Pissing fetish erotica...
"The Most Fun You Can Have with Your Clothes On," a sex story by Jeremy Edwards
Making movies can be a drag, just like any other job. But I was having a good time with this one. Partly it was because my co-star was so easy to work with—and really hot, I might add. No, I had no complaints on this set. I don’t think I’d made a single whiny phone call to my agent since production had begun.
For the kitschy ’70s dance number in the film, they’d put Sherrie and me into goofy purple jumpsuits. The set had been dressed with enormous fabric plums, of all things, and I guess we were supposed to match the set in our slick, shiny purple costumes. Actually, they looked kind of cool—though it’s not the sort of thing I’d wear to the supermarket, you understand.
These suits had been specially made from a strong but thin fabric, and Winnie the costume woman had said, with her usual frankness, that she didn’t want to see any underwear lines. She showed us the lining that had been sewn into the crotch of each of our jumpsuits—ultra-thin but really soft, in a hi-tech way. “That should be comfortable enough even for your baby-faced asses,” she said to me and Sherrie. “So no undies—got it?” Sherrie darted a flirty look my way as she replied, on behalf of both of us, “Got it, Winnie.”
I had to admit, that lining felt really good against my bare cock. Soft. Smooth. In the privacy of my dressing room, I found myself gyrating my hips a little just to get a bit more of the sensation. And I couldn’t help wondering if it felt equally nice against the crotch of my co-star. Her genitals, of course, were anything but similar to mine; but perhaps the sensations, at least, were similar. I tried not to think too much about this—if they didn’t want to see underwear lines, I was pretty sure they didn’t want to see erect-penis lines, either.
When I arrived on the soundstage, Sherrie was already there. Her costume had been tailored with exquisite accuracy to fit her delectable shape, and it molded her grapefruit breasts and suggestive hips to perfection. And though the jumpsuit wasn’t quite tight enough to show the undercurve of each ass cheek or the raw charm of the crack between them, the overall roundness of her bottom was emphasized to inspiring effect.
I marveled at the way in which these ostensibly matching outfits made us look so very different. I appeared angular, while Sherrie was a symphony of curves. I wanted to fuck her even more than I had since the moment we’d begun working together.
As we showed off our well-rehearsed moves for the camera, I was almost distracted from my dancing job by Sherrie’s fluid beauty. Every time her body glided close to mine, my head reeled with images of all the anatomical places where I wanted to run my hands over bare, smooth skin. It was powerfully erotic being so near her; and on the few occasions when our eyes met, I was afraid I’d ruin the shot by revealing an unsightly-to-the-camera erection bulging against my costume.
When we’d finished the scene, I didn’t want to let her get away.
As was our habit, we chatted companionably on our way out of the shooting area. And, as usual, the small talk continued as we walked down the hall toward our dressing rooms. When we arrived at her door, I casually asked if she’d mind my coming in for a moment.
“Sure—come on in,” she replied. She seemed a little surprised, but not displeased.
I stood just inside the door, while she sat down at her makeup table. “How does your costume feel?” I ventured. “Mine’s very comfortable,” I added meaningfully.
She blushed. “I know what you mean,” she said with a giggle, and I thought I saw her ass squirming for an instant in her chair.
I closed the door and stepped forward. “It looks really nice on you,” I said boldly. “I was having trouble keeping my mind on the dancing.”
Her face suddenly turned serious—a sexy, happy kind of serious, like a new world had just opened up for her. She got out of her chair. “Yeah?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I echoed.
“Y’know . . . me too,” she said, coming closer.
As we kissed, it was hard to know where to put my hands first. I wanted them all over her. So I squeezed, stroked, and caressed hither and yon, making a tour of her marvelous landscape while our lips pulsated together more and more intensely.
When we finally stepped apart, it was clear that this was only so that we could move things forward. Her dressing room had a couch that would do nicely, and these sexy jumpsuits could now be dispensed with.
“Hey—the zipper on this thing is stuck,” Sherrie complained.
“Oh!” I said. “Well, let me just get my suit off, and then I’ll be more than delighted to help you with yours,” I said with a horny grin.
But when I yanked at my own zipper, I found that I was in the same predicament. Sheepishly, I told this to Sherrie. “So much for hi-tech costumes, eh?” I said.
“What do we do?” she asked. She was unconsciously smoothing her hands along the flanks of her purple garment, looking sensual and very ready for me.
“One option is that we could call a tech, of course,” I reasoned. “But somehow I think you and I and a tech with pliers would be a crowd, at the moment.”
“What’s the other option?” she prompted. She touched my chest as she asked the question.
“The other option is we get creative,” I said hungrily. And I scooped up her jumpsuit-clad bottom and carried her to the couch. Here, we squeezed and cuddled and tickled and kissed playfully for a couple of minutes, before addressing the problem at hand.
Though I couldn’t get out of the costume, I found that I had enough space around the waist that I could, from the outside, push and pull my cock into a standing position against my belly. Having done so—while Sherrie looked on with an alluring mixture of curiosity and lust—I lifted her onto my lap, so that her crotch wedged itself tightly against my stiff pole. I held her by the waist, so that as we embraced I could contrive to manipulate her body up and down, in such a manner that the friction between her pussy and my cock was direct and delicious, despite the encumbrance of clothing. It felt unbelievably good.
“Ohh . . . ahh . . . yummy!” said Sherrie, thus articulating my thoughts as well as her own. Her legs held my hips in a determined grip, which underscored her enthusiasm.
It was amazing how quickly we both came. And how reluctant we were to call it a day when we had. The jumpsuits had obviously been engineered to do a great job of absorbing moisture, and the sticky mess I’d made in mine soaked efficiently into the fabric. As a result, it was almost undetectable against my skin. I could assume that Sherrie’s juices were being effectively wicked away, too; she certainly seemed in no hurry to shed the outfit now.
“Let’s try something else,” I suggested.
I had her lie on her side. As I lay down to face her, I lifted her upper leg to insinuate a leg of my own. Then I began to move my leg up and down while gyrating my pelvis against her, gently pumping her upper leg this way and that by means of the ankle I was still holding. This time, my erection must have been pressing directly on Sherrie’s clit, and she was soon writhing in utter ecstasy.
As we frigged toward orgasm, our legs clamped open and shut against each other like two crazy pairs of shears. An observer, watching us hump each other at the juncture of our jumpsuits, might have had trouble telling where my body ended and Sherrie’s began. To the external eye, we had simply become an erotic tangle of humping scissors.
But I knew who was who. And as my free hand snuck between us to touch her yielding pussy, albeit through the interface of a special Hollywood fabric, her feminine deliciousness was overwhelming to me. Before I knew it, I was making her come again, and I felt that my fingers could sense every spasm of her cunt, jumpsuit or no jumpsuit.
Now Sherrie took the initiative. She nudged me onto my back and climbed aboard. She wrapped her legs around me and somehow, miraculously, found a perfect point of contact yet again. As she began the slow friction of woman’s jumpsuit crotch against man’s jumpsuit front, the action of her mound against my erection was electrifying. Every stroke fed my engorged excitement as effectively as it nurtured the tinglings of her wide-awake love bud.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. She set the pace, and that pace quickened as the frenzy in her hot point caught up with, perhaps even overtook, my own level of arousal. Soon we were not so much fucking as vibrating together, a well-synchronized mechanical orgasm generator. She held my arms at the elbows as I came for her, and, just as I finished, she ground against me with intensified purpose and shrieked into her own paradise.
At last, we were ready to call for the tech and the pliers. While we waited for the knock on the door, we snuggled together on her couch.
“Most fun you can have with your clothes on,” I commented. Sherrie laughed, and her hand petted my numb groin.
“You know, I really need to pee now,” she said a minute later.
“Me too, actually,” I reported. “Well, they said the tech would be down in just a couple of minutes, and then we’ll be all set.”
“No, I can’t wait,” Sherrie giggled. Abruptly, she stood up.
I looked over to see her wetting herself, without a shred of self-consciousness. It was a dazzling sight—her face radiant as the wetness spread down her body. And I realized, suddenly, that I couldn’t wait, either—or maybe it was that I didn’t want to. Without letting my eyes leave her, I stood up as well.
To piss in my jumpsuit would have felt embarrassing, had I been alone. But as I did it along with Sherrie, it felt exotically sexy. I was wetting with a beautiful woman, and that made all the difference. The thrill of knowing that we were jointly giving in to our private urgencies, with our bodies sealed all the while in these silly outfits, was remarkable. As my own wetness pooled and trickled around the juncture of my legs, I could see her pee caressing her in the same way, with what appeared to be an intensely pleasurable effect.
We just stood there and busily pissed ourselves empty, our eyes riveted on each other’s bodies. Sherrie gave a sensuous little shudder when she finished. I reached my hand forward to pet her saturated crotch, and she purred.
Nothing surprises a seasoned Hollywood backstage crew member. When Jim the tech arrived with his tools, he gave no indication that it was peculiar to find a couple lounging cheerfully in pee-soaked jumpsuits. He greeted us with a casual camaraderie, efficiently broke our zippers open, wished us a good evening, and left.
As we ripped the useless zipper tracks apart on our respective costumes and slithered out of them, I thought about these state-of-the-art jumpsuits, now destined for the trash heap. Technology, I thought. When it works, it’s great. And when it doesn’t work . . . it’s sometimes even greater.
“My shower’s big enough for two,” Sherrie informed me, squeezing me on the ass.
Copyright February 2008, Jeremy Edwards
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.