Where it happened: My front porch
Langauge: English
Sex: Female
Rating: 8
Category: Straight
I was 18; my boyfriend, David, was 17. He was beautiful — red hair, blue eyes, 6’4″, perfect body. We had been fooling around, but we hadn’t yet made love. We’d been getting close, though; he had played with me until I thought I’d scream, and just a few nights before, when I felt his thick, insistent fingers inside me, I’d whispered, “You don’t have to stop.”
That night, he stopped. But this was Saturday, a couple of days later, and I was hoping it might be “the day.” We’d been skating at a pond down the hill from the home in which I lived with my parents, who were gone for the afternoon. After skating around a little — and making sure he noticed the swells of my breasts in my tight red sweater — we grabbed a cup of hot chocolate and headed toward the house. On the way up, David stopped me: “Greta, I really think I should use the bathroom before we go to your house.” I was in a hurry, though, so I asked him to wait.
Did I know, at that critical juncture, what was going to happen. Perhaps. I do know I had an extra bounce in my step as I headed toward my parents’ large front porch. I took the key from my pocket, and as soon as we reached the door, I tried the lock.
To my confusion, the key wouldn’t work. I tried again and again, twisting and turning and wiggling the key in the hole. It wouldn’t budge. I turned to David and saw I had a larger problem on my hands.
There he was, my boyfriend, red-faced and grimacing. He was shifting from one foot to the other, trying to avoid placing his hand in front of his crotch. He really, really had to go to the bathroom — poor baby! I tried not to notice his plight as I manipulated the key.
“Let me try the back door,” he suggested, and stumbled awkwardly around to the other door. It, too, was locked, however. So he reclaimed his place next to me, trying to maintain his composure as sweat beaded on his high, handsome forehead.
I kept trying the key. He kept squirming. And just when I thought I would finally be able to budge the stubborn door, I realized it was too late.
My David was standing with his legs together, twisting and turning and grabbing the front of his pants. His hands cupped his testicles, and I could see, to my great surprise, a quarter-sized wet spot forming. I realized at that moment that I had opened the door — the key had turned, and I would be able to let him in. But for some reason, I didn’t let him know he was that close to relief. I smiled to myself, raised my eyes from his crotch to his face, and said, “It’s OK.”
With that, a geyser erupted. His urine formed a huge patch that covered the front of his tight corduroy pants. The wetness coursed down his long legs and began forming a puddle on the wooden-planked porch. The urine kept flowing. I kept my eyes on his and watched tears begin to roll down his sculpted cheeks.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I kept saying, secretly enjoying the show as my boyfriend, this big, strong man-child, lost control in front of me. I was aroused, but composed. My face displayed nothing but empathy. Finally, the flow ceased, and we stood there, toe to toe, and surveyed the scene. I wasn’t about to tell him how his display had thrilled me, about the fact that I was secretly glad I hadn’t nudged the door open.
I took his hand then, leading him inside to the laundry room, where I proceeded to peel off his tight pants and his new, white Froot of the Looms, which had become yellow and sodden. I knelt before him, paying homage to the beautiful penis I’d fantasized about. Even in its soaked, flaccid state, it was a monster. But I knew I’d come back to it later. At that moment, I just wanted to take care of my boy.
I dried him off lovingly, kissing and touching him as I moved the towel around his chilled body. I opened the washer and popped his smelly clothes inside, then instructed him to wait in the laundry room as I hosed off the front porch. I turned the water on and watched with interest as its force caused the urine droplets to scatter. Just then, I also noticed we had had an audience. Some friends of my younger siblings had been within shouting distance as david had done his dance, and now, they shouted, “Greta, did your boyfriend wet his pants?” All I could do was smile conspiratorally, nod, and hold a finger to my red lips. I knew they were on their way to the pkayground, where they would share their story with all the other neighbor children.
I finished washing the porch and went back in to my shivering boyfriend. I took him in my arms and … oh, you want to know if we made love then? Of course we did. Soon, you’ll hear … the rest of the story.
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