Maybe I passed out, because the next thing I knew, the other pledges had removed their togas. They were still blindfolded but otherwise wore only their birthday suits.
I glanced down and noticed I wasn’t wearing a thing — not even a blindfold. I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t feel a tinge of shame exposing myself. Then I saw a full cup of beer and reached for it.
One of the pledges raised his hand and waved it anxiously. A senior gave the guy permission to speak. He asked, “I have to take a leak. Can I go to the bathroom?”
Several guys laughed. “Sure,” one of them said, “you can pee anytime you want, as often as you want.”
The upperclassmen guffawed, and one said, “But you can’t go to the bathroom. You have to pee in place.” More and louder laughter. “Just try to get most of your urine into the horse trough in front of you.”
The guy with the full bladder stood to my right. His dick was at my eye-level and barely a foot from my face. I’d never before had such a closeup view of another man’s package, and it was fascinating. His nutsack was tight and wrinkled, his prick so unruly and… animal-like.
Then it dawned on me: This other freshman had been drinking as much as I had. He probably had to pee a river. If he isn’t allowed to go to the bathroom or move away from the horse trough — that fascinating cock of his is aimed at me!
I was about to say something but caught myself. This was a test: if I spoke, I would be kicked out of the fraternity.
I glanced at a few upperclassmen, who stood behind the pledges lining the horse trough. They all knew my dilemma and returned big smiles. If I protested or moved out of the trough, I would never get to live in the frat house. Yet if I did nothing, that dude was about to empty his bladder on me.
I froze in indecision, and the guy to my right chose for me. His urine flowed without warning. A forceful, steady stream burst out of his piss slit and hit the other side of the aluminum trough. It sounded like heavy rain on a metal roof.
At first, the rush of liquid passed over me; only a few loose drops fell to my chest. I knew this was weird, but I was too drunk to act.
The guy pissing on me was blindfolded, so he had no idea where he was aiming. He didn’t even know I was in the trough. When his dick shifted angles (penises do tend to move around on their own), his piss stream veered nearer to me. My muscles went slack as the warm liquid blasted my left arm.
I was mesmerized while his thick, yellow river pounded my chest and splattered into the horse trough. It smelled like a messy restroom, so part of me felt disgusted.
As he finished up, his flow weakened, and the piss stream meandered down my belly. I watched as he peed directly on my cock. My distaste for the odor was overwhelmed by the shock of hot wetness.
The seniors were no longer laughing; they were every bit as spellbound as I.
The pledge’s piss stopped as abruptly as it had begun. I was dripping wet. All the pee flowed down my chest and concentrated in my crotch.
I noticed my dick had become partially erect. I wanted to hide it from my fraternity brothers. I was horrified. There was not enough alcohol to dim my awareness. How humiliating is it to be pissed on by another guy? But how much more shameful is it to be aroused by it?
I had no time to ponder these questions because the sounds of the first pledge peeing had loosened everyone else’s inhibitions. Simultaneously three of the pledges began pissing. On my left, a black dude with a massive cock, on my right a smaller uncut dick, and another guy peed on my feet.
Their urine streams overlapped, intersected, converged, and fought. Surprisingly the golden liquid entertained me. Each dick around me was unique, and I noticed how each pee stream twisted and flowed with its own form.
Somewhere beneath the beer I had drunk, a voice reminded me: This is wrong. I knew I should not allow these guys to piss on me. Definitely, my cock should not feel so warm, wet, and delightful.
As their piss streams ebbed and flowed, droplets drizzled onto my face. I should be disgusted, but I felt curious. My tongue licked my upper lips. Salty.
I was drunk, so cocks faded in and out of my consciousness. They were different — what did it feel like to urinate without a foreskin? Penis flesh had surprising texture — so my mishmash of skin tones didn’t make me a freak. Sizes varied — did that big dick really feel better? Does that tiny prick miss out on something?
As one man finished another began; a piss stream on my left would no sooner fizzle out than a powerful blast on my right cheek demanded my attention.
For many minutes I sat in the horse trough while drunk guys took a leak. Men peed on me from many directions, started and stopped, urine jetted then sprinkled and swamped my senses. The 8 fraternity pledges blended into a golden, all-way shower.
At least a dozen times during this experience, my own prick cried out for attention. The sights, sounds, smells, and sensations were turning me on. My little willie — nothing special, I could see, after so many to compare — wanted to become a woodie.
Don’t get hard now, I begged my willie. Please don’t embarrass me in front of my frat brothers. I struggled to keep my cock under control as I was doused with warm piss. It covered my skin and pooled in my crotch — and it was fleshly in ways I could not explain.
Fortunately, the pledges were blindfolded, and the drunken upperclassmen were distracted by pricks that were peeing, so I was the only person conscious of my half-hard dick.
The piss stopped as abruptly as it had started. The air around me was dry. I could clearly see the cocks of the 8 naked, blindfolded pledges who stood around the horse trough I sat in.
There must have been an inch of urine in the aluminum trough. I could smell it — I should have been disgusted at the stench — yet it didn’t bother me. I recalled the pleasingly molten feel as the liquid landed on me, and the beautiful prisms of gold as it streamed from the freshmen cocks.
The pledges left the horse trough. A senior led them out of the room, and I watched their naked butts start up the stairs. The remaining dozen upperclass frat members crowded around the aluminum trough.
I was still prohibited from speaking, under penalty of dismissal from the frat, so I kept silent.
One of the guys said, “Kean, you and the other initiates haven’t been the only ones drinking.” He grinned, and I noticed the upperclassmen beaming from ear to ear. “The rest of us also have to relieve our bladders.”
These guys opened their zippers and pulled their dicks out. A dozen cocks flapped around me.
The pee flew. From my left and right, behind me and in front, above me. I could not distinguish one piss stream from the next. I did not try.
I sat and took in the golden prisms. I absorbed the smell and feel of their urine as it misted and splattered over me. My prick responded to the wet warmth by growing and sliding around.
I was in a drunk, puzzled daze — though I wasn’t unhappy.
Once they finished, all the frat members left the basement. I remained in the piss-filled horse trough. Maybe when I sobered up, I would think about what happened. At the moment I had a more pressing matter: my own bursting bladder.
I didn’t have an erection, but I wasn’t anywhere near soft. Still, I had no trouble peeing. I pissed into the pooled urine in the trough. I held my prick between two fingers then aimed up. My own golden stream reached eye level then broke into droplets which plunged down on me. Fascinating. Entertaining. And enjoyable. Who knew?
After I finished taking my own leak, I sat there and thought to myself: What would the next four years be like?
6
Scotty
Scotty was a NASA astronaut assigned to a skeleton crew on the International Space Station. Two men maintained the orbital outpost while nations on Earth decided what to do with it. Eventually, his Russian crewmate got on his nerves.
I was trapped with a madman on the International Space Station.
17 psychiatrists — American, Russian, Italian, Japanese — had diagnosed Yur
i as paranoid; anxious; schizophrenic; in the manic phase of bipolar; in the depressive phase of bipolar. Unfortunately, they were 250 miles below us and could not do anything about his illness.
I had my own layman’s term for the Russian cosmonaut’s problem: batshit crazy. My diagnosis had the benefit of close-up observation of Yuri’s deterioration over the last few months.
Our mission was depressing from the start. A dozen nations had invested 200 billion bucks building this vast orbiting laboratory, then they couldn’t decide what to do next with it. Yuri and I were launched on an open-ended housekeeping mission to keep the ISS working while politicians on Earth figured out what to do.
We had already spent more than a year making repairs and performing routine maintenance. Yuri’s breakdown began at the 10-month mark. At first, he did nothing dramatic; the Russian just ignored his schedule and did what he wanted when he happened to be motivated. Within a few days, he no longer worked on his assigned tasks at all. Then he began shouting insults at me and skipping our meals.
The real troubles started when Yuri thought flight controllers on the ground were watching us. (They were monitoring our activities — that was their job.) He went around the ISS randomly ripping cables from connectors. Mission Control could no longer see or hear what we were doing, and most telemetry stopped; we were reduced to communicating via teletype.
Yuri decided the ISS was too warm and removed his jumpsuit. Space agencies don’t issue underwear, so the Russian floated commando around the station. I had to admit that after a year in orbit I was interested. Like all space travelers, Yuri was in good shape, and he was also handsome. He had unusually large genitals — he taught me the Russian slang khuy — and flaunted his package.
Don’t misunderstand me: I’m straight and like the ladies. But there weren’t any women on the ISS. After all this time with no other human contact, I found myself admiring Yuri’s body. Especially his khuy. In zero-gravity, those few ounces of flesh floated in every direction. A puff of air could set his khuy dancing, and that was a sight to behold.
Yuri had a lot of khuy to watch. I know because his last act before unplugging the video camera was to hold a ruler to his khuy. 8 inches flaccid, in case you wondered. For comparison, I’m nowhere near that size when I’m aroused and fully erect. It’s enough to make a guy feel inadequate.
For a while I avoided Yuri. The International Space Station is a sprawling network of modules; we could spend days without bumping into each other. I picked up his slack and kept essential systems running. I was lonely, but at least I avoided the cosmonaut’s rants.
Once each day I checked the status of our Soyuz capsule. It had brought us up to the ISS, and it was our only way to return home. The capsule hatch was kept open, and the vehicle was always ready for a quick departure in case of emergency.
I ran the diagnostics to verify that all systems were nominal. I was logging the results when Yuri called to me from the other end of the module. “Hey, American Scotty, you want to see something cool?”
Yuri, naked as the day of his birth, was 30 feet away at the far end of the docking compartment. There was only one way out of the module so I couldn’t avoid him. I asked, “What’s up?”
Yuri said, “I need to take a leak. Think I can aim from here and get it in the Soyuz?”
My first thought was that the Russian was joking. Then I considered his recent behavior and took him seriously. I said, “Look, Yuri, you shouldn’t do that. If any liquid gets into the Soyuz’s wiring, something could short-circuit and strand us here.”
He said, “You’re no fun, Scotty, but I want to try it anyway. Here goes.”
NASA had trained me rather thoroughly, but nothing prepared me for a cosmonaut deliberately pissing on delicate equipment. So I waited to see what would happen.
Yuri said, “I have problem peeing with witnesses, so bear with me.” I waited, hoping nothing would come of this.
I kept alert until Yuri exclaimed, “First drop on its way!”
I concentrated but saw nothing. Then, a yard in front of me, a spherical golden bead floated my way. Silently. Ominously. On a direct path for the Soyuz hatch.
The speed of an object in zero-gravity depends on the force behind it. Yuri’s single drop of pee must have barely escaped his khuy. It traveled about 2 feet a second, so I had plenty of time to intercept it. In high school, I had been the goalie on our soccer team and those old instincts kicked in. I positioned myself in the path of Yuri’s piss.
His pee drop impacted against my sternum. My jumpsuit absorbed the small amount of liquid, which left a wet spot half an inch in diameter.
I faced the Russian cosmonaut at the other end of the docking compartment and yelled, “Hey, stop it, before you ruin something. Someday I’d like to return to Earth in that Soyuz.”
Yuri yanked on a handhold and pulled himself halfway across the module. At that distance, his khuy seemed more menacing. The Russian said, “Now I try for greater volume.”
This time he emitted a half dozen drops, and they drifted in different directions. I stood guard in front of the Soyuz and intercepted two globules which would have entered the capsule.
Yuri said, “Nice catch. Still trying for larger output.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I remained in front of the hatch. My jumpsuit was damp. I sniffed the unmistakable scent of pee coming from my uniform. It was the last jumpsuit on-board the ISS, and there was no telling when the next supply ship would arrive. If Yuri kept pissing and I kept intercepting it, I would smell his urine on my outfit forever.
The solution, I realized, would be to undress. I could wash pee off my body, but it would remain for months on my only pair of clothing. I didn’t bother explaining my thinking to the Russian. I ripped off my jumpsuit and tossed it aside. Now that both of us were stark naked, I was grateful that the video monitors were no longer transmitting.
Yuri said, “Glad to see you agree with my approach, Scotty. Now try to stop this.”
A blast of yellow spurted from his khuy. The golden liquid had more energy behind it and traveled faster. It was heading toward the open Soyuz hatch and I instinctively stationed myself in its path.
Yuri’s urine thumped into my navel. In zero-gravity, with no inertia to hold me in place, his pee propelled me backward about 6 inches.
It splashed to the sides of the compartment. I could only hope nothing important had gotten wet, but at least I had protected my ride back to Earth.
He said, “Nice catch, Scotty. Good reaction time. Now let us see how you do with more complex targeting pattern.”
Yuri let loose a fire hose volume of pee. The force propelled him back a few inches a second — the first urine-powered space traveler — and his stream of golden liquid kept flying at me.
NASA has conducted many experiments to learn how water flows in weightlessness. To my knowledge, they have never studied how piss behaves after it leaves a man’s prick. At that moment I could tell the scientists: Yuri’s pee was all over the place, like a wind-tossed rope.
I held my position in front of the open Soyuz hatch. The torrent of Yuri’s urine hit my chest and pushed me halfway back toward the capsule.
More pee — how much did Yuri drink? — kept coming in my direction.
Without gravity drawing the liquid to the floor, the piss hit my body and rebounded — then hovered around me like my personal atmosphere. I literally floated in a sea of Yuri’s urine. If he continued long enough, I would drown. Fortunately, no one can hold that much pee in them.
Yuri was slowing down. The golden stream still headed my way but no longer prevented me from blocking it. A few final drops then Yuri’s khuy went dry.
I, however, was sopping wet. Droplets of Yuri’s piss were suspended around me in a layer of urine mist which gave the docking compartment a pale yellow aura.
The Russian cosmonaut said, “That was fun, Scotty. You enjoy our pissing contest? Maybe we do again.”
Yuri turned and scooted
out of the module.
I was alone with the floating residue of his golden shower. I needed time to figure out what I would say in my report about the incident.
7
Wesley
Wesley and Max had been together for 10 loving years. They shared a beautiful home. For their special anniversary, they returned to the spot where they first met.
It was 10 years to the day since Max and I found each other.
My senior year at high school, our class had its spring picnic at the state park. Since I didn’t fit in with any clique — no one wanted to hang with the only openly gay kid in a small town — I left the others to their own devices.
I followed a trail from the parking lot. It meandered for several miles, but I’ve always enjoyed wandering in the woods. Most people never left the paved area, so I expected to be alone.
The path eventually forked, and I took the branch which went slightly uphill. I was rewarded when I came to a waterfall about 25 feet high. It wasn’t mighty, but a steady stream came rolling over the falls. It bounced off a series of rocks before filling a small bathing pool.
I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the water. It was chilly and refreshing, but I felt more at peace than any time so far that day. Blue skies, white clouds, green leaves. Water rippling, birds singing. The scent of pine.
It turns out we weren’t the only school holding its senior picnic in the state park that day. Nor was I the only recluse who strolled away from others to find solitude. I was startled to see a boy my age standing beside the pool of water, on top of a rock a few feet above the water. He had been watching me for I knew not how long.
He saw I had noticed him and flashed a smile. I waved back.
The guy climbed down from the wet rocks until he was on the river bank at its closest point to the bathing pool. He wore only red gym shorts and hiking boots, so nothing hid his compact, muscular body.
First-Time Golden Showers Page 3
