Making A Mess Of Me

My first story here. All feedback is welcome!

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I labor over the editing of this morning's OnlyFans post a little more than I usually do. It's not uncommon for me to share these monologues about my fantasies with my fans. And the pee based content of this one is really nothing out of the ordinary for my channel. But I've given the final outro shot a little extra consideration this time. In the shot, I'm standing on the street corner and right as it fades out I strike a cute pose, my skirt flapping up just enough to reveal that I'm not wearing any panties. It's cute. But that's not what has me excited about it. No, what I'm really interested in is the street signs I'm standing under, carefully framed so the names are clearly visible. My finger bounces back and forth, alternately hovering over "Edit" and "Post". Am I being too subtle? It's so hard to know! In the end I throw caution to the wind and end my post with a simple white on black card. "Come find me," it reads.

I make at least five circuits of the busy shopping square before anything notable happens. But I'm working myself into a frenzy the whole time. Even if no one takes me up on my "offer," just being commando around all these people is exciting! Every cute boy approaching on my side of the road sends me spiraling into another day dream. As we pass each other my breath hitches and I imagine he's about to turn and take my arm. Or maybe he will toss me over his shoulder while I struggle and fail to hold down my short pleated skirt. Of course, as my fantasies grow wilder, so does my wetness. Soon it's starting to seep out of me. My fluids cooling in the fall air tickle me, taunt me.

When the man does reach me, he comes up from behind. The first I know of him is a big meaty hand that glides under my skirt to palm my ass. I manage to keep from screaming, as I look to my right, and then up, at the man. He's big. He must be well over six feet tall. But he's not lanky. A tight, unbranded, green t-shirt does little to hide extensive musculature. His forearms, sporting only a few fine blond hairs, must be as big around as my thighs.

"Come with me." He says in a voice that is rumbly yet muted, like it takes him a conscious effort not to shout. My bare ass is suddenly being pushed along by his massive hand like it's some sort of carnival ride, so I don't feel I have much of a choice but to comply as he guides me across the street. I can feel my skirt pooling around his wrist, and nobody is shrieking and pointing, so I guess his grip on me doesn't look too unusual to the casual observers around us.

On reflex I am indignant at the presumptive way this man has taken control of me. But a much louder part of me, the same part that added the final card to my post this morning, thrills at it. With each step my wetness grows, it's seeping out of me and getting spread by my ass cheeks as I quick step along. I worry that the man will feel it on his fingers soon. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" I ask him, trying to keep my focus on the road as he whisks me along at an alarming pace.

"No." He's clearly not one for conversation, but I don't get the impression he's dumb. A quick glance up at him enforces my impression when I see the slight smirk on his lips. He's sporting a crew cut, and a short one at that. And he's clean shaven. Now I'm no detective. But I'd bet every last one of my followers that he's military.

G.I. Joe leads me straight to Jason's, a very ritzy steak house. When I realize we're not turning, but instead find myself being ushered inside by my bottom, I try to tell him that neither of us are dressed for a place like this. But he ignores me.

The host seems to be of my line of thinking because the look he gives us over the top of his glasses makes me want to just dissolve. "Excuse me. But do you have a reservation?"

I open my mouth to say something, apologize I think. But Joe is quicker on the draw. "We need to use your bathroom. It's an emergency."

The host looks like he's going to refuse. Or at least suggest that we try one of the less prestigious establishments across the street. But then he softens. Maybe it's because I genuinely do appear distressed, or maybe it's because my companion looks like the bouncer who eats other bouncers, but the host forces a smile, and waves us through.  "Of course. The restrooms are the last two doors down that hall."

Without any apparent embarrassment Joe drives me into the ladies room and locks the door behind us. For the first time since he came into my life the momentum stops and I'm able to stumble a few paces forward and turn to face him. He eyes me curiously, one eyebrow just slightly raised.

I realize I don't know what to say half way through the act of saying it. And I'm just standing there in the middle of the bathroom. One hand raised. Mouth slightly ajar. Do I want to lecture this man? Or maybe beg him to take me right here on the harsh tile floor? I don't feel like I'm about to be murdered, but I haven't completely ruled out screaming.

I get the sense that Joe exercises an incredible amount of patience in the few seconds he waits for me to say something. But that patience wears thin far quicker than I can get my thoughts in order. In one stride Joe covers the distance it took me three to stumble. His big hands take mine and effortlessly press them together behind my back. He pushes them against me just above my butt and I have no choice but to arch back and find myself starting up into hooded green eyes. Instinct makes me take in a big breath to scream, but I never exhale it. Pressed against him, forgetting to breathe, when he speaks I can practically feel the vibrations in my chest. "Pick a hole."

Like skydiving, a wave of weightlessness ripples from my lower abdomen. It travels up and pushes all that breath I've just inhaled out in a quiet lengthy "Ah." I force myself to meet those piercing eyes. They're intimidating, but if I really look deep into them, I can imagine I see a flickering sparkle of amusement there. I focus on that. "My pussy." I manage to whisper to the owner of those eyes. The latent blush that had been building in my chest since he first grabbed my butt finally breaks free and migrates upwards to settle hotly in my cheeks.

Immediately Joe releases my wrists. But he doesn't break eye contact, "Give it to me."

For a moment I freeze in indecision again. But it's soon clear that there's only one option. As much as those eyes light a fire inside of me, I'm not sure I can handle them burning into me as he- as he what? I guess I'm not sure exactly what's about to happen. I know the fantasy I laid out in this morning's post. But am I even sure Joe is a fan? Maybe he's just a random commuter who noticed my lack of panties and decided to try his luck. Breaking eye contact with Joe is an act all on its own, like steeling myself to step out into the cold. I force myself to turn away from him and walk over to the sink. Slowly, cautiously, I bend over the low marbled slab.

Joe is light on his feet for such a big man. But in the marble of the bathroom even his footsteps echo as he positions himself behind me. My short breaths betray my expectation as his hands envelope my lower thighs and slide upwards. They continue, gentle but confident, thumbs just barely turned into the cleft of my cheeks. Fabric slides over my butt and comes to rest on my lower back, letting me know I'm now completely exposed to Joe's gaze. Or so I thought. Because the next thing he does is take my cheeks in his hands and peel me apart.

Everything my mystery companion has done up to this point has been decisive and deliberate, bordering on impatient. But as I stand here, bent over the bathroom counter, I find myself wondering just how long is he going to stare at my spread holes? I steel myself to look up at the mirror and see that he is doing exactly that. He's just just looking down at my lewdly displayed privates, a slight smile on his lips. But when his eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror it's me who looks away like I've been caught peeping. In my peripheral vision I think I can see him laughing at me, but I'm too embarrassed to really look again. At this point I'm just thankful I didn't offer myself to him in a face to face position.

After what seems like an eternity my humiliating inspection is brought to an end by the unmistakable sound of a zipper. And shortly after that something rests itself along the valley of my ass. It feels solid and intimidating. But it's also so pleasantly warm laid long against my cheeks. I want to sneak a peek, but there's no real way for me to do so. So I just stay there while Joe spreads me again. His cock drags lazily back over my exposed skin, my asshole reporting excitedly on its passage. But then I feel it slip into position. The wetness I've been accumulating for the past hour letting it suddenly slide without resistance to rest is the little nook that is the entrance to my pussy.

"Ready?" Joe asks.

"Yeah." I breathe.

And then he's pushing into me. Slowly, but uncompromising, in one long drawn out thrust he fills me up. He's thicker than I'm used to, but there's a pliability to his outer layers that helps me accommodate it. I'm surprised to hear a little groan from him as I take the last of his cock. I give back the same and the tiny room echoes my higher pitched version around us.

Taking me in a single stroke was a nice trick. But with him buried inside me I can feel my walls gripping Joe tight. Too tight. I'm about to tell him to go slow, worried that the coiled spring of energy behind me is about to go too hard on my eager, but unprepared, pussy. But again he's one step ahead of me. Because instead of pulling out, I feel him twitch. Once. Twice. And then I realize what's coming.

I had, of course, asked for this. The fantasy I shared with my fans was explicit. Vulgar even. I wanted to be peed in. Not just peed on, though that was appealing too. What I wanted was to have my holes flooded with warm fluid and to feel it leak out of me as I tried and failed to contain it.

As Joe releases himself inside of me the feeling is at first familiar. I recognize the injection of intense heat from the few times I've let a serious boyfriend cum inside me. But in short order this morphs into something more. Instead of a few pumps of molten metal Joe's pee starts deep inside of me and keeps coming. In moments it's tracking its way up his shaft and my walls, painting that delicious heat with it as it goes.

"Oh. Oh wow." My head drops down to be literally in the sink as I just melt into the feeling.

Joe, for his part, is more situationally aware. I feel him move sharply to  spread his legs moments before we hear the tell tale splattering of liquid on the tile floor. I can feel the pee escaping all around the imperfect seal of Joe's cock. It doesn't seem to be a nice orderly process and through my lusty haze I am somewhat amused by the mental image of Joe's balls taking the brunt of the assault.

And then, it's over. The torrent becomes a trickle, and then nothing. Just the reassuring fullness of Joe's cock still holding me open.

I lie still, slumped over the counter. The film of urine on my lips and clit tickets as it cools. But this is not an itch that can be scratched. This is an itch that demands pressure. Firm and slick and, most importantly, now. More than anything I want to feel Joe's massive hands take my shoulders as he steadies me for the pounding I'm about to receive.

Unable to wait for Joe to take the initiative, I've just slid a hand between my own legs when a knock at the bathroom door freezes me in my tracks. "Is everything all right in there?" Comes the host's muffled voice.

"Just a minute." Joe replies.

No reply comes back. And I'm left with the distinct impression that the host, and his judgmental looks, will be right outside that door to greet us when we leave.

I wonder for a moment if Joe will fuck me anyway. He hasn't seemed embarrassed by much of anything so far. Though I'm pretty sure I'm going to melt into a shame filled puddle well before we make it out of the restaurant. Even so, I'm disappointed when Joe's cock starts to slide out of me. It's a weird sensation, my piss lined walls are wet as they've ever been, but the pee provides a lot more friction than my normal juices would. The discomfort adds to a sense of regret as his tip slips from my grip.

"Wait." Joe says as I start to move. I sense, more than see, his large form as he reaches past me to start pulling paper towels from the dispenser above the sink. Good thinking. I reach for some of my own but before I can coax the machine to give up its goods I feel a wad of paper against my inner thigh. Joe cleans me efficiently, but diligently. The paper is rougher than toilet paper and it's uncomfortable as he wipes my slit. He wipes my pussy three times, and I have to hide my burning red face back down in the sink when I realize he's carefully cleaning in between each set of my lips. I suddenly feel very childlike in his big hands. And when he spreads me just enough to wipe along the valley of my ass, the abrasive texture coaxing me to arch up onto my toes, the picture is truly complete.

Joe steps back, apparently satisfied with his work. And he's just so effortlessly fast and efficient because by the time I collect myself and spin around to finally catch a look at that cock he's already zipping up his jeans. He beckons me with one finger and I step unsteadily towards him, my flats threatening to slip on the wet tiles.

I'm a little taken aback when he presents me with the damp bundle of paper towels. He's squeezed them into a wet little golf ball sized blob and I'm not sure what he wants from me. I look at him quizzically.

"Open up." He says.

I move through a number of reactions. And I know he can see it plain on my face as I process each one. Luckily for Joe, we were interrupted before an orgasm had the chance to take the edge of my horniness. And so my perverted little brain winds up instructing me to open my mouth like a baby bird.

Joe just smirks at me and presses the off-white ball against my lips and then into my mouth. I let him push it to the back of my tongue. My gag reflex spasms a little at the strange sensation of a leaky wet mass back there, but I get it under control. And it's incredibly worth it to take the bundle so deep, because it means I get to wrap lips around Joe's thick fingers as he pulls them out. I stare him down as my lips flow along the contours of his digits, for the first time in our relationship feeling just the tiniest little inkling of control.

"Let's go." Joe says. And before I know it he's pushing the bathroom door open and we're both walking purposefully to the exit.

As I'd feared, the host is right there waiting for us and he clocks the large puddle we've left on the floor almost immediately. As we walk he's going up one side of us and down the other. He seems particularly aghast that we're now traipsing back through the carpeted restaurant. I can see his point. But Joe just ignores him and the heavy hand on my back gives me just enough confidence to do the same. It also probably helps that I have to concentrate on keeping the ball of paper towel far enough back in my throat that it's not too obvious I'm smuggling it, but not so far back that it chokes me. So I can't spare too much effort thinking about the horrible names the host is calling me.

We're almost to the street when we abruptly stop. I want to sprint the last few feet but I'm also afraid to leave the protective umbrella that is Joe.

The last table between us and freedom is empty. But it is fully set. From it Joe grabs two full glasses of water. And like a frat boy chugging beer he downs them one after the other. No gulps just straight down the gullet. This, of course, sends the host apoplectic. But in five more steps we're gone, walking away into the busy square, Joe's sneakers still squeaking with every step.

I sneak a look up at Joe. And for the first time he lets me in on the game. He gives me a wink, and flashes a bright boyish smile that lasts not a moment longer than the wink does.

I'm feeling giddy and practically skipping. But when I look down at my feet and I see something distressing. My ankle socks, which I'd thoughtfully paired with my skirt to create a low key schoolgirl effect, have not survived unscathed. A widening band of dampened fabric marks them as casualties of the day. In a panic my hands fly to the back of my skirt and I'm relieved to find that it, at least, is dry.

Joe gives a little exhale next to me which I think might be a laugh. And then the now familiar weight of his hand settles under my skirt again. I let him guide me through the crowd like that. Desperately wanting to ask him where we're heading now. But concealing the wad of paper and pee in my mouth renders me quite mute.

We walk for a longer way this time. Our steps settle into a rhythm and I find, much to my delight, that I can lean up against Joe's big frame as we walk. When he doesn't balk at this I get bolder and soon I'm clutching his big muscular arm like a possessive girlfriend. Joe, as is his way, says nothing. But he does take his own liberties with our situation. He adjusts his hand on my ass to grab an even deeper handful and casually, like it's some accident, he walks me along to our next adventure with his thumb kneading against my asshole.