Two words that will have me elevate your hotel from a four to a five-star review on Trip Advisor: wet room. They’re also the two words that might mean you don’t want me to stay in your hotel, to be honest, but what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
We’d tiptoed around the issue of the wet room all weekend. Done things on the bed, in the lounge, in the huge bath. Done casual, X-rated cuddles on the sofa as I stroked his growing erection through his trousers and he slipped one hand down my bra to pinch one of my nipples tightly.
It was a good weekend.
But the last night needed something extra – a final hurrah to mark the end of the trip, and give me the one thing I’d been drooling for since we’d arrived.
The shower was huge: one of those strange rainwater-style things with a head that’s bigger than your head, cascading water down all around you. Over your shoulders, down your back, in your eyes. Like you’re standing in a warm monsoon. And it’s in a wet-room, so of course there’s no curtain to get tangled in – just a glass wall to divide the space.
And to piss against.
“Want to watch me?” he asked, rhetorically. Ever since he found out how much I love it, watching him has become a form of flirting: foreplay. I like to watch him hold his dick in his hand, close his eyes briefly and stretch out his calves as the stream starts. I like the similarity between watching him piss and watching him come all over me. I remember the time he stopped fucking me just before he came, and stood up so he could spray a jet of thick white spunk from a greater height, and watch me squirm to catch it all on my face and chest.
I like that it’s different to the way I do it. The power and control. The fact that he has to stand. The fact that it aches and throbs if he tries to do it when he’s hard.
So that’s how the evening started: me watching him. I stood behind the glass screen, in the shower cubicle, face pressed against the glass like I was window-shopping. He held his dick firmly, pissing in a thick, satisfying stream, and both of us tried not to grin.
Later, inevitably, we switched round. I sat on the toilet and he watched me – the glass of the cubicle adding a dash of voyeurism (‘I’m sneaking a look’) as well as a false reassurance (‘I’m alone here’). I closed my eyes, pretended he wasn’t in the room, and he stroked his dick while I pissed for him.
It got more difficult as the evening wore on: as we got more messed up we tried to outdo each other in drinking pints of water for the next go. The pressing urge of my bladder competed with the throb of my cunt, and likewise his dick was never sure what the best option was – piss or fuck. Piss or fuck. Piss or fuck.
Maybe that’s why I like it.
Later on, I sucked his dick to pass time while he made his decision. Fuck now – or later? Have me while I’m clean and giggling and horny with anticipation? Come all over my face and chest in the cubicle of the shower, the use a jet of post-fuck piss to wash it off me, leaving me whimpering and pretending to feel defiled. Or the other way – piss first? Strip me to my knickers and make me kneel in the shower, looking up at him with smudged eyes and a willing grin. He’d get to watch that face turn to lust, delight, then self-disgust in quick succession, before hauling me up by a chunk of wet hair and making me face the wall to get fucked.
Both of these things would have worked. We’ll probably book into the same place again so we can make sure that they do. But as the night wore on and our eyes started closing, I realised there was one thing I wanted that I’d never actually had before. It was simpler, sure. It makes for a less climactic ending in a blog post about watersports, but I don’t care:
I wanted to see him piss against the glass partition.
I wanted to stand on the other side, fully-clothed, and see him from that angle while he let go. I wanted to watch the hot stream of urine splashing against the glass – so near to me but still separate. Getting a new perspective on something I usually only see from the side – or behind if I’m catching a glimpse of guys pissing in public. I wanted a full-frontal view of him doing it the way he would if I weren’t there.
Perhaps it’s an extension of the desire to see him wank in a room without me. Maybe it’s because I cannot get enough of a guys’ hands gripped tightly around his dick. Or the slight, faint, echo of a moan of relief as he empties his full bladder – a whisper of the way he moans with satisfaction as he comes.
Whatever it is, it works. And on this occasion it worked so well that I’m glad we didn’t fuck. While a messy face and a tangle of wet hair would have been a great way to end the evening, the picture of him pissing against the screen will stay with me for longer.
Every day since this happened I’ve walked past the bathroom and made a mental note: next time I move house, I’m looking for one with a wet room.
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