Megan's attention as she attempted to point each of her friends' penises at the wall, and to hold them steady for them to piss.

Megan had on her fingerless bike gloves, and both Bobby and Stan felt themselves held in the fifty-two-year-old's small hands, her grip a mixture of textures; the warmth and delicacy of her finger-tips, the gore-tex and gel-padding of the palms of her neon-pink mesh bike gloves; an extra thickness and tightness and pressure around the mens' shafts.

"Oh fuck," Bobby said, and Megan and Stan laughed lightly, defusing the tension.

"C'mon and piss for me," Megan encouraged them. "C'mon, get relief, don't worry about getting any on me."

"Oh my god," Stan said, and his golden flow began.

Megan squealed with delight and a little shock, shaking Stan's penis and whipping the stream slightly, not making a mess, but then Megan steadied both herself and Stan's pissing cock, shooting directly perpendicular to the retaining wall.

"Oh fuck that's so cool," Megan said. Then, turning her attention to Bobby in her left hand, "C'mon now, let it out," and she shook his penis in her hand, one time, sharply, like a midwestern farm girl might have shaken the limb of a midwestern farm animal or other livestock she was in charge of and whom she needed to do as she was commanding, and let it out Bobby did, in a gush of light-yellow piss.

"Mmmmmm-hmmmmmmmmm," encouraged and soothed Megan, savoring the warmth and vibrations and intimacy of having these two men in her hands, feeling these two friends of hers with whom she rode and adventured thousands and thousands of miles with over so many weeks and months, usually in groups far larger than this morning's trio; feeling them be so strong and vulnerable under her touch at the very same time, feeling their complete openness and vulnerability by letting her hold their cocks as they peed, by letting her share this with them at the very same time; feeling that electric, unspoken charge from how they were both so enthralled by her that they would be so eager and willing to share her at the very same time like this.

And she held their cocks just so that though they hardened under the love she was showing them, she held them so they would only harden so much, careful to hold them lightly but securely, holding them up and out at a comfortable grip and pressure that encouraged them to piss out all that was in their bladders, the way Megan had pissed out her bladder in front of them a minute previously.

And piss they did for her, wetting the asphalt before them and hitting the wall with their forceful, early sprays, and as their sprays decreased, Megan changed her grip slightly, altering the arc of their dicks to keep the spray away from them, until all that was coming out was a dribble, and Megan shook their cocks, shaking off the droplets, first shaking Bobby who finished peeing first, having gone earlier at the toilets at the meeting-spot that Megan forewent due to her tardy arrival that morning, and then shaking the last drops out of Stan, who had not gone since leaving his house before biking over to the meeting spot that morning.

When it looked to Megan like she had gotten all she could get from her dear friends, she shook them each once, twice, thrice, slow and fast, so each could "really feel it," as Megan thought, giggling as she did so, and giggling again at the reactions she was getting from Stan and Bobby.

They really felt it, alright, Megan thought.

Then, she took the fingertip of her right index finger to the top of Stan's cock, capturing whatever drop of liquid had coalesced in the married older man's pee-hole, and Megan brought that to her lips, sucking her wet finger tip and tasting this tiny essence of her dear friend Stan.

As she tasted, her index finger on her left hand did the same to capture whatever liquid was coalesced in Bobby's urethral meatus, as the anatomy textbooks would indicate, and after her tastebuds broke down their immediate assessment of Stan on the sweet-savory scale, Megan put the essence of younger, unmarried Bobby into her mouth, and timeless, married Megan made an instantaneous and subconscious comparison of the intimate flavors of two of her closest male friends.

Bobby and Stan said nothing, but looked at her and at each other with the dazed, crooked smiles of two men whose minds were melting. For whom a secret door in the fabric of reality had opened without warning that morning.

Megan smiled back at them with casual aplomb.

Reality flickered back into existence. The morning was still early and still quiet and still cool.

In a half-dream, Megan tucked Bobby and Stan back into their shorts. The three remounted their bikes and were swiftly, reflexively biking away, navigating the sleepy-but-building Saturday morning car traffic on those blissful, Saturday morning streets.

They coasted back down Pasadena Avenue holding each others' wheels in a cozy line, then turned right at the fork up to York Boulevard and Highland Park, climbing together gracefully.